by Heron Carvic
Odds on Miss Seeton
A Miss Seeton Mystery
Heron Carvic
FARRAGO
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Note from the Publisher
Preview
Also Available
About the Miss Seeton series
About Heron Carvic
Copyright
Dedication
For
Phyllis
as is all I do
chapter
~1~
SHE WAS BACK, still alone, perched on a stool at the end of the bar.
The younger of the two barmen poured a drink, set it in front of her and leaned forward to light a cigarette. The girl took time to inhale and to emit a stream of smoke, the deliberate movements of her hands advertising relaxation and control.
A middle-aged man who had begun by facing her during her previous appearance there now lolled, glass in hand, with his back pointedly turned.
A man in his thirties approached, spoke to the barman, then leaned on the counter eying the girl, but within a minute he too had swung round and, hitching himself onto a stool, ignored her.
Why? the young man who was watching her from a distance at a supper table for two wondered. A shill? Experience accepted the likelihood, but feeling rebelled. If she was, she certainly must be saving her come-on for someone special. You’d’ve thought a girl on her tod at a bar’d be fair game, but the way she’d choked off those two types—though from here he couldn’t see how she’d done it—it looked like she wasn’t in the game at all, and both of them were now obviously appeasing their egos with huff and sour grapes. He’d never really liked women in trouser suits, but somehow on her . . . That black material with gold in it and an occasional splodge of roses suited her—suited the place—or something.
He studied those expressive hands as she talked to the barman: right elbow on the counter, first finger pointed, while the other fingers and the thumb flexed and weaved in counterpoint. Under cover of the tablecloth he tried the movement out himself. No go. His forefinger refused to remain static and insisted on fraternizing with the chorus. He brought his hand up in quick embarrassment when the waiter arrived to replenish the glasses.
“Champagne for the lady, and for you, sir”—his tone bordered on a sneer—“ginger beer. And you prefer to add your own gin?”
A nodded assent. The waiter retreated and the young man surreptitiously switched glasses with the elderly woman who was his companion, lifted the gin bottle from the table, added a measure to the champagne and controlled a grimace as he sipped the result. He concentrated again on the girl.
The hands were still at it. The cigarette was put out, a quarter smoked, a new one drawn from a silver—platinum?—case was lit by the barman, her glass was raised, sipped, set down, and during her entire conversation with the barman the hands were in play. They say English people don’t use their hands while talking. Not true; hell of a lot of ’em did, but he’d never seen anybody use ’em like this girl, in a constant, flowing, slow, graceful, unconscious—Uhuh; not so damned unconscious. Ash had fallen on her lap. The left hand made a quick dart, was arrested in midmotion and then continued the gesture as a languid brush-off.
The waiter returned to remove the plates. He eyed a half-eaten portion of sole Walewska.
“You’ve finished, sir?”
The young man roused himself. “What? Yes—and hold the next course a bit while we have another go at the tables.”
“Very good, sir.”
Realizing that he had been remiss in his attention to his companion, the young man sprang to his feet, seized her handbag and pulled back her chair.
Shrugging, the waiter watched their departure for the roulette tables. People. The next course was ready. Well, it could sit and stew till they’d lost enough lolly to take interest in their nosh again. Though, come to that, he’d heard the last time she’d staked, the old bag’d made a killing. He looked askance at the gin bottle on the table; glanced at the ice bucket, where champagne was nuzzled by ginger beer as though the wine bottle had pupped after slumming. He shrugged again. People. And that young pimp needed to watch his step or there’d be trouble—sitting there pushing his food around, all gooey-eyed over that pint at the bar and not so much as a how’s-your-auntie to the old tart he was mealing with and who’d be paying the dibs. She’d blow her wig before they were through, you’d see. Look, chum, he mentally apostrophized the absent young man. Look where the lolly is—three strings of sparklers round that stringy neck and enough on her fingers to make knuckledusters. So take on a job—if you’d call it that—and see it through without whoring after pints at bars.
