"The Captive Bride" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jensen Peter)

Chapter Eight

Sometime later that evening Olaf and Hans were sitting on the porch of the caretaker's shack behind the large Mallorcan villa. Both the gardener and the hotel clerk were fairly drunk on the rum they'd consumed after leaving Becky. Olaf had tethered the young blonde to the bed in the wine cellar, as Schneider had instructed, but he was still anxious about his boss discovering what they'd done to the captive young bride.

"It was your idea," Hans said as he sipped his drink.

"But you were an accomplice… there's no getting away from that," said the Swede.

Hans looked at his pocket watch and said, "It's a quarter to eleven. Things should start rolling in a half-hour."

"I'm fed up with Schneider," Olaf said.

"I've been working for him twenty years," Hans replied.

"You get the short end of the stick every time."

"He's been good to me," Hans admitted. "After the war, he took me in, gave me a job. If it wasn't for Schneider I'd have been dead and buried twenty-five years ago."

"You ain't got much to be thankful for," the Swede said.

The gardener looked up past the house at the yellow moon rising above the Mallorcan Mountains. "I've got my life."

"Some goddamn life," Olaf said. "You're not living; you're just bungling it on. If I were you, I'd kiss Fritz Schneider good-bye."

"What about yourself?" Hans took another draw on the glass of straight rum.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sooner or later, Interpol is gonna get wind of his operation. And you know where that'll leave us."

"I feel bad about the girl," Hans said.

"You and me both."

"She threw a good fuck," Hans said. "But all the time I was giving it to her I was thinking what a rotten guy I was."

Olaf laughed. "You weren't thinking of anything except how nice that ass of hers felt. Don't tell me you were feeling guilty."

"I sure feel bad about it now," the gardener said.

"She's not through yet. She's gonna get it again…"

"She'll tell him… the girl will tell Fritz what we've done," Hans said. "There's no telling what he'll do to us."

"That's why I was thinking about getting the hell out of here," Olaf said.

"I also feel bad about the girl's husband," Hans finished the rum in his glass and poured himself another. "It's enough to make you sick."

The Swede stood up from his chair. "What's done is done. You have to look out for yourself."

"Maybe you're right," Hans said. "But still I feel we should do something. It's not right letting Fritz do this sort of thing all the time."

"Where does he keep the money?" The Swede walked to one end of the porch, then circled back to the gardener's chair. "I know he doesn't put it in a bank. A guy like that can't afford to put his money in a bank."

"I can't tell. It wouldn't be right."

"Good old Hans," Olaf said mockingly, "Loyal to the end."

"You're asking for trouble," the gardener said, "You're just asking for a bullet in your gut."

'Think of what you could do with all that dough, Hans. You could go to South America… Canada… Australia… you could get away from this goddamn island," Olaf said.

Beyond the villa, lights from a car entering the driveway shone across the wide lawn, sending long slanting shadows down to the caretaker's house.

"That must be them. They're late," Hans said.

A moment later, another pair of headlights circled the fringe of shrubbery. A door slammed, and then there were voices.

"It's gonna be one helluva party," Olaf finished his drink and set it down on the floor beside the chair Hans was sitting in.

The gardener rose and half-staggered to the steps leading from the porch. Olaf glanced at the lean older man, satisfied that he was drunk.

"Now you show me where that money is, Hans. We haven't got much time left… if we do it right, nobody will know the difference till we're in Palma. If we wait around here, you and I won't live to see the morning. What's it going to be, Hans? Life or death?"

"Palma," Hans shook his head.

"Then after that, who knows where," Olaf helped the inebriated gardener down the porch steps.

"It's been about three years since I was in Palma," the gardener said.

"Well, look Hans. I've got a plan. I've been thinking about this for a long time and tonight's the night for me. I'm tired of being the bottom man in this organization. I'm tired of doing the dirty work while Schneider gets the profits. Stealing the money isn't enough. Fritz will hunt us down like dogs." He reached inside his coat and pulled out a revolver. "Let's finish the job. It's the only way."

"You can't be serious, Olaf! You mean shoot Fritz? How? He never lets his guard down!"

"You wait and see. I'll handle everything. I have a feeling that our boss will be in a perfect position tonight. Are you with me?"

"Well… I…"

"You won't be alive tomorrow if you don't follow me now, Hans! Use your head, man!"

"Okay, Olaf. You win. I hope you're right, because I'm just not ready to die tonight."