“In all nations, Ministries of War sit around during periods of prolonged peace, irritably finding projects to justify their existence,” began the windy Paine, as if addressing his Senate. “Great Britain, possessed of an Empire, rarely has periods of prolonged peace…”
Gurn grunted. He had begun his murdering in the late South African conflict.
“However, when the British Ministry of War has a spare moment, their armchair generals like nothing more than the drawing-up of contingency plans, which is to say imagining what wonderful new wars might be embarked upon. For reasons few can explain, it costs as much to compile a folder such as the one we have here as it does to make a battleship. Thus are military budgets rubber-stamped cheerfully by parliaments and despots alike. Sometimes, as with the Boer War, a conflict might be a long time coming. Plans can be framed well before the outbreak of hostilities. But, there are also nasty surprises. Sudden diplomatic rows get out of hand. An unkind word about an ambassador’s wife’s hat and the Balkans goes up in flames as the triple alliance of Ruritania, Latveria and Syldavia march against ancient foes in Graustark, Transia and Borduria. From Cleopatra’s nose to Jenkin’s ear, wars have sprung up from such trifles. So, Ministries play games of ‘let’s pretend’ and plan what they would do under certain contingencies. ‘Let’s pretend…’ resurgent Viking hordes ravage Scotland! Which regiments would be mobilized, what lines of transport must be kept open, where would artillery be deployed?”
Paine tapped the folder.
“This contingency plan is founded upon the ‘let’s pretend’ supposition that France makes a sudden, aggressive move against the British in Egypt, to wrest control of the Suez Canal. Furthermore, the French Navy occupies the Channel Islands while building up the fleet–an armada, if you will–in la Manche. An army is landed on the South Coast of England. Jean-François strikes towards London and King and Parliament. Of course, France has no such intent, so far as we or the British Ministry of War know. Germany, Russia, Portugal, Switzerland, Japan, Pago-Pago, the planet Mars, Atlantis and Swansea have no thought of waging war on the British Empire–but plans exist to be put in action in the event such attacks are made.”
General Sternwood lifted a corner of the folder, took a look at a paragraph, and spat. “Limey crocks couldn’t defend a whorehouse from a flock of sheep… Look at how they intend to fortify Andover! And no general in his right mind would set counter-invasion troops ashore on the beaches of goddamn’ Normandy. They’d be cut to pieces! No, Cherbourg–that’s your Frog weak spot!”
The General caught himself ranting and shut up. Paine gave him a stern look.
“If my colleague, Mr… ah… Mr. the Face … would take over.”
Paine sat down, and the spotlight fell on the Face.
“Senator, thank you,” said the masked man, who had a rich, persuasive, unaccented voice. Beneath the leather he might be Quasimodo with the measles, but he was as beautifully spoken as any of the well-mannered gentlemen Grandmama warned Gilberte to be wary of. “The importance of the papers Mevrouw Van Heemstra has obtained lies not in details, General Sternwood, but in their shape and form. Much of the text can carry over into the documents Madame Sara will prepare. It is a simple matter of editing, of slanting the material, so that a contingency plan of defense will be transformed into a definite plan of attack. When the folder is passed to the French Ministry of War, it will be stained with the blood of many agents. The British will have made, or seem to have made, desperate attempts to get these plans back. Concurrently, strategic explosions will stir up activity in Portsmouth. An astute observer will believe His Majesty’s Armed Forces are hurriedly preparing an invasion. Furthermore, barracks in the South of England will receive shipments of pamphlets to be issued to private soldiers…”
The Face laid a specimen on the table, which was passed around. Stamped as a British Armed Services publication, it was an English-French phrasebook. Flicking through, Gilberte found such useful sentiments as “we are delighted to accept your surrender, Mayor,” “how long ago did your officers flee in terror, Private?” and “kindly tell your daughter not to put garlic in the breakfast we have requisitioned.” She could imagine the outrage in the French press when–inevitably–a copy fell into their hands.
“When the British war plans are delivered to the French government,” said the Face, white spittle flecking the corners of his mouth-slit, “they will be convinced the Coldstream Guards are on the point of marching up the Champs-Elysées. They must believe they have no time for diplomacy, and mobilize at once against perfidious Albion.”
