by Heron Carvic
“And if the proprietor turns the offer down?” asked Delphick.
“Kaput. A few muggings, the odd killing, but above all exit the casino in flames—a time bomb usually set to between four and five in the morning, when everyone’s gone home. Eight clubs have gone that way so far this year, three of them in the last two months. What we can’t get”—Borden thrust himself back in his chair, hands spread in frustration—“is an actual picture of the man at the top. Granted we’ve a pretty good idea who he is, but you can’t get an ident on an idea—or circulate it. We’ve a few chummies lined up who might grass once we show we’re closing in, but without a photograph we’re stuck. Our man’s a shy bird and every time we’ve tried for a mug shot we’ve failed. So our next best bet’s a drawing—which brings us back to MissEss.”
Delphick was worried. It was he who had been largely responsible for Miss Seeton’s becoming attached to Scotland Yard on a retainer as an artist and in consequence he also felt responsible for her welfare. Her propensity for getting into trouble beyond the call of any duty—or rather drawing—she was required to do had him frequently on tenterhooks. So far her guardian angel, working overtime, had always intervened, but he felt that even the best-intentioned angel might get tired or get caught on the hop, and what would happen then? Restless, he got to his feet and crossed to the window.
“Was all this your idea or Commander Conway’s?”
“Mine, actually, but the boss approved.”
Without turning, Delphick hunched his shoulders. “You talk of a war—yet you’re prepared to put Miss Seeton in the front line.”
“We haven’t,” protested Borden. “She’s only gone to The Gold Fish to observe—oh, all right,” he conceded to the chief superintendent’s unresponsive back, “as a scout, if you like, and with the best cover we could give her—”
“You’re sure,” interrupted Delphick, “that this top man of yours’ll be at The Gold Fish tonight?”
“Pretty sure. He keeps a close eye on his investments and does the rounds. He’ll turn up there sometime during the evening. Then Haley’ll tip her the wink to memorize his mug and she’ll lay it on the line for us tomorrow.” Impatiently Delphick swung away from the window. “After all,” Borden pointed out, “we’ve done our damnedest, and we had the devil of a job getting the expenses okayed. Apart from her clothes, the insurance on the jewelry alone’d give me and the missis and the kids a month’s holiday in Spain. We didn’t like to risk phony ice; we had to hire the real McCoy.”
The chief superintendent returned to his desk and sat down heavily.
“Look, Oracle,” Borden said, trying to lighten the mood. “Quit worrying about MissEss. Nothing’ll happen. And Haley’s there to look after her. From what he’s seen and heard of her, he thinks she’s the cat’s mustache—that’s why we put him in charge of her—and that as a detective she’s a direct descendant of Nero Wolfe through Sherlock Holmes.”
“Detective!” exploded Delphick. “She couldn’t detect a sausage in its skin. If she saw a mugging in the street she’d deplore the violence but would be sure that if all the facts were known there’d probably be much to say on both sides. In fact, the first time we came up against her that’s exactly what she did. A chummy was knifing his girl in the street. What she saw was a gentleman hitting a lady and so she poked him in the back with her umbrella, all prepared to lecture him on manners. She was lucky to come out of that one alive.” She’d been lucky, he reflected, to have come out of several subsequent episodes alive. How long would her luck last? “Does the A.C. know of this caper?”
“Sir Hubert? Sure. It had to be okayed by him and the receiver. And it was the A.C. who told us to—” The inspector laughed. “Well, knowing him, of course, he didn’t tell us, he just thought that in the circumstances, or rather perhaps he should say in view of any possible circumstances that might arise he suggested that it might be wise to—i.e., he told us to fill you in. So I grabbed an early dinner and popped up to catch you soon as I heard you were back.”
“I—” The chief superintendent broke off and rose quickly.
Sergeant Ranger stopped typing and sprang to his feet, cascading reports in triplicate to the floor. Inspector Borden looked round in surprise and jumped up.
“Oh—er—good evening, sir.”
Sir Hubert Everleigh, Assistant Commissioner (Crime), resplendent in full evening dress, waved them to their seats.
