The blond whispered in the man’s ear again. She nodded and smiled, pointing at the roulette wheel. The man shrugged. More whispering in the ear. From the mouth and lips some variation on “fuck” and “luck.” Making plans, that was clear. He seemed dubious about something. Probably not the offered sex, though. The man stepped away from the craps table. She led him by the hand over to the roulette wheel. He began betting there. The blond got back in the saddle again, one hand tousling his hair, his hand caressing and petting her cheek at each win. The bets went up. She blew on all the chips now. He was winning big. The manic grin grew. She wiggled forward, squeezing her silken upper thighs around his leg and hip, tightly grasping them, her frothy petticoats suggestively pushing way up his side.
The pile of chips rapidly mounted in front of him. Hawkins glanced down again at Ventnor and Chet. Both men had a worried expression on their faces. What about Ludwig? His hand tensely fidgeted with a chip in his fingers, nervously flipping it over and over.
The short man slipped his arm around the blond’s waist. A little hug. He swung around and laid her back in a small tango step and bent forward, waving at Chet and Ventnor. He picked up the tray, held it out and offered it to them. He’d won himself clear. They had a stricken expression for a split second. So did Ludwig. Ventnor then laughed, made a gesture, told him he could hold them. The girl kept cooing encouragements in the man’s ear. He laughed and immediately began slapping down new bets on the red and the black, then odds and evens, really big bets. Hit several more times in a row. Ventnor, Chet and Ludwig all appeared to be holding their breath.
Then the winning hits began getting farther and farther apart. The short man’s manic mood started melting. The more his high slipped, the more he began to lose. Improbably, his bets jumped again. A few spins later, he was back in the hole to Chet, Ventnor and Ludwig. All three visibly breathed a sigh of relief. Chet ordered fresh drinks. Ludwig deliberately put his chip back on his little pile. The short man jumped to three hundred bucks a spin. Only now the blond wasn’t getting any tips for her huffing and puffing. Her hand discreetly slid from his coat. She started slipping away.
-69-
“No!” the man almost cried. He turned to her with a desperate, pleading expression, so easy to read. Change my luck, masked goddess of destiny! Lady Luck don’t go away! He began throwing chips on her tray even on his losing throws. Radiant smile from her, beaming at him again, puffing on his chips, cheerfully whipping him on more than ever. She began whispering in his ear again. You could guess the words from her lips: you can do it, you can do it. As if he were the little engine that could. Oh yes, Hawkins thought, the extra effort, or the exercise of will, or the display of manly élan, or whatever the hell was going through this fool’s mind—or pants—will definitely influence the rolling physics of a little chrome ball and a spinning wheel.
After several more spins the tips stopped. Sweating profusely, hair smeared to his forehead, the dice and chips went down in a frenzy. Sad. Trying to buy himself out. The great pile evaporated, gone.
And what about our trio? Another check. Instead of being upset that their gift had been squandered, Ventnor, Chet and Ludwig acted intrigued. They began making little indecipherable finger gestures toward each other.
A loud snapping of fingers cracked down in front. The man who’d been behind the door at the entrance was standing on the edge of the raised lounge. He held one hand up sideways and then passed the palm of his other hand over it. The girl whispered something in the gambler’s ear. The man asked the boss for credit. He shook his head. No credit. The girl slipped away.
Seized by the suggestion, the man darted over to Chet and Ventnor. Obviously, he wanted more money. Chet and Ventnor glanced down the hall at Ludwig. He nodded.
Ventnor patted the man on the shoulder, leaned into Chet’s ear and said something. Chet went over and spoke to the croupier. He checked with the casino boss standing on the edge of the lounge. The boss shrugged and made a small gesture with his hand. The croupier hurried to the cashier’s cage. The teller came out with papers on a little clipboard. The man hastily signed the credit agreement, in triplicate, without reading it.
At the window the teller gave the man a surprisingly small number of chips. They, too, were gone within moments.
