by Heron Carvic
“What a pleasant surprise,” continued the new arrival. “I didn’t know you played.”
The girl shrugged off his hand. “I thought it was time I learned.”
He laughed. “In the hope that the whirligig of time will bring in his revenges? You must be careful, my dear. Your mother’s been having a worrying time, first with young Derrick making a fool of himself and then your father’s accident. I was sorry to read about that, but luckily not too serious, from what the papers said. Please remember me to him. So don’t try planning for too high stakes. We can’t”—his tone had become openly taunting—“allow you to run wild; and don’t forget troubles are apt to come in threes.” He switched to social polish. “But that’s enough of trouble. Won’t you introduce me to your friends?”
With evident reluctance she replied, “Mrs. Herrington-Casey, may I have the pleasure”—she flicked the word with sarcasm—“to present Mr. Thatcher. Mr. Thatcher—Mr. Haley.”
Thatcher bowed to Miss Seeton. “We are honored, Mrs. Herrington-Casey. You rarely play in England, I understand. You won’t recollect”—his eyes mocked her—“but we met once, only a brief introduction, at—Monte?” He fingered his lower lip. “Or was it Cannes?” He smiled. “But there, I mustn’t interrupt. You appear to be winning at the moment and”—he bowed again and his smile broadened—“I might spoil your game.”
That had torn it. Haley watched Thatcher move across to the bar. Why the hell hadn’t Research done their homework properly? From the photographs he’d seen of Mrs. Herrington-Casey, MissEss looked near enough, but if Thatcher had actually met her . . . Well, could be she’d got by, but not to trush—not to rely on it. Unpleasant type. Everything he’d said could’ve had a double meaning. “You won’t recollect . . .” “You ’pear to be winning at the moment . . .” “I might shpoil your game.” Better take it he’d rumbled her. Hell—they’d better make tracks.
Light began to filter through the alcoholic mist. Got it. Deirdre. Thought he knew the face. In all the glosh—in the magazhines. Mos’ beautiful face he’d ever—mos’ beau’ful . . . The girl became restive under his glassy stare and Haley tried to round up his scattering wits. ’At was right—ol’ Lord Kenharding’s daughter. An’ his lordship’d smashed up his car last week. There’d been a photo of the whole fam’ly—’at was right, Derrick, teen-age son an’ heir, and the press’d rehashed about the silly young oaf being copped at some drug shindig and’d got off with a fine and a wigging. Come to that, bad form Thatcher bringing up all that family stuff in front of strangers. Or was it? Had all that been double-talk too?
Haley’s thought stumbled along their backward track. What’d he said to her? “ ’Member me to him,” over the ol’ man’s accident. “Don’t try playing for too high stakes”—nothing in that unless the Honorable Deirdre was up to something; “can’t allow you to run wild” and “troubles are apt to come in threes.” Hm, could be innoc—could be all right, but could jus’ as well be a threat. From Thatcher’s manner and from what he knew of the bastard, could damn well be a threat.
How very awkward. Miss Seeton regarded Thatcher’s back. If he had met this Mrs. Herrington-Casey, however briefly, he must have known. Surely? She looked at Tom Haley for guidance, but he appeared to be immersed. In thought. What an unpleasant man. Mr. Thatcher, she meant. Not that one had any reason to think so—he’d been perfectly polite—but such a sardonic, almost a sneering, manner. Perhaps one’s view was colored by knowing what one did. Or rather not knowing what one didn’t. But she did know that the police were interested in him and that generally meant that there was something unsatisfactory and that might easily have influenced one’s opinion. As for the girl, her mouth was set and she had gone very pale. But more with temper now, one thought, than with fear. Certainly it had been regrettable manners for Mr. Thatcher to mention her family’s affairs in front of strangers, though possibly he did not realize that they were—strangers, that was—and certainly one could not take exception to his commiserating over the father’s accident; again it had only been his manner. But Derrick—presumably her brother—having made a fool of himself: whatever he had done, to speak of it in front of other people was embarrassing and in deplorable taste.