The girl at the bar waited until the elderly woman accompanied by the young man had passed, then, stubbing out her cigarette and leaving her barely tasted drink, she slid from her stool and followed them.
“Les jeux sont faits?”
The girl had stationed herself behind the chair of the elderly, overpainted woman. She leaned forward and with a quick, nervous gesture placed a chip on the square marked 31, where it rubbed edges with the single counter already resting there. She straightened and composed her face to a mask of indifference.
The croupier spun the wheel.
“Rien ne va plus.”
Expressionless faces watched the jumping, clicking ball and only the table’s surface could read the avarice, the hope or fear in the eyes beneath lowered lids. The wheel slowed, the clicks became less frequent and the ivory ball dropped into the slot numbered 14, rose on the ridge which separated it from the neighboring compartment, fell back, only to rise again and topple as though exhausted into the space next door. Less than a sigh, a mere susurration of breath greeted the result.
“Trente-et-un, noir et impair,” remarked the croupier, and his indifferent rake swept up and down, collecting the majority of stakes, then paid assorted winners the single dues to the few bets on black, on high and on uneven numbers and the double obligations to those on the correct dozen or column, and finally pushed two piles of thirty-five jetons, already stacked by one of the assistant croupiers, down the length of the table to where the two chips on 31 awaited them.
Maintaining her air of boredom, the girl collected her gains, although a tremor in her hands betrayed her and her fingers fumbled the chips. Two rolled from the table to the floor. The young man in attendance behind the elderly woman’s chair dived and retrieved them, to be rewarded with a curt “Thanks.” He reached for his companion’s winnings, took her handbag, slipped them in and held it for her as she rose from her seat.
The girl was prepared to take the vacant chair, but stopped for a moment to watch the couple move back down the length of the immense room toward the curved steps that led to the raised level where the supper tables were set.
Disgusting. He was young enough to be that old woman’s son—grandson. Even if he didn’t look the type, he was still nothing better than a ponce dancing to the tune of a painted hag. By the time she turned back to the table, the chair was occupied. A middle-aged woman in a shapeless coat and a felt pudding bowl for a hat, which if it had ever had a shape had long since lost it, was already seated, engrossed with paper and pencil in calculations concerning the run of the numbers and the frequency of red versus black.
> “Mesdames et messieurs, faites vos jeux.”
The girl hesitated. Carry on while her luck was in? No. It wasn’t hers—she’d only followed the lead of that old trout. Besides, if Fortune smiled you had to thank her or she deserted you. Without waiting for the result of the next spin, she walked slowly in the wake of the older woman and her escort.
Free from the stimulus of the roulette wheel, she found the atmosphere of the place oppressive. The name The Gold Fish had fired but one spark in the imagination of an interior decorator and he had repeated the motif mercilessly throughout the casino. Occasional encircled fish were woven in shades of orange and brown into the deep gold pile of the carpet and the yellow brocade upholstery of the chairs and sofas, while fish in shoals swam coyly in and out of the folds of curtains. Plaster casts of fish, duly gilded, appeared above doorways, on the ceiling and in panels around the walls, giving the impression of copper molds in some gargantuan kitchen. The glittering drops of the chandeliers and wall brackets proved on inspection to be topaz-colored fish hanging in clusters like the catch of anglers who had ignored the rule that they should throw back the undersized. Finally, in case the point should have been missed, glass fronts of tanks glowed in false sunlight on the wall space between the panels to display the languorous movements of such tropical marine species as could boast the correct coloring.
The girl reached the steps to the supper enclave with the feeling that she was wading ashore on some South Sea island, and the young man jumped to his feet as he noticed her approach, gripping the back of his chair to steady himself.
“Thank you for rescuing my two chips,” said the girl.
“Not a bit,” he protested. “Easy to drop those counter things. Congratulations on your win.”
“Actually,” she replied, “I came to thank your”—her upper lip curled—“your friend.”
