Brought in Dead

CHAPTER 9

The evening started slowly at the Berkley as it did at most gaming clubs, but from eight o’clock on, Miller and Brady waited, sitting in comfort in Chuck Lazer’s office, watching the activities in the main casino through a two-way mirror.

Lazer was at the piano as always, working his way through one standard after another, stopping occasionally to chat with a favoured customer. He looked cool and immaculate in a mohair evening suit and showed no sign of strain.

Gradually the numbers built up until most of the tables were surrounded by those who came only to watch and all seats were taken. It was just after nine-thirty when Brady gave a sudden exclamation and touched Miller’s sleeve.

“Coming through the door now. The three at the back.”

Miller nodded. “I’ve got them.”

“The man at the front is Manchester Charlie Ford, followed by Frank Butcher. I sent him down for G.B.H. once. Three years. The little bloke with hair like patent leather is Sid Tordoff — a right villain.”

“They aren’t local lads?”

“Are they hell — Manchester. They’ve been imported specially — probably via a middle man. You know how it goes. A pound to a penny they don’t even know who they’re working for.”

They waited and a few moments later he nodded again. “I thought so. Arthur Hart and Martin Dereham — he’s the good-looking one with the buttonhole and the moustache. Tries to come the public school touch, but the highest he ever got up the educational ladder was class four at Dock Street Elementary.”

“Okay,” Miller said, getting to his feet. “I’m going in. Better put a call through to H.Q. We’ll have the heavy brigade standing by just in case.”

It was a quiet, well-behaved crowd, mostly moneyed people, the kind who’d run for cover and never come back at the slightest hint of violence or trouble of any sort. Miller scanned the faces quickly, noting that the gang had dispersed themselves, which probably indicated outbursts of trouble in several different places at once.

And then he saw Manchester Charlie Ford on the other side of the roulette wheel. Ford was of medium height with powerful sloping shoulders, the scar tissue beneath his eyes indicating that he had once been a prize fighter. He was wearing a surprisingly well-cut suit and pushed his way through the crowd with an arrogance that was obviously beginning to alarm several people.

He paused behind a rather attractive woman. It was impossible to see what actually happened, but she turned sharply and her escort, a dark-haired young man, rounded on Ford. “What’s the game?”

So this was how it was to start? Miller slipped through the crowd, arriving from the rear, and secured a grip on Ford’s left wrist before he knew what had hit him.

“Get moving!” he said softly into Ford’s ear. “Try anything funny and I’ll break your arm.”

Before the young couple could say a word, Miller and Ford had been swallowed up by the crowd. They came to rest behind a pillar, Miller still retaining his grip. Ford’s right hand dived into his pocket. As it came out again, Jack Brady arrived on the scene and relieved him of a wicked-looking spiked knuckle-duster.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend Manchester Charlie Ford.”

Ford looked ready to commit murder and when Miller turned and glanced over the crowd, he saw the others making rapidly for the exit.

“Are they leaving you then, Charlie?” Brady said. “Isn’t that a shame?”

They hustled him into Lazer’s office between them and Miller shoved him down into a chair. “Who’s paying the piper on this little caper?”

“Why don’t you get knotted?” Ford said.

Brady dangled the knuckle-duster in front of him between thumb and forefinger. “Carrying an offensive weapon, Charlie, and with your record? Good for six months that.”

“I can do that standing on my head.” Ford turned as Lazer entered the room, a worried look on his face. “Are you Lazer?” He laughed harshly. “Had to bring in the bloody scuffers, eh? That’s your lot, boyo. I hope you realise that. You’re dead meat.”

“Why don’t you shut up?” Miller said and glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to go, Jack. I’ve got a date. Will you book him for me?”

“My pleasure.”

Brady yanked Ford to his feet and took him out through the side door and Miller turned to Lazer. “Don’t take any notice of that goon, Chuck. We’ve made a good start. They’ll think twice the next time.”

“Oh, sure — sure they will,” Lazer said, but his eyes were unhappy and Miller knew that he didn’t believe him for a moment.

The lounge bar of the Romney was only half full when Miller entered shortly after ten, but there was no sign of Harriet Craig. He sat on a stool at the end of the bar, ordered a brandy and ginger ale and lit a cigarette. When he glanced up, he could see her in the mirror standing in the doorway behind him.

She was wearing an evening coat in green grosgraine which hung open at the front to reveal a simple black cocktail dress and when she smiled on catching sight of him, she looked quite enchanting.

“Am I late?” she asked as she sat on the stool beside him.

“No, I was early. How about a drink?”

“Please. A dry martini.”

“How was the concert?”

“Fine — Mendelssohn’s Ruy Blas and a Mozart piano concerto. Do you like classical music?”