“Then,” said Natasha, taking over the narrative, “bombs shall fall from the skies. Our air-destroyer Ariel, presently moored on the Scots isle of Drumcraig, will strike against targets in England and France, chosen for sentimental or patriotic associations. The White Cliffs of Dover. The square in Rouen where the English burned Joan of Arc. Where the Ariel does not reach, we Terrorists shall employ agents willing to sacrifice themselves for the cause. Waterloo Station shall be blown up! The vineyards of Champagne shall burn! There must be War!”
Gilberte thought Natasha might be unhappy in her love life. The armored angel fairly squirmed with delight at the thought of carnage on a global scale as other girls her age warmed at the prospect of an extravagant new hat with ostrich feathers or a small but exquisitely stylish diamond pendant.
“Now,” said Kane, reclaiming the spotlight, pausing a moment so that Evil Emeric could fix him in the intersection of two beams, “the small matter of the big bucks. Those of you who are professionals do not come cheap, and those of you who are zealots are in need of operating costs. Miss di Murska, I know to the last gear and strut how much gelt it takes to launch an air-destroyer. Well, I am not complaining. I’m here to buy a war. My friend Mr. Boltyn has thrown in with me, so we can afford all the toys we want. His associate Mr. Hattison is an inventin’ fool. Thanks to his ingenuity with electrical wires and levers and trickinesses well beyond my brain-pan, each of you will leave this casino a winner, to the tune of better than a half-million dollars.”
“Mira Pev” herself couldn’t have thrilled as much at the sound of that as Gilberte did.
“Personally, I’d like nothing better than to hand the money over in sacks right here in this room… but there are official bodies to be placated. My accountants have to fill in their forms and justify all my expenditures. I’m known for spending freely, but even I can’t just say I’ve bought a job-lot of statues and paintings and hope not to answer any more questions. So, you will legitimately win your war chests. I have leased the baccarat, chemin-de-fer and roulette tables from the Bath Water Society. For this season, I am the bank. Tomorrow night, you will collectively break me. You may find this shocking, but every game of chance in this town is rigged. Our good friend Mr. Hattison has made sure of that. Anyone in the gaming business knows you can’t run the racket without letting some mug win large from time to time, to keep the rest of the suckers playing. Tomorrow night, my friends, you can’t lose. Oh, it won’t be obvious–there’ll be reversals, early losses to build up the pot, to keep other players in the game. But, at the end of the evening, you’ll walk off with your pockets full of chips.”
Around the table were happy faces. Even the Face’s leather mask seemed to smirk. Only Natasha kept frowning.
“I’ve laid out bait enough to attract all the high-rollers and big operators in the so-called ‘professional gambler’ line,” said Kane, “and it’s my hope the pack will sense blood in the water and bet against you. That smug bastard Johnny Barlowe is here, and you know what he’s like, with his ‘independent air’ and his ‘mass of money, linen, silk and starch.’ ‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo,’ hah! I’m happy to give you good money for services rendered, but I’ll be additionally tickled puce if you take what you can from parasites like Barlowe. Not to mention Gaylord ‘Riverboat’ Ravenal, Sebastian ‘Basher’ Moran and half a dozen other gussied-up sharks in frilly shirts. Take thei
r rolls as well as mine, and go with my blessing. A superfluity of Fatty Feasts, Meaty Morsels and Vril Grills are about to be express-delivered from the Burgher Kane in the lobby, so anyone who cares to join me in dining heartily is welcome to get their faces in the trough.”
Like almost everyone in Kane’s company who wasn’t American, Gilberte and Elizabeth professed to have dined earlier. They withdrew and tactfully had to detach themselves from Natasha–by telling her an especially oppressive Archduke was playing whist in a private room with a bloated factory-owner, a corrupt cardinal and a brutal chieftain of Cossacks. The Queen of Terror trotted off to investigate, regretting she had not worn a bandolier of dynamite sticks to offset her metal-plate dress.
“That girl needs more fun in her life,” Gilberte observed.
It was as Erik had guessed. The casino was the pump of Kane’s machine.
Tomorrow night, however things panned out, would be exciting.
