“I'm in cabin 376,” Harry said. “Would you bring the wood and the tools over to me, and a bottle of Scotch? I want you to keep the wood and the tools out of sight under a napkin. Will you do that?”
The waiter looked wonderingly at him, nodded and said he would come over after Harry had finished his dinner.
Harry didn't hurry over his meal. He had a lot to think about.
First thing in the morning, as soon as the bank opened, he would have to draw out all his capital. He mustn't let Borg think for a moment that he was about to pull a fast one on him. He would have to persuade Joan to lend him a further ten thousand, and he'd have to draw that from her bank. He wondered uneasily if Joan would lend him the money. He was sure Borg would keep track of him, and it was essential not to rouse his suspicions. If he were going to outwit Borg he would have to lull him into a feeling of security, to blunt his razor edge of alertness. If he could do that, he stood a chance of beating him.
After he had finished his meal, he returned to the cabin and sat down to wait. Ten minutes later the waiter came over from the restaurant. He had followed out Harry's instructions to the letter.
He carried a tray, covered with a white napkin undo: which were the five pieces of wood, a hammer, a fretsaw, a drill, some nails and a length of copper wire. In his other hand he carried a bottle of Scotch.
Harry thanked him and got rid of him. Then he locked the door, and, taking the strips of wood over to the table, he assembled them to make an open-top box. From his hip pocket, he took out the .45 automatic and laid it in the box. With a pencil, he made a mark on the wood at one end and another mark in the middle of the bottom of the box. He removed the gun, and with the drill and the fretsaw, made two small openings at the places he had marked. He put the gun back in the box and checked his calculations. The barrel of the gun just poked through the end opening.
The trigger could be reached through the opening in the bottom.
Satisfied that his calculations were accurate, he fixed the gun to the bottom of the box with the length of wire. Then he held the box in the palm of his hand, his thumb and little finger gripping each side, it was simple to insert his forefinger through the opening in the bottom of the box and to curl his finger around the trigger. He found he hadn't made the opening quite wide enough to allow him to pull the trigger. He unfastened the gun, took it out of the box and widened the hole. Then he replaced the gun, fastened it with the wire and tried again. This time he had no difficulty in pulling the trigger. He again took the gun out of the box and sitting on the bed, he carefully oiled and cleaned toe gun. Then he broke open a box of cartridges, and, using a penknife, he cut a ridge in the heads of four of the bullets, slightly spreading the soft lead to make a rough kind of dum-dum. He loaded the gun with these bullets, jacked one into the breech, and once more fastened the gun into the box Satisfied with his work, he locked the box away in a drawer in his chest, cleared up the mess he had made on the table, wrapped the tools in the napkin and left the bundle on the dressing table.
He undressed and got into bed, poured himself another whisky, drank it, then turned out the light Lying in the darkness, he went over his plan in his mind He knew his life and future depended on its success, and the responsibility made him feel cold and frightened. He wished he had Glorie at his side to give him confidence and to soothe his tears.
It was only at this moment that he realized how much he was going to miss Glorie. He dared not confide in Joan. He knew that from now on, even if he did manage to beat Borg and remain out of trouble with the police, he would have no one to share his tears, no one he could lean on, no one to think for him in an emergency as Glorie had done.
When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed that Glorie was in the room, sitting at the dressing table, brushing her hair. He could see her face reflected in the mirror, she looked gay and happy as she had done on that morning before he had told her he was going after the diamonds. But when he spoke to her, she didn't turn nor seem to hear him, and when he tried to get out of bed to go to her, he found he couldn't move-as if some force were holding him down.
He woke to hear himself calling her name, cold sweat running down his face and his heart hammering with fear.
chapter eight
I
Leaving the Buick in a parking lot on Bay Shore Drive, Harry walked along the promenade to the main entrance of the Excelsior hotel where he was to meet Joan at midday.
He had already been to his bank and had arranged for thirty thousand dollars in bearer bonds to be ready for him to collect during the afternoon. He had drawn ten thousand dollars in cash, and he now carried this sum in a leather brief case.
While he had been arranging about the bonds with the bank teller, he had seen Borg come into the bank.
Borg had given him a sly, sneering smile. Pausing only long enough to watch at a distance the clerk complete a withdrawal form and give it to Harry to sign, he had left the bank, and Harry had seen no sign of him since.
But Harry was sure he wasn't far from him, and as he paced up and down outside the hotel, he had a feeling that somewhere, masked by the heavy traffic and the crowds that swarmed along the promenade and sidewalk, Borg continued to keep watch on him.
He suddenly caught sight of the cream Cadillac convertible as it came slowly along in the tide of the traffic. He stood on the kerb, waiting. As Joan pulled up, he opened the car door and got in.
He looked anxiously at her. She was pale, and there were smudges under her eyes. He could see she was still as tense and as worried as she had been when she had left him the previous night.
“I'm not late?” she asked as she steered the car into the stream of traffic again.
“It's just on twelve. Let's get away from this crush where we can talk,” he said. “Turn left here. We can go out to the golf course. We can lunch there if you like.”
“Yes.”
They drove in silence up South West 27th Avenue. Harry kept his eyes on the driving mirror on the right wing of the car.
He spotted Borg's car turn into the avenue after they had reached the intersection at West Flagler Street.
“Did you speak to your father?” he asked abruptly.
“No.” Joan didn't look at him. “He's busy today.”
Harry moved uneasily. He glanced at her, wondering what was going on in her mind.
“You look as if you didn't get much sleep last night,” he said. “Are you still worrying yourself about nothing, Joan?”
“I wish it were nothing. Did you manage to sleep then?” she returned, slowing at the entrance to the golf course. She swung the car on to the private road, then accelerated, sending the car forward at a fast speed. Neither of them spoke until she had parked the car before the clubhouse, then she said, “We can go on to the terrace.”
As Harry got out of the car, he looked back along the straight drive to the main road. There was no sign of Borg.
He followed her along the begonia-lined path, around the clubhouse and on to the broad terrace with its tables and gay sun umbrellas. There were not more than six or seven people on the terrace, and it was easy enough to find a secluded table. They sat down, and when the waiter came over, Harry ordered a double whisky after Joan had said she didn't want anything.
They waited until the drink was brought, then Harry said, “When do you think you'll be able to talk to your father, Joan? I don't want to waste any more time if I can help it.”
She looked down at her hands, frowning.
“I'm not going to talk to him now, Harry.”
Harry felt as if someone had punched him under the heart.
“You mean you don't want to go ahead with the idea?”