Abruptly Deirdre Kenharding stood up. “Thank you for the champagne and everything. Sorry if I was rude.” She was gone before Haley, slow in reaction and struggling to his feet, could find words to prevent her.
“Got all you want, MissEss?” he murmured. “I mean seen enough of the Thatcher bloke to get him down on paper?” Miss Seeton nodded. “Good. Don’t know if he cottoned to the Mrs. H.-C. lark, but think better shkip coffee ’nd get weaving.”
It was an accurate description of his own movements as, having paid the bill, he followed his companion down the steps and weaved his way after her toward the desk by the main doors, where he changed her chips for money. A check was offered for so large an amount but he waved the suggestion aside and insisted on cash. Gosh. Never handled so much oof in his life—and wasn’t likely to again. Over four thousand smackers. Boy. He crammed the majority into Miss Seeton’s handbag until it would barely close, stuffed the rest into his pockets and ushered her into the foyer.
In an upstairs office, Thatcher was waiting for a report. The telephone shrilled and the casino’s proprietor picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” He listened for a short while, made some notes, thanked the instrument, replaced it and turned to Thatcher. “There is a Thomas E. Haley, a detective constable attached to the Fraud Squad, and”—he glanced down at his notes—“the description fits.”
“Right.” Thatcher pulled at his lower lip. “Then I’ll make an inspired guess who the old woman is. Some artist—I’ve forgotten her name—they use quite a bit. This’ll be their answer to failing to get a photograph.” He put his hands in his pockets and began to pace the room. “I’ll put a stop to that. She’s clever or been lucky or both, or the press find her good copy. It was luck, the Kenharding girl being with them, or they might have got away with it.”
The proprietor’s expression was sour. “I should’ve thought the luck was their trying to pass her off as someone you happened to know.”
“I don’t know her—I met her once.” He frowned. “They’d done a good job. Anybody who’d only seen Herrington-Casey around casually would’ve been fooled by it. What I want to know is, is Deirdre in on it? They didn’t come together; the barman told me the girl arrived alone. Keep tabs on all three. I want to know when they’re leaving.”
“Look, you’re not going to start anything here. You’ve taken over and unfortunately I can’t quarrel with that—”
“And your profits are up. You don’t quarrel with that either.”
“I don’t. But apart from the men you’ve put in here—and I prefer not to know the reason—you promised there’d be no trouble. I’m responsible to my directors for the running of the casino—”
“And one of your directors,” cut in Thatcher smoothly, “Lord Kenharding, had a nasty accident the other day when his brakes failed on a hill near his home. He was lucky to get off with minor injuries, but somehow I don’t think he’ll be in a mood to quarrel with anybody for a while. Life is so uncertain these days. . . . His wife or daughter could have accidents too.”
The proprietor thought over the implications. Then: “What d’you want me to do?”
“Nothing more than I’ve told you: keep tabs on Haley—I think he’s been drinking—on the woman and on Deirdre. They’re well up at the moment; if they cash their chips, how much for and whether they take it in cash or check; and a warning as soon as any of them show signs of going.” He laughed at the proprietor’s expression. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen in the casino—and for the rest, the less you know, the better.”
Haley retrieved his coat and the mink stole which completed Miss Seeton’s outfit. He grinned to himself; for once she hadn’t been allowed to carry her umbrella. The papers had always played it up, calling her “The B
attling Brolly,” and it was known at the Yard as her “small arms.” Oh, well—they were on their way with what they’d come for—and considering all that lolly, rather more than they’d bargained for—and even if Thatcher had wrinkled her there was damn all he could do about it now. . . . Pity the girl had sloped off; he’d like to’ve . . . Oh, well. Old Kenharding’s daughter; out of his class. But still—Turning too quickly to hand Miss Seeton the stole, he crossed his legs, stumbled over his foot and nearly fell, thereby failing to observe Miss Seeton’s difficulties.