“Please, gentlemen, don’t let me disturb you. I only came in, rather perhaps I should say I dropped in, on my way to an embassy reception.”
“I was just going, sir,” said Borden hurriedly. “I’d just finished briefing the Ora—the chief superintendent on the MissEss—the Miss Seeton business.” Sir Hubert smiled and nodded and the inspector made a thankful escape.
The assistant commissioner took the vacated chair. “Sit down, Chief Superintendent, and you”—he addressed the sergeant—“carry on with your paper chase. I don’t want to delay you unduly; you must both be tired.” Red of face and with a muttered “Thank you sir,” the huge young sergeant scrabbled on the floor to retrieve his report. “I understand,” said Sir Hubert, “that the business in Middlesborough ended satisfactorily.”
The A.C., Delphick reflected, kept a firm finger on his department’s pulse. “You’ve heard already, sir?”
“Oh, yes. The chief constable got in touch with me. He sounded very pleased and I gather that a man has been charged. I also gather that you have now been brought up to date with regard to events here, or to be more accurate, put in the picture regarding Miss Seeton’s latest employment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And”—he eyed Delphick quizzically—“you’re not happy about it.”
“No, sir.”
“Quite. I didn’t imagine that you would be, or not entirely. That was why I felt that you should be kept informed. On the face of it, the request from Fraud seemed reasonable, is reasonable, if a little expensive, but then you and I, particularly you, have a somewhat wider experience than they have of her proclivity for becoming unintentionally more deeply involved in—one might almost say of inadvertently becoming the crux of—any case to which she is assigned.”
Delphick chewed his lip. “It’s not so much what might happen in the casino, but for her to leave there covered in diamonds with only a detective constable could be asking for trouble. Would you object, sir, to my going over to The Gold Fish—not go in; just remain outside—and make sure she gets safely away?”
“Object?” Sir Hubert stood up. “No, I wouldn’t object. There is no possible reason to suppose that anything untoward will occur, but experience has taught me that Miss Seeton and the untoward go hand in hand. If you would feel happier—and I’m bound to confess that I would share your emotion—to keep a fatherly eye on tonight’s outcome, then in spite of the imposition in working overtime I would say go ahead.” Having achieved his aim without having to make a definite request, Sir Hubert collected his gloves and went to the door. “I must be on my way or I shall be late, the ambassador will take offense and we shall have an international incident on our hands.” At the door he paused. “That poor woman. Fraud have undoubtedly acted according to their best lights, but to overdress and overjewel her as they have smacks to me of the 1920s and E. Phillips Oppenheim, forgetting that Mr. Oppenheim said that in gambling establishments the world over, people are judged not by what they put upon themselves but by what they put upon the table.” He shook his head. “Poor Miss Seeton. I cannot but feel that it may prove to be a disconcerting and embarrassing evening.”
chapter
~2~
REALLY, CONSIDERED MISS Seeton, such a—such a disconcerting and embarrassing evening.
One had, of course, to do what one was told, but all this dressing up, this disguise, seemed, somehow, so extreme. The wig—a most improbable shade of mauve—was rather hot and though, thank goodness, one could not see it oneself, one was still conscious of the heavy makeup which made one�
��s face feel as if it were enameled and might crack. And the false eyelashes with all that eyeblack on them were stiff and heavy. The dress—so very shiny—had, one must admit, a most becoming full-length skirt, but—she looked down and looked hastily away—the bodice did start so very late. And then the diamonds. Such a responsibility. Naturally people who could afford them wore them, but did they really, she wondered, wear quite so many all at once?