In their suite at the Grand Hôtel, the Persian unrolled architectural plans. Riolama was at his shoulder, big eyes taking in details. She was a quick study. The bird girl still didn’t talk much. Gilberte couldn’t imagine her upbringing, but she had a lively mind.
When he “leased the bank,” Kane made many alterations. He had openly put in gaming machines, Mutoscopes and a Burgher Kane, stamping his K everywhere. The secret purpose of the work was to turn the Casino into a giant machine. A transparent overlay, initialed by Engineer Hattison, showed electrical wires threading through the building like nerves. The globe of lights in the main salon was hollow, like a diving bell. Using telescopic devices, a small person concealed within could have close-up views of every gaming table in the hall. A panel of switches and levers could dictate each spin of a wheel or turn of the cards. The croupiers were literally hooked up; special garters threaded wires through their shoe-soles to make contact with metal plates–the K motifs in the carpets. The Eye-Ball could apply tiny shocks in coded patterns, conveying instructions to the men on the floor.
Decks of cards, printed and sealed on the premises, arrived at the chemin-de-fer table or the baccarat shoe pre-shuffled to suit the house, backs marked in an ink which showed when viewed through a red lens the controller could slot into the telescopes.
“How did Monsieur Erik obtain these plans?” Gilberte asked. “I’m surprised Kane is careless with such things.”
The Persian tapped his long nose. “It’s one thing to pay for such a system, but another to design it, and quite another again to build it. But a few firms are capable of executing such a commission. Frankly, the fellow who said he didn’t care what it cost to have a cathedral-size pipe organ dismantled and reassembled in the catacombs of Paris has more goodwill with the specialists than the Yankee vulgarian who quibbled about every franc spent on installing his wonderful cheating machine. Among other accomplishments, Erik is the greatest secret architect of the age. Who do you think the workmen who built Kane’s Europa-Xanadu look to for regular employment? We had these plans from the draughtsmen even before Kane did.”
Riolama held up one of the flimsies, looking at it several ways, and made little cooing noises.
“Monsieur Kane is no believer in games of chance,” Gilberte observed.
“Americans always brag about how much they love to gamble,” said the Persian. “What they mean is that they love to win. Kane doesn’t even think of this as cheating. He is simply unwilling to play any game where he doesn’t make up the rules. He takes undue pride in his own cleverness…”
“The vain in Kane is mainly in the brain,” mused Elizabeth.
“I think she’s got it,” said the Persian. “By George, she’s got it. The vain in Kane is mainly in the brain, and the bane of Kane is plainly to our gain. So have you seen it?”
Gilberte snapped her fingers.
“Gigi, you’ve seen it!”
Kane, swelling inside his waistcoat from too many Fatty Feasts, could not personally run his machine. He had paid for a marvelous toy, but someone else blew the whistle and rang the bell.
“He takes one enormous risk,” she said. “He must trust whoever sits inside his Eye-Ball.”
“Just so,” said the Persian, pulling out another plan. “But Kane takes precautions. In the average casino, the heaviest security arrangements–the biggest guards and the thickest doors–are for the vault where the money is kept. In Royale-les-Eaux, the most inaccessible room is directly above the main hall. Kane keeps his newest acquisitions there, paintings and statues and trinkets. The gallery is also the only point of access to the Eye-Ball. The skylight is electrified. The windows have shutters, sharpened like guillotine blades, which slice down if something–say, a burglar’s limb–is thrust through. Monsieur Voltaire personally ensures no one even gets up the stairs to the main door, which is also electrified. The American cracksman Jimmy Valentine ‘cased’ the gallery last month, and decided not to bother. Even the authentic ‘Vera Mip’ couldn’t get in easily.”
Gilberte shrugged. “Marie Pv” could take care of her own reputation.
“It is fortunate for us that birds may fly where bats cannot,” said the Persian.
Riolama chirruped.
“In myth,” said Elizabeth, “the sculptor Pygmalion brought Galatea to life. We must now reverse the process, for only a statue can get into that room.”
Her false moustache itched. She had to remember not to scratch, for fear of losing her disguise.
