Well Now My Pretty

"Well, try again later." He smiled, nodded and dismissed her. This was a domestic problem he knew she could handle. As she left him, he turned once again to survey the lower terrace, then satisfied that everything was working with its normal clockwork efficiency, he made his way through the big gambling hall.

At this hour only fifty or sixty habitués were at the roulette tables: elderly, rich residents of Paradise City who remained rooted to the tables from midday to midnight.

He caught the eye of one of the croupiers who had been in his service for the past eleven years. The man, fat, sleek, with bulging eyes, gave him a dignified nod as he guided a stack of chips with his rake to an old woman who reached out her little fat fingers to welcome them.

Lewis walked into the restaurant and had a word with Maitre d'hôtel Giovanni whom he had stolen from the Savoy Hotel, London, at a considerable cost. There were a few early tourists, studying the enormous menus that a suave Captain of Waiters had presented to them. In another hour, the restaurant would be a maelstrom of hungry, noisy people.

"All well, Giovanni?" Lewis asked.

"Perfect, sir." The Maitre d'hôtel lifted a supercilious eyebrow. The very suggestion that it couldn't be well in his restaurant was an implied insult.

Lewis studied the menu that Giovanni handed him. He nodded.

"Looks excellent. Tomorrow is the night. Anything special?"

"We have grouse and salmon from Scotland. Baby lamb from Normandy. The plat de jour — for the tourists — will be coq au vin. Monsieur Oliver of Paris is sending us by air his new dish . . . lapin et lamproie."

Lewis looked suitably impressed.

"So we won't starve?"

The tall, thin Maitre d'hôtel flicked away an invisible speck of dust from his immaculate dinner jacket.

"No, sir. We won't starve."

Lewis moved through the restaurant, noticing that each table had a bowl of orchids cunningly lit from below. He thought Giovanni's table decoration excellent, but he wondered about the cost, for Harry Lewis was an extremely practical man.

Out on the terrace, amid the noise of the chatter and the soft music of the band, he paused until he caught the eye of the head barman. Fred, thickset, short, slightly ageing, moved towards his master, a happy grin on his fiery red face.

"Going to be a big night, sir," he said. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Not right now, Fred. Tomorrow is going to be the night."

"I guess. Well, we can take care of it."

Seeing flicking fingers across the terrace, Fred turned and hurried away.

Satisfied that his machine was working smoothly, Lewis returned to his office. He had still a number of letters to deal with before he had a simple meal served on his desk. He was unaware that Jess Chandler, sitting alone at a table away from the band, nursing a whisky and soda, watched him leave the terrace.

Chandler was uneasy. Maisky's plan seemed sound, but he was worried at the enormity of the task. Here, after spending an hour or so on the terrace, watching, seeing all these people, arrogant and so confident in their wealth, the steady movement of the guards, .45 revolvers at their hips, the feeling of solidarity that the Casino exuded, made Chandler realise that this was a millionaire's bastion that was protected alarmingly well, and that anyone planning a robbery was taking on more than a major opertion.

He had no misgivings about his own part in the operation. He was quite happy with the role that Maisky had given him. It was just the right job for him. He was completely confident that he could talk his, way into the vault. What really worried him was that Maisky had picked Jack Perry for the operation. Chandler knew all about Perry. This man wasn't human. In a squeeze, he wouldn't hesitate to kill, and violence to Chandler was something he had always avoided and feared. If Perry started a massacre — and he might well do — then they all in real trouble. He knew Mish was a clever technician. He knew nothing about Wash nor did he care, but Perry scared him.

Suddenly sick of the luxury surrounding him, he paid his check and walked into the gambling rooms. For a moment he paused to look around, noting the four uniformed guards who stood by the box elevators that conveyed the money up and down to the vaults. They all looked young, aggressive and alert. Grimacing, he walked across the ornate lobby where he collected his passport from the Check-in office. There was a big crowd coming in: every woman wore diamonds and had a mink stole — the uniform of the rich. Chandler was aware that some of them looked at him with interest, their bored eyes lighting up. Not in the mood, he ignored them.

As he walked down the flat, broad steps into the garden of the Casino, he saw Jack Perry, wearing a tuxedo, a cigar between his teeth, corning towards him. Chandler turned away from the approaching man and made his way down a narrow path that led to the beach.