Worried over her responsibility for such a large sum of money, she was keeping a firm grip on the ornamental clasp of her handbag, insecure now that it was overfull, and she was unprepared to receive the long length of the fur which was suddenly thrust at her. This, too, was valuable. And it wasn’t hers. Now, how was it they’d shown her to wear it? It was quite heavy, with those lead weights sewn into the seams at both ends. If she put it across her shoulders it might easily slip, trail on the floor and become damaged. To drape it over her arms posed the same problem, and holding it in place would mean that the bag, especially with that very scratchy clasp, would rub the fur. There was some simple way, if only she could remember. . . . Of course. How stupid. One put it over one’s shoulders and, leaving the left side hanging down, you threw the right side over the left shoulder and the weights balanced it and kept the wretched thing in place. Miss Seeton executed the maneuver with a determined lack of skill: too little hung; too much was flung.
The doorman, a recent employee, alerted by the desk inside that two of the party he was to watch for were leaving, was hurrying forward to open the main doors, where, as a prearranged signal to the men waiting outside, he was to blow his nose. He side-stepped to avoid Tom Haley’s gyrations. There was one what weren’t in a fit state to be driving. He smirked. Well, the boss was seeing to it neither of ’em’d be in a fit state for a bit. The lead weight of Miss Seeton’s flying stole landed full in the man’s eye and he uttered a word that would have ensured instant dismissal in most establishments. Temporarily blinded, hand pressed to his streaming eyes, he lost the handicap race to the doors. Haley pushed one of the glass panels open and tottered after Miss Seeton to the head of the steps leading down the pavement. The doorman, a bad third but trying to atone for lost time, appeared behind them waving a handkerchief, into which he trumpeted as though stricken by the first stage of flu.
Even forewarned, Delphick was shocked when Miss Seeton appeared at the top of the steps. Their car was parked on the opposite side of the street, facing the casino, and sensing his superior’s quickened interest, Sergeant Ranger leaned forward over the steering wheel to get a better view.
“What, sir?”
“Use your eyes, Bob—just coming out.”
Obediently, the sergeant’s eyes opened wide. That—that Christmas tree, Aunt Em? It couldn’t be. She . . . He grasped the door handle. “Do we . . .?”
“No, we’ve no standing in this; we just—” He broke off when Miss Seeton’s escort came into view. “Isn’t that Haley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s drunk.”
Bob Ranger studied the swaying figure. “Yes, sir.”
The doorman appeared, handkerchief flapping. A car across the road jerked into motion, stopped in front of the entrance. Two men sprang from it.
“Out,” snapped Delphick. “Something’s up.”
The two men who had been awaiting the doorman’s signal were confused. What the hell was Joe up to, rushing out like that, flippin’ his wiper like a bleedin’ tablecloth and then blowing into it like he was sounding the Last Post? Did he mean the old cow who’d just come out ’nd if so, why hadn’t he warned ’em first like arranged? Trust Joe to make a muck of it. They realized that their quarry, now halfway down the steps, was liable to escape.
“You take ’er, Lofty,” said the shorter of the two, “and bung ’er in the car. I’ll see to ’is nibs—’e’s pissed.”
“C’mon.” The taller man grabbed Miss Seeton’s arm. “In the car quick or I’ll do yer.”
“I think,” said Miss Seeton, drawing herself up so that she reached nearly to his shoulder, “that you must have made a mistake.”
Tom Haley was in trouble. The night air had hit him like a blow, completing the work so well begun by gin and champagne. Below him rippled the flight of steps, expanding to grace a palace, contracting to one short pace from the pavement, which billowed at their base. He put out a cautious foot like a bather testing the temperature. A short man—short men?—rushed at him. Training reacted and he swerved, a movement which undid them both; to recover his balance, Haley performed a high kick that would have secured him a place in any chorus line, came down astride his adversary’s neck, scissored the man’s head in an attempt to keep his seat and rode his unwilling charger down into the back of Miss Seeton’s assailant.
Lofty was first on his feet. Shorty had had it, by the looks. He saw Tom Haley sprawled on hands and knees, trying to rise. Easy. He let the cosh drop from his sleeve on its wrist thong, bent, and raised it above the exposed neck.