Elizabeth transformed herself without stuck-on whiskers. Even knowing the travesty, Gilberte could not recognize the young sculptor as Mrs. Eynsford Hill. She walked, talked, sweated and smoked like a man.
Voltaire had seen Gilberte and Elizabeth as “Edda Van Heemstra” and “Eva Prim” less than a day before. Now, the giant met “Jacob Epstein” and his apprentice, “Priam Vé.” No flicker of suspicion sparked in his eyes.
The Persian had hired some roughs to deliver the crate. Voltaire dismissed them and called on the casino’s staff–liveried apes with scraped knuckles from dealing with ungracious, complaining losers–to carry the big box upstairs to the gallery. When they could not exert sufficient lift, the major-domo added his own muscle. Voltaire bent double and the apes hefted the crate onto his shoulders. “Mr. Epstein” insisted he accompany the giant and his burden every step of the way.
Maneuvering the crate up the wide marble staircase was tricky. Gilberte trusted Riolama knew how to keep as quiet, and that the bird girl wouldn’t suffer injury through awkward man-handling. Voltaire’s collar burst as he strained. The apes assisted, keeping the crate from tipping off his back
The Persian had hoped Kane would be occupied elsewhere on this busy day, but he was in his gallery with Boltyn, Hattison and the capering Emeric Belasco. The mystery of who sat inside the Eye-Ball was solved. Evil Emeric was the likeliest prospect in Kane’s Most High Order. Last evening, he had shown how nimbly he could work such contraptions from on high.
Voltaire, sweat pouring from his prehistoric brow, set down the crate.
“What’s this?” asked Kane. “I said we weren’t to be bothered.”
“Bothered?” responded “Epstein,” blood rising. “Bothered! A mistake has been made. No philistine is worthy of owning Epstein’s Rima. You shall not even set eyes on her loveliness. Kane, your check will be returned, uncashed. You, Giant-Man, lift up the crate and take it away from this place.”
Voltaire’s fists opened and closed as if he were crushing melons. The casino apes looked helplessly at each other.
“Hold on, hold on,” said Kane, trying to mollify the temperamental artist. “Did I say I didn’t want your Rima? I have people who advise me on what to buy. They suggest I back you, Mr. Epstein. You will apparently ‘appreciate.’ ”
Elizabeth puffed out, but still glowed with wounded pride.
“I am a sculptor of genius, sir. Not a racehorse or a bond issue. I am not to be backed or invested in. My work has nothing to do with money… which is why it costs so much.”
Ka
ne tried to think that through.
“If we could go over the wiring specifications again,” interrupted Hattison, who looked as if he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in months. “Everything must be checked and tested…”
Kane, not caring to be nagged, ignored the engineer. He considered the large wooden box.
“Open ’er up,” he decreed. “Let’s have a look at your Rima.”
“Very well,” said Elizabeth. “Great care must be taken.”
She tapped at spots on the crate, indicating where nails should be pulled. The apes got to work with crowbars.
The crate fell apart. A quantity of straw came away.
The bird girl was on a heavy plinth, crouching inside a large nest. Her face turned upwards, features exaggerated, eyes blind. Twig-legged birds perched on her hands and shoulders. Metal waves of hair fell down her back.
Riolama was inside a carapace of metal-painted plaster over chickenwire. She seemed to be cast from bronze.
Voltaire looked at the statue as if falling in love at first sight.
“She’s naked,” observed Boltyn. “What would your mother think, Charlie?”
Kane didn’t know what to make of the sculpture, but was vain enough to want not to appear foolish in front of his friend.
“How much did you cough up for this doxy?” asked Boltyn. “I’ll wager there are real girls who’d cost a lot less.”
Elizabeth shot a withering glance at the millionaire.
“It is very modern,” said Hattison, trying to toady equally to both his masters. They ignored him.
“I think she’s fine,” said Kane, warming to his decision. “Yes, I see what Mr. Epstein means to say in this piece. Look at the strength in these limbs. The muscles of a wrestler…”
The statue’s legs and arms were thick, to accommodate the slender body within. Gilberte didn’t know who Erik had got to run up this “Epstein”–probably one of the scenery-makers at the Opéra. It would look better from the back of the dress circle.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 22