Ventnor came back over and took the short man by the elbow, commiserating with him, patting him on the shoulder. The man had an ashen, clammy pallor. Ventnor was very possessive, happily smiling at Chet and Ludwig behind the man’s back. After a few minutes of talking, the man nodded his head. He handed Ventnor the casino’s credit contract. Ventnor handed it to Chet. He took the paper over to the cashier and signed for it. Ventnor smiled at the man, gesturing at Chet.
Don’t need a script to hear that little comedy, Hawkins thought. Oh, yes. Everything is fine. A pleasure to do business with you. Of course, you don’t have to worry. Welcome to my pocket. Or whatever one says to broke stupid plungers. The man stumbled out.
And let’s go for the daily double again, get two license plates, Hawkins thought. Seconds later he was back on the drawbridge. Dieter was on the steps by the kitchen with another bottle of beer. Probably waiting for that waitress to come back. No fool there.
The man came out and unsteadily stumbled down the driveway. He stopped, moaning loudly, holding his head. Then he headed down the road to his Studebaker. Hawkins followed through the trees. The man viciously kicked the bumper several times, got in, slammed the door and drove away. Probably thinks he doesn’t own it anymore, Hawkins thought. Or his house, if he has one. Not going to cover that pile.
Hawkins was back in the casino less than a minute later. Ventnor and Chet had already joined Ludwig at his table. They were highly amused, congratulating themselves over whatever they thought they’d done. Hawkins took out the Minox and snapped the rest of the roll. While he was winding the film the blond cocktail waitress came up to the casino boss. The boss laughed, gestured her over to the side and reached in his pocket for a roll of cash. He discreetly peeled off several C-notes. Of course, Hawkins thought. A commission. Good job, girl. Rolled the bastard properly. What the hell, take a picture of them, too. Time to head for the bar or the lobby. Must be a phone booth there somewhere.
-70-
It only took a minute for the office operator to get W on the line. “48700 here—should pass on several things immediately—and I’ve got something to tell you—”
“Can it wait?”
“Yes—”
“Chet Branch? Be careful, his family owns a bank with connections to several Nazi front companies. And those films of Ludwig’s papers. There are things in there we can’t figure out. We telephotoed all that back home, had specialists working all last night. We’re not sure what it means, but the two left columns turned into lists of names. They cracked that right away. People from all over the country. Several known organized-crime figures. A least two big-city political bosses. Mostly, though, we can’t trace them. They think the middle column is a list of numbers. They’re still working on the other columns.”
“Orator?”
“Right, as far as we can tell this is all part of Orator.”
“You said gangsters? They don’t have access to secrets. Could they be involved in a plot to assassinate President Roosevelt? Branch and Ventnor were making rather damn strange talk tonight—”
“No. Well, maybe there is a plot, but probably not from this list, that’s too many people for an assassination. They’d keep a thing like that very simple, only a few trusted people. And the Mob’s too smart to attack the president, or any other top politico. They’d be afraid of the attention it’d bring.”
“What about Steel Seine?”
“Same thing. Far too many people involved for there to be a connection. There’s most likely one person leaking—probably selling—naval secrets. Whatever Orator is, it’s a much more ambitious project. What were you saying, now?”
“I’ve been following Ventnor, Chet Branch, Lu
dwig all night. There’s a—I don’t know how’d you describe it—a sub rosa nightclub up here with an illegal gambling operation. Only nothing shady, posh as posh gets. Must have the biggest gaming floor in the country. You should see it, it’s incredible. They passed tray loads of chips to two men here, thousands of dollars. Obviously a payoff. Ludwig sat across the room signaling his approval.”
“A casino?”
“Yes. Puts Monte Carlo to shame. Black tie only. Full of millionaires. The whole thing’s sheer genius. The casino dead-ends anything—”
“Oh! God! That’s brilliant. The perfect cutout.”
“Exactly. They can say they got lucky. Well, one of them did, briefly.”
“Don’t follow.”
