“A police boat is putting out from shore now,” Joe Matt informed, scanning the river. “Probably armed with a 45-calibre submachine gun!”
“Keep cool,” Frisk advised. “We have a head start. We’ll make the island okay and can hide the boat in the tunnel.”
“And if it’s found there I’ll take the rap,” Jabowski whined. “I wish you’d never mixed me up in this dirty mess. And you dragged Jacques in against his will—”
“Shut up!” Frisk said harshly. “We’ll get out of this. But if we don’t, we’ll all take the rap together.”
“Throw the cargo overboard,” Jabowski pleaded. “Then the cops won’t find any evidence even if they do catch up with us.”
He arose and reached for one of the smaller boxes. Joe Matt shoved him back.
“Lay off!” he ordered. “We went to plenty of risk to carry out this job tonight. We ain’t pitching any $10,000 haul just because a copper blows a little tin whistle!”
By this time, a powerfully motored police boat had taken up the pursuit. Jabowski watched anxiously as its brilliant searchlight swept the water.
“She’s coming up fast!” he exclaimed. “They’ll soon be within firing distance.”
“Keep your shirt on,” Frisk advised, hunching lower over the steering wheel. “The cops don’t know for sure we got the stuff. They may take the boat for Manheim’s just as we figured. While they’re wondering whether they dare risk taking a shot, we’ll make the island.”