Miss Seeton stifled a sigh. It would not, she felt, be in keeping for this Mrs. Herrington-Casey to appear tired or bored with her surroundings. Though she was. Or had been. She’d had no idea that people who gambled took it so seriously, with no laughter, no excitement; indeed, the whole place struck her as a tinsel factory with joyless workers performing a mechanical routine. Had been bored, that was to say, until the arrival at the table of this girl. Who was frightened. And that, in itself, seemed odd in a place like this. And unaccompanied. That, too, struck her as being strange. One knew, of course, that nowadays girls could, and did, go where they liked alone. But though they could, they didn’t. Go, that was, to places such as this. Unless, of course, they were girls of a certain type. Which this girl palpably was not. Yet she was. Here alone, one meant. And afraid. Miss Seeton had had too long an experience of teaching children not to recognize fear beneath apparent sophistication and a brash manner.
She put down her knife and fork. The food was very good, if a little rich, and one would so have liked a glass of water. She sipped her ginger beer. Quite pleasant, but so gassy. It was very thoughtful of young Mr. Haley—no, she must remember to call, to think of him as Tom—to make it appear that she was drinking champagne, though she rather feared that the champagne mixed with gin that he was forced to drink was beginning to have something of an effect.
Tom Haley pushed back his chair. “Come on, Mrs. H.-C. Time to take ’em for a ride again.” Dutifully Miss Seeton rose. Haley got to his feet and stood blinking. He shook his head; jolly hot in here. “You, too,” he addressed the girl. “Come ’n’ join the gravy train. Rook ’em while the rooking’s good.” A thought made him smile. After all the kickup about the expenses for this jaunt, at the rate MissEss was going, looked like the Yard’d be in clover. He only hoped that once they’d taken their whack they’d let her keep the rest as bonus. He negotiated the steps with care and followed the two women down to the tables, where gamblers’ luck awaited them. The same seat at the same table at which Miss Seeton had previously won was vacant.
Miss Seeton had tried. When, despite her protests that she, of all people, should be sent to a casino, of all places, to gamble, of all things, Miss Seeton had been sent, she had felt it incumbent upon her to assimilate, so far as she was able, the rules of roulette and its idiom. She had therefore repaired to the public library in Brettenden to collect such literature as they had about the subject. Unfortunately, interesting as it was, naturally, to learn that the ancient Greeks spun shields and Romans chariot wheels and that considerably later Cardinal Mazarin had encouraged a game called loca—such a very odd word—which was apparently the first time that a ball had been used in conjunction with a spinning wheel, the rules and the idiom proved to be beyond her. And so very French. To begin with: the word pair presumably meant what it said; then impair, which must, she supposed, be the French for umpire; but douzaine, carrée, en plein, colonne, manque, double—yes, but double what?—transversal pleine and à cheval . . . She had tried, but finally she had had to admit defeat.
Tentatively Miss Seeton opened her handbag and selected a blue chip marked 25p.
That last term—à cheval, or “to horse”—must refer in some way to the umpires, or croupiers as they were now called, since the word croupier meant someone who rode tandem on the rump of a horse. She looked forward toward the head of the table. The idea of one of those three elegant young men jogging on the hindquarters of a horse like some medieval Daisy Bell made her smile.
The smile died when from behind her chair Haley reached over, took the counter from her, selected five yellow chips marked £10 and placed them in her hand. Miss Seeton repressed a gasp: even her mathematics were equal to this addition. Fifty pounds? It seemed wickedly extravagant. However, she had not the right to argue and consoled herself with the thought that the sum was only a part of what she had already won. Admittedly, the first time, when Mr.—when Tom had staked to show her what to do, he had lost. But both times that she had played herself, they had given her back so many more of these sort of large tiddlywink counters than she had put down. Though now that the girl’s relief at winning had brought it home to her that these different-colored counters represented actual money, it all seemed—well, almost dishonest. Without looking, she obediently pushed the pile of yellow jetons onto the table.
The girl hesitated. Thirteen? The unlucky number? And black again? Dared she? A feeling of recklessness gripped her. Was it despair, champagne on an empty stomach, or something about this strange couple? The old woman was so serene, so casual, so—so certain somehow. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she followed the lead. She put down all her chips: the three yellow she had won directly on 13, using the blue 25p’s, the pink 50p’s, the black £1’s and her one white £5 to cover it on black, on odd, on low and on the dozen.