“Ludwig, Chet Branch, Ventnor, they may have blundered. One of the men took his money and pissed it away at the tables. Chet put up more money so he could gamble some more. The fool lost that. Chet then signed for his credit slip. What’s more, when the other man cashed in his chips he refused to take it in cash, he demanded a check. I’m pretty sure they missed that. I got the plate numbers on the two men’s cars—”
“Brilliant. Just brilliant. Give them to my secretary in a moment. A casino! How did they ever think of that.”
“I got a couple of rolls of pictures with my Minox. Wait until you see them. The light was not great but they should be readable. I’m still tailing them. Send me copies of those lists of names. I may need them.”
“I’ll call Fleming and send him up. Are they doing anything with the sniper rifle?”
“No. They were bragging about getting rid of Roosevelt, though.”
There was a long pause.
“Again, assume nothing.”
W transferred him. Hawkins gave the secretary the plate numbers, tossed the receiver down, rushed through the bar, whipped open the casino door and walked onto the drawbridge. He paused in the cool darkness for a moment. What the hell is going on here? Big lists of people. Chet’s family’s bank. Wait. Something by Ludwig’s car.
-71-
There it is again—tail on a deer? A dark form moving. No, a glimpse of skin. One of the cocktail waitresses. She was bent over at the waist, leaning through the driver’s side window into Ludwig’s car. Her tray and a silver champagne bucket sat on the pavement, still chilling. What in hell is she doing? She must’ve climbed down off this bloody catwalk and gone to have a peek. Or is she out here … doing … something … with someone?
There was a clunk. She found the handle, opening the car. A dim light shined from inside. It was the blond. She began searching around the car door, pulling and twisting all the handles, rolling the window up and down, feeling on the end, pressing one spot after another, pulling on the liner, probing. She quietly shut it, then tiptoed around to the other side and reached in to unlatch it, bending way over again.
A shadow burst from the trees, grabbed her by the leg and yanked her out of the window, hard, dropping her a good three feet flat on her face. It’s Dieter, Hawkins thought, he must’ve been watching. Dieter made a swift motion to his back pocket. Something bright glinted in the moonlight. He grabbed her wrist, snapping a handcuff around it, then the other. With an easy heave he picked her up like a log and hurled her through the window into the front seat.
Hawkins peered out across the yard at the casino entrance. Empty. Now what? He felt annoyed and disgusted. Well, fuck all, here we go again. Am I supposed to ride to the rescue? Stick my neck out because some silly bitch of a cocktail waitress gets herself in a pickle? No. I am through saving stupid people from themselves.
Then a quick second thought. Wait, there is a point—an opportunity. It’d make a decent impression on Washington to take Kelly straight to the scene of a crime. Or … take it to W. We could threaten Dieter with arrest. Saving him from the Bureau, the local cops, might be the way to turn him.
Hawkins took a flying leap off the drawbridge into the trees. He began quickly walking along the parked cars, watching. Oblivious, Dieter ducked around the car. The sterling champagne bucket flashed in the dark. With a single swift movement Dieter plucked the bottle from the bucket, leapt behind the driver’s seat and roared out of the driveway.
Hawkins sprinted for the Cord. Once moving, instincts, reflexes took over: on the chase. The top was down. One step on the rear bumper, one on the tonneau cover. He half fell, half dove for the top of the windscreen, caught it with one hand and swung down into the seat with a crash, his back barely twinging. Hit the ignition. The big Lycoming whirled to life. He backed the car in a hard circle, spraying gravel into the dolphin fountain. The Cord leapt down the road. Two men bounded out the main entrance, pointing down the road after Dieter.
Round the corner onto the highway Hawkins shifted into third and stamped down the supercharger pedal. The port on the blower opened with a low roar. Tires squealed from the surge of extra power.
No lights glimmered down the road. But no intersections, either, he thought. Still have to be ahead. The speedometer inching toward a hundred. At night the narrow tree-lined road flew by like a spinning tunnel.