Miss Seeton realized his intent. “Stop that!” she commanded. What could she . . .? She had nothing. . . . Instinctively she slapped the handbag against his head; the gilt bird’s-claw clasp ripped his temple, he yowled, and the bag burst open, showering the combatants with some three thousand pounds’ worth of confetti.
Lofty’s right hand was caught in a viselike grip and wrenched behind his back in a hammer lock, while Delphick pulled Haley to his feet and held him to prevent his falling.
“Considering your state, which will need some explaining, that was nice work and quick thinking.”
“ ’Nksh,” said Haley.
The giant Bob Ranger, still holding Miss Seeton’s attacker, plucked Shorty off the ground by his collar, held him up, examined the gash on his forehead and remarked, “This one’s a bit broken, sir, and’ll need stitching. Doubt he’ll come round for a while.”
A uniformed officer approached the group. “Now, then, what . . .?” He recognized Delphick. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were in charge. I’ve called in already and they’re sending a patrol. Anything I can do?”
“I’m not in charge,” explained the chief superintendent. “We—er—just happened to be here when it started. If you’ll cuff that one”—he indicated Lofty—“and hold him till the car—Ah.” He heard an approaching siren. “Here it comes. Good. Then if you’ll help keep these people back”—passers-by were beginning to collect in an excited group—“perhaps we can pick up all this stuff.” He pointed to the money and it began to dawn on him that the greater part of it was in twenty- and ten-pound notes. “What’ve you been up to—pinching the till?” He let go of Haley. “Get on with it.”
Released, Tom Haley subsided happily. “Oodles o’ lovely oof,” he chortled. He put his hand in his coat pocket and produced another bundle; offered it to Delphick. “Have some. Got losh more.”
Delphick ignored him. He observed that Bob Ranger, relieved of his first prisoner, was still holding Shorty by the collar. “Sergeant,” he directed, “put that down before you strangle it. And if you’ve got a clean handkerchief,” he added, “tie up its head till an ambulance comes.” The sergeant obeyed and joined Delphick and Miss Seeton in retrieving the money. The chief superintendent smiled at her. “Would it be too much to ask what exactly has been going on?”
Immediately he regretted the word “exactly.” Exactitude, particularly in regard to her relations with the police, was almost a vice with Miss Seeton. Her thoughts gamboled along their irresponsible way, and through backtracking in order to ensure that no point had been missed and that her meaning was clear, her explanations were frequently incomprehensible. Before she could answer, the police car arrived and by virtue of rank Delphick was forced to abandon the treasure hunt and give instructions for the removal and interrogation of one prisoner—to be charged pro tem with assaulting a police officer—for the hospitalizati
on of Shorty, who was beginning to moan his way back to consciousness but was likely to prove a concussion case, and for holding back the crowd, which was growing larger. The handkerchief-waving doorman, he noted for future reference, had retired into the casino and taken no further part in the proceedings. He returned as Miss Seeton and Bob Ranger were collecting the last of the scattered notes.
“Well?” he asked her.
“I think,” she replied, “that it was a mistake.”
The understatement of the month. He forbore to laugh. “I’m inclined to agree with you, but on whose part and about what?”
“It was the taller man—the one you sent away with the policeman. He asked—well, actually he told me to get into the car. I said that I thought he must be making a mistake, but before he had time to answer, Mr. Haley and the other one—I didn’t, of course, see exactly what happened since they were behind me—fell down beside us and he—the tall one, I mean—was going to hit Mr. Haley and as he didn’t stop when I told him to, I did. Hit him, that is to say. On the head, and it burst. The handbag, I mean.”
“Did he say anything else, beyond telling you to get in the car? Did he give any reason?”
“No. That’s why I’m sure it was a mistake. You see, there was no reason.”
He regarded her. Apart from the bulging bag, with all those diamonds she positively dripped reasons. Let it ride. Maybe they’d get something out of the two men. “What about the doorman?” he asked. “From what Bob and I could see, he appeared to be signaling—waving a handkerchief about and blowing his nose.”