Read Online 1965 - The Way the Cookie Crumbles by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Hadley Chase
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trucks, each guarded by four ex-Ranger guards, that delivered or collected from its clients, and only once had one of the trucks been attacked. This had been a daring attempt by six vicious gunmen, but the attack had failed. Five of the gunmen and one of the guards had been killed. The reputation of the guards’ shooting from this battle scared off any further attempts.
When the Texas oil billionaires invaded Paradise City during the vacation months, they all used the Bank as their pocket book, and during this period, it was rumoured that there were more money, securities and jewellery under its imposing roof than under any other single roof in the world.
Captain Terrell parked his car in one of a number of parking bays, got out and walked up the wide steps to the Bank’s entrance.
Two guards, wearing smart grey blouses and breeches, knee boots and peak caps worn straight, Colt .45 automatics on their hips, eyed Terrell, then saluted him.
‘Morning, Chief,’ one of them said. ‘Official?’
‘No,’ Terrell said and paused. He knew both men. He had shot against them at the .22 Rifle Club and knew them to be exceptional marksmen. ‘I wanted to see Mr. Devon.’
‘Second desk on the right as you go in,’ the guard said.
Terrell nodded and walked into the vast reception hall with its marble pillars, its Ali Baba vases of flowers and its discreet lighting. The hall was circular in shape and between each pillar stood a desk at which an executive sat either writing, telephoning or discussing business with a client.
A thin, balding man, dressed in a dark grey tropical suit sat at the second desk on the right. A mahogany plaque with the word Information in gold letters stood on the desk.
He glanced up. Recognizing Terrell, he nodded and smiled.
‘I’d like a word with Mr. Devon,’ Terrell said. ‘Urgent private business.’
If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it.
‘Sit down, Captain Terrell,’ he said and reached for the telephone. He had a murmured conversation while Terrell sat and looked around the hall. This was the first time he had been inside the bank and he was impressed.
‘Mr. Devon will see you right away,’ the man said, replacing the receiver. He indicated the elevator at the end of the hall. ‘Third floor.’
Terrell nodded his thanks, crossed the hall and entered the elevator. He was whisked up to the third floor where a pretty girl, her dark hair making a neat frame for her face, was waiting. ‘Come this way, Captain Terrell,’ she said and led him along a wide, long corridor to a door of polished, panelled mahogany. She opened the door and stood aside, murmuring, ‘Captain Terrell, Mr. Devon.’
Terrell entered a large airy room, luxuriously furnished with a handsome desk as the only piece of office equipment. Above the wooden carved fireplace hung an early Van Gogh. Lounging chairs, a Louis XIV cabinet, converted into a cocktail cabinet and rich Persian rugs completed the furnishing. Four large windows overlooked the Yacht Club basin and the sea.
The man behind the desk stood up and offered his hand. As Terrell shook hands, he remembered him now more clearly.
Mel Devon was thirty-nine years of age. He was tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built. His close cut brown hair was flecked with grey. His features were regular. His skin was burned brown by the sun and wind, his eyes blue and steady, his mouth firm and humorous. He gave the impression of ability, shrewdness and kindness.
‘It’s some time since we met, Captain,’ he said, waving Terrell to a chair. ‘I’ve often thought of that game we had. I never see you at the club these days. Don’t tell me you’ve given up golf?’
Terrell sat down.
‘I don’t play as regularly as I would like. I turn out on Saturday mornings but that’s about all the time I can spare.’
‘How’s the game?’
‘Pretty steady. You still playing off six?’
Devon smiled. He seemed pleased Terrell should have remembered his
When the Texas oil billionaires invaded Paradise City during the vacation months, they all used the Bank as their pocket book, and during this period, it was rumoured that there were more money, securities and jewellery under its imposing roof than under any other single roof in the world.
Captain Terrell parked his car in one of a number of parking bays, got out and walked up the wide steps to the Bank’s entrance.
Two guards, wearing smart grey blouses and breeches, knee boots and peak caps worn straight, Colt .45 automatics on their hips, eyed Terrell, then saluted him.
‘Morning, Chief,’ one of them said. ‘Official?’
‘No,’ Terrell said and paused. He knew both men. He had shot against them at the .22 Rifle Club and knew them to be exceptional marksmen. ‘I wanted to see Mr. Devon.’
‘Second desk on the right as you go in,’ the guard said.
Terrell nodded and walked into the vast reception hall with its marble pillars, its Ali Baba vases of flowers and its discreet lighting. The hall was circular in shape and between each pillar stood a desk at which an executive sat either writing, telephoning or discussing business with a client.
A thin, balding man, dressed in a dark grey tropical suit sat at the second desk on the right. A mahogany plaque with the word Information in gold letters stood on the desk.
He glanced up. Recognizing Terrell, he nodded and smiled.
‘I’d like a word with Mr. Devon,’ Terrell said. ‘Urgent private business.’
If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it.
‘Sit down, Captain Terrell,’ he said and reached for the telephone. He had a murmured conversation while Terrell sat and looked around the hall. This was the first time he had been inside the bank and he was impressed.
‘Mr. Devon will see you right away,’ the man said, replacing the receiver. He indicated the elevator at the end of the hall. ‘Third floor.’
Terrell nodded his thanks, crossed the hall and entered the elevator. He was whisked up to the third floor where a pretty girl, her dark hair making a neat frame for her face, was waiting. ‘Come this way, Captain Terrell,’ she said and led him along a wide, long corridor to a door of polished, panelled mahogany. She opened the door and stood aside, murmuring, ‘Captain Terrell, Mr. Devon.’
Terrell entered a large airy room, luxuriously furnished with a handsome desk as the only piece of office equipment. Above the wooden carved fireplace hung an early Van Gogh. Lounging chairs, a Louis XIV cabinet, converted into a cocktail cabinet and rich Persian rugs completed the furnishing. Four large windows overlooked the Yacht Club basin and the sea.
The man behind the desk stood up and offered his hand. As Terrell shook hands, he remembered him now more clearly.
Mel Devon was thirty-nine years of age. He was tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built. His close cut brown hair was flecked with grey. His features were regular. His skin was burned brown by the sun and wind, his eyes blue and steady, his mouth firm and humorous. He gave the impression of ability, shrewdness and kindness.
‘It’s some time since we met, Captain,’ he said, waving Terrell to a chair. ‘I’ve often thought of that game we had. I never see you at the club these days. Don’t tell me you’ve given up golf?’
Terrell sat down.
‘I don’t play as regularly as I would like. I turn out on Saturday mornings but that’s about all the time I can spare.’
‘How’s the game?’
‘Pretty steady. You still playing off six?’
Devon smiled. He seemed pleased Terrell should have remembered his
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