Finally, a pair of ruby red cat’s eyes gleamed down the road ahead. Felt like an eternity. Only been a mere minute or two, though. Can’t let him know I’m here, Hawkins thought. He switched off the lights, flipped the crank. The headlights retracted back into the streamlined fenders, the black car nearly invisible in the dark, not even a reflection.
He didn’t drive the car as much as aim it at the little red lamps. The cat’s eyes grew larger, widening until he had to slam on the brakes.
A door must have been ajar in the Mercedes. The ceiling light was on. A flash of blond hair came up. Dieter waved her back, head darting back and forth, one eye on the road. Another flash of blond, now flying forward. Dieter violently tugged his hand back and forth, the blond hair flying with it. She’d lunged and sunk her teeth into his hand. Dieter yanked it free. He slapped her, then grabbed her by the face and pushed her back. The girl slid over to the far side.
A glimpse of something dark. Dieter jerked his head to the side. Another glimpse of something dark. A foot. Dieter turned, waving his hand protectively. She was trying to kick him in the head. It wasn’t working. Dieter kept slapping the foot away. There was a pause. The car suddenly slowed. Dieter hunched over the shift lever. She must have kicked it out of gear, Hawkins thought. Another slowing. There she is, got her back jammed against the door. Knee going up and down. A big grinding of gears. She’s pushing on the shift lever. Dieter took a swing. Then he pushed it back in gear. Another kick, another lurch, then slowing, more grinding, a wailing cat noise. They were having a tug of war over it, he pulling, she pushing on the gearshift with her foot. The big car straightened itself, then began lurching again, rapidly slowing down: sixty … fifty … now thirty miles an hour. She wasn’t visible now. But the girl had to be putting up a hell of a fight. The car violently careened from one lane to the other as they struggled, the cats screaming when the gears fought. Then Dieter caught her ankle, holding it up—Hawkins could see the outline of a high-heeled shoe. Dieter reached with the other hand and pushed the car back in gear.
Supercharger silent, Hawkins hovered only a car length or two behind them, the white center line barely visible in the Mercedes’ taillights. Every few seconds came the intermittent screech of stripping and grinding gears. Each growling catfight of sound marked another lurching bobble, another near stop, another speed-up. Occasionally a flash of tulle petticoat popped up in the rear window.
The twinned cars flew around a bend. Ahead loomed a cast-iron bridge over an inlet of a lake. Its iron members spread like a black spiderweb in the sky, waiting to catch its prey. The Mercedes roared toward it, swaying from side to side. It darted toward the massive steel abutments. Hawkins braked and held his breath. At this speed nobody in the Mercedes would survive. Precisely at the second Hawkins slammed on the Cord’s brakes to avoid a pileup Dieter jerked the wheel aside. The Mercedes flew into the opposite lane. Another quick
yank brought it lurching across and off the right side of the bridge. Hawkins heaved with relief and crept closer.
After a few miles the Mercedes leveled off at a ludicrous crawl. Dieter finally, slowly drove down a narrow country lane bordered on each side by high fieldstone fences. Hawkins let the ruby cat’s eyes recede a bit. Then he followed them. About a quarter of a mile in, Dieter pulled up to an old abandoned farmhouse with a spavined roof caving in.
-72-
Hawkins killed the Cord’s motor and silently rolled in a few dozen yards behind them. He quietly slipped out, kicked off his shoes and sprinted up to the edge of a stone fence, crouching down, listening.
Dieter let go of the girl’s ankle. He ducked. A lethal high heel sliced by his head again. He ran around the car, yanked open her door, grabbed one arm and pulled her out, twisting and struggling, angrily shouting and shaking her. “How you find out?” Then he reached in and grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck, waving it at her like a club. “How?”
At that Hawkins carefully peered over the top of the stones. Find out what? That they were Nazi spies? No, they’d never talk about that there. But—she was obviously searching the car for something.
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