The waiter, with a blank expression more effective than a sneer, came forward with another chair, set an extra glass and poured champagne for the two women, ginger beer for the young man, then turning to the trolley behind him, he lifted the waiting crêpes de volaille into the pan on the spirit stove, poured kirsch and flared them. The distraction of the flame did not prevent the girl from seeing the young man quickly switch glasses with his companion and then ostentatiously add gin to his champagne. She looked at him with contempt.
“I’m not staying.”
“Oh, but you must.”
“Must?”
“Yes, of course,” he insisted. “You must drink to celebrate your luck.”
“I should hate,” she retorted, “to deprive you. I’m sure you could manage the extra glass and you can always top it—” She stopped. From under the mascaraed fringe of false eyelashes, the eyes of the older woman were weighing her. In spite of the vulgarity, the outrageous makeup, the obsessive dazzle of sequins, the excessive clutter of diamonds at ears, throat, wrists and hands, the woman’s steady regard made the girl feel foolish. She felt like a child indulging in a tantrum and recognized that temper had led her to the verge of inexcusable bad manners. Her hands rose, the fingers sketched an apology, described an arc of resignation and she sat.
“Of course you must,” the young man repeated. “You must always celebrate your luck.”
“It wasn’t mine, it was . . .” She glanced at the other woman and floundered.
“Sorry.” He grinned. “Mrs. Amos B. Herrington-Casey, Tom Haley . . .” He looked at the girl inquiringly as he took his seat and the waiter began to serve.
The girl ignored the implied question. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Herrington-Casey. I only came to thank you because I followed your play and won. If you don’t give thanks for luck it deserts you—or that’s what they say. Silly, I suppose, but it was the first time I’d won anything and . . .” Her hands upturned and the fingers finished the sentence.
The magenta lips of the older woman stretched in a smile. “It comes, I think, from an ancient superstition that if you claim gifts from the gods for your own, they will take their revenge—the gods, I mean—and reclaim them. The gifts, that is to say.”
The girl stared. The voice was so different from what she’d expected: harsh, and probably American from the name. But this voice was somehow out of place: calm, earnest, like—more like a schoolteacher. There was something about this old girl—something offbeat. Something about this Tom Haley—something that didn’t match up.
“Well.” She raised her glass in a toast and sipped. “Thanks anyway.” She started to rise.
“Wait,” commanded the young man. “You can’t leave without finishing your champagne. I’m sure that’d be bad luck. Have something to eat. We’ll be playing again when we’ve finished this course—won’t you, Mrs. H.-C.?” His companion nodded. “Then you can follow up this luck of yours.”
There was, he thought, something about this girl—something off-key—something . . . Why had she dodged giving her name? Tom Haley flattered himself that he was analyzing the situation professionally, viewing her dispassionately; unaware that he was gazing at her with all the infatuation of a moon-struck calf.
“Haley?” Detective Chief Superintendent Delphick frowned. “Wasn’t he the D.C. you had on duty at Heathrow when Miss Seeton went to Switzerland?”
Inspector Borden of Fraud chuckled. “Yes, Oracle, and, too, when she came back armed with an arm.”
At his desk on the other side of the office, Delphick’s assistant, Sergeant Ranger, flinched. He preferred to forget the episode of Miss Seeton’s return from abroad, with her declaration to customs of a wedding present for Anne and himself and the resultant commotion when the stainless steel platter proved to have a plastic-wrapped human arm lying on it. And, as late in the day as this and wanting his dinner, and only just back with the Oracle from their jaunt to Middlesborough, and typing up the reports on it, he’d just as soon forget Miss Seeton—or Aunt Em, as she had now become to Anne and himself—altogether. Anyway, Fraud must be off their tots to think of using her again after that shemozzle abroad. Even the Oracle, who understood her better than most, couldn’t always control her—and sure as hell nobody else could. It wasn’t, he supposed, her fault if somebody stuck odd pieces of bods in her luggage, but it was still the sort of thing that happened whenever she was let loose. It was off enough having her attached to the force at all, but it was off to ask her to do anything more than the odd drawing or so when wanted.