To an observer gamblers may appear impassive, but in actuality the habitual gamester is sensitive to the feeling of the “room.” Miss Seeton’s two previous flings had not gone unremarked and this, her third attempt, aroused a certain interest. When, after selecting the minimum with evident indifference, she smiled, changed her mind and placed the maximum stake on a single number, people began to gather round and even the woman in the raincoat and squashed felt hat left another table to stand and watch, with notebook at the ready.
Tom Haley took a deep breath. If old Borden ever found out, he’d get the sack; but what the hell—in for a penny, in for a thousand pounds. He dived into Miss Seeton’s handbag, came up with a fistful of counters, selected the maximum and stacked his pile beside the other two on 13. To match the girl’s plunge he sprinkled the rest of the handful around the table to back the bet all ways.
There was a movement among the onlookers. Some thrust forward impulsively to add their bets, then checked. Thirteen? Unlucky? Lucky? Three fliers already on it? Three, the charmed number. To add to it might upset the balance and negate one of the innumerable laws that governed their countless superstitions. While they wavered, the time for staking passed.
The croupier had spun the wheel. “Rien ne va plus.”
Miss Seeton got up. She was right: Tom had had too much champagne. And too much gin. She made her way back to the supper table. If he was determined to throw away the police money—well, one supposed it was the public’s money—then she would prefer not to watch. The attention of the spectators vacillated between concentration on the wheel and wonder at the bejeweled old woman who was so indifferent—so assured?—that she didn’t bother to await the outcome.
Haley was dismayed. Miss Seeton’s departure brought him momentarily to earth and his confidence evaporated. The wheel was slowing and the ball, too, seemed to lose confidence: it settled in one slot; flicked out and lodged in another; landed on a red and stayed there for one whole revolution before jumping up and starting on another round. He’d be back on the beat for sure—or traffic duty in a cul de-sac. He closed his eyes and tried to remember prayers. By his side the girl stared relentlessly but saw nothing, knew nothing, except that she felt sick.
A murmur from the crowd aroused them. The wheel was still, the croupier’s rake already functioning as it swept the counters up the table to his side. The ball was lying in—was lying in—oh, God, it wasn’t true. The ball was lying in 13.
“Deirdre, my dear.”
Color left the girl’s face and the animation induced by her second win died. Her left hand, hovering over a cheese canapé, went rigid and her right, in putting down her champagne glass, slopped wine on the tablecloth.
So he’d been right. . . . Tom
Haley was summoned from happy thoughts. He’d been told to see MissEss made a bit of a splash. Well, she had; taken the casino for a ride; pitched them into the water jump to the tune of over four thousand quid and they were still drying themselves off. But nobody’d told him to have a go too. Better ashk Mish—he pulled himself together—better tell her to keep mum about that. He realized he was in danger of getting squiffed. But just the same he’d still been right.
Although by now Haley’s brain might be a little befuddled, his training stood him in good stead. While watching the girl at the bar, he had mentally filmed the sequence. Running the film through his mind in slow motion had got him nowhere; normal tempo had not helped; but projecting it at double speed had given him an answer. The incessant movement of her hands, toying with her cigarette, her glass, pushing back or stroking her hair, the activity of her fingers in conversation with the barman, became clarified as a state of nervous tension. This girl was nervous—frightened. And from her present reaction, the man who’d just spoken to her was a possible cause. He looked at the man and trod on Miss Seeton’s foot.
Oh. This, of course, was the signal that they had arranged. Miss Seeton glanced at her escort and realized that he was staring at the newcomer. This, then, must be the man whose features she must memorize. Handsome, if you cared for those sort of looks, she supposed. And he’d called the girl Deirdre. Such a pretty name. And suitable. Celtic in origin, she believed, and, if she remembered rightly, meant “the raging one.” Which, again, had a certain suitability since, although she was convinced that the girl was scared, one could sense an underlying anger. For her own part, she did not. Care for his looks, she meant. Predatory, like a—like a hawk about to swoop. Or—was it too fanciful?—to judge by the pressure of his fingers on the girl’s shoulder, a hawk that had already pounced.