“. . . and someone,” Borden was saying, “who can draw a recognizable likeness from memory is what we want.”
“You’ve tried photos?” asked Delphick.
“No go. We sent a man in with a candid camera, but the film turned up blank. They’re using a ray same as they do at airports. There’s nothing actually illegal about it and anyhow they’d justify it by saying they were checking that no one gets into the casino with any hardware, but they know damn well it scrubs all film too. So there you are. Your Miss Seeton—our MissEss—is the answer.”
Delphick was dubious. “See your point, but couldn’t she have been slipped in as an ordinary member of the public bent on a spree instead of all this disguising her as somebody else—this Mrs. Amos B. whatever?”
“Too much of a risk. The lads on the desk at these casinos check and double-check everybody who comes in—passports, the lot. And they remember. The real Mrs. Herrington-Casey is a well-known gambler abroad but rarely comes to England. Miss Seeton, give or take a wig, a few pounds of makeup, a hundred pounds’ worth or so of clothes and a few thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds, is practically a dead ringer for her. We approached Mrs. H.-C. in France, where she is at the moment, on patriotic grounds—as the English widow of an American diplomat—and the cleaning up of gambling in general.
“They’ve been having the same sort of trouble over there with a syndicate taking over the clubs and casinos, Mafia-style, so she was willing to play ball, lent us her passport and agreed to go to ground for a day or two. She’s a game old girl, about ninety in the shade, and in full rig look
s like a jeweler’s display on feet.”
Delphick grimaced. The idea of dolling up the unassuming little ex-children’s drawing mistress as a jeweler’s display struck him as the height of cruelty. Apart from that, “Syndicate,” he said slowly. “We’ve had the odd beating-up here in Crime, and twice a killing, in which a syndicate’s been mentioned. So far we’ve got nowhere on them—just talk about a syndicate, and the rumor it’s run Mafia-style, but nothing concrete. We’ve drawn a blank as to what it is or who they are. Have you got any more?”
“We think so. No proof, mind you. We’ve pinpointed five men we think are running it—there may be more but I doubt it—and we think—again it’s only think—that only the top man matters and if we can get him we’ll break it. They’re getting a hold on all gambling over here. They started on the race tracks; they’ve got a firm grip on the fun arcades; now they’re taking over the casinos and moving in on the fairground operators.”
Delphick was surprised. “With regard to the casinos and clubs, can’t the Gaming Board . . .?”
“No, they can’t—not without some sort of proof. All the clubs are licensed, so are all the employees, and everything looks on the up and up—was on the up and up till the syndicate moved in on ’em. The first sign was when the highfliers like The Gold Fish put up their stake limit from twenty-five to fifty quid. We can’t prove they’ve been taken over and with no proof the Gaming Board can’t act without a complaint—nor can we without a squeal.”
“And no complaints?”
“No complaints,” agreed Borden, “because of the muggings and killings you spoke of.”
“But if the clubs got together . . .”
“They know damn well that by the time the law could move, more’n half of ’em’d be in hospital, or dead. Their ‘getting together’ is just what we’re afraid of. Drive ’em far enough and they will—they’ll get together and fight. We’ve got”—the inspector leaned forward and tapped the desk for emphasis—“to break the syndicate before it becomes an all-out war—with us caught in the crossfire. It’s taken us nearly a year to get the picture. It’s quite simple, really. An agent approaches the owners of the casinos and suggests a deal. He’ll supply call girls and drugs for a percentage of the club’s profits, guaranteeing that the increase in profits will leave the owner better off than before. If they don’t increase, the syndicate takes nothing. Before the syndicate boys move in, they check the books to find out the average weekly profit. After that they put in a chartered accountant of their own to see the profits do go up.”