“Some — I’m a jazz man myself. How’s your father?”

“Fine — just fine.” She stared down into her glass and sighed. “Look, I’m afraid I’ve rather got you here under false pretences.”

“You mean you don’t want to chat after all?”

She nodded. “As a matter of fact I was hoping you might take me out.”

“Now there’s an attractive idea,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”

“I’d like to go to the Flamingo.”

“May I ask why?”

“Those murals Joanna painted for Vernon — I’d like to see them. The only other way would be to ask his permission and I’d hate that.” She opened her bag and took out a gold-edged card. “I’ve got a membership card — one of Daddy’s business friends arranged it for me and members are allowed to take guests in with them.”

Miller sat there looking down at the card for a long moment, a slight frown on his face and she put a hand on his arm. “Please, Nick? I’d feel safe with you.”

“You make a very appealing liar,” Miller said, “but I’ll still take you. In fact I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m sure it will prove more than interesting.”

The Flamingo had altered a lot since Miller’s last visit, but that had been in the old days when Harry Faulkner had owned it and it had been more a night club than anything else, with gambling relegated to a strictly illegal small back room. The Gaming Act had changed all that and now there was money to burn.

The small, thickly carpeted foyer had been decorated in excellent taste and the man who moved forward to check Harriet’s membership card was greying and distinguished and wore hunting pink. They went through a door at the end of a short passage and found themselves at the top of a flight of steps which dropped into the main casino.

“Oh, look, Nick! Look!” Harriet clutched at his arm.

The murals were astonishingly good. There were four of them in enormous panels, two on either side of the long room. They were all battle scenes, the Foot Guards figuring largely in each one, and had been executed in a rather stylistic seventeenth-century manner and yet had a life and originality that was all their own.

Miller shook his head slowly. “I just didn’t realise she was that good.”

“She could have been a great painter, Nick,” Harriet said. “Something special.” She took a deep breath and smiled as though determined to be cheerful. “Well, as long as we’re here we might as well have a look round.”

There were the usual games — Chemmy, Roulette, Blackjack and, in a small side room, Poker was on offer. But it was the clientele which Miller found most interesting. There was little doubt that Vernon was catering for the top people with a vengeance. The kind of money being wagered would have been sufficient to indicate that, but in any case, Miller recognised faces here and there. Wool barons, industrialists, the managing director of one of the world’s largest ready-made clothing factories. There were at least four millionaires present to his personal knowledge.

The whole place had the atmosphere of a West-End club, only a low buzz of conversation disturbed the silence and grave-faced waiters in hunting pink moved from table to table dispensing free drinks.

Manchester Charlie Ford and his boys would never have got past the door, but if they had, they would have closed the place down by just one visit. With the kind of clientele it catered for, a club like the Flamingo depended on its reputation. Take that away from it and it was finished.

They stood by the roulette wheel watching the play and she turned suddenly. “I’d like to have a go. What do I do?”

“Decide how much you can afford to lose, that’s lesson number one.”

She opened her handbag and produced two five-pound notes. “Will this be all right?”

He grinned. “It won’t go far in a place like this, but never mind. Who knows? You may even break the bank. Wait here, I’ll get you some chips.”

Max Vernon sat at his desk, magnificent in a midnight blue dinner jacket, a white gardenia in his buttonhole. For supper, the chef had presented him with a mixed grill done to perfection and a glass of champagne was at his elbow.

The man who stood on the other side of the desk, an open ledger in his hand, was Claudio Carelli, the casino manager, and he looked worried.

“But it isn’t good, Mr. Vernon. We put a lot of money into this place. The new décor and refurnishing came to twenty-two thousand and then there are the running expenses. At the moment, we’re virtually living from day to day.”

“You worry too much, Claudio,” Vernon said. “It takes time to build up a prestige club like this. But they’re coming now — all the right people. Another three months and we’ll be in the clear.”

“I certainly hope so.”

As Carelli opened the door to leave, Stratton came in, his face pale with excitement. “Miller’s downstairs in the casino.”

“How did he get in?”

“He’s with the Craig girl. Ben saw them come in. He checked with Bruno on the door. She’s a member all right, everything square and above board. She brought Miller in as her guest.”

“Who put her up?”

“Bruno says it was Sir Frank Wooley. Shall we get rid of them?”

“You bloody fool.” Vernon reached across the desk and grabbed him by the tie. “How many times have I got to tell you? No trouble in the club. What do you want to do — bankrupt me?” He shoved Stratton away from him and poured another glass of champagne. “Keep an eye on them. I’ll be down myself in ten minutes.”

Harriet had a small, but exciting run of luck at Roulette that took her up to seventy pounds.

“I think I’d better try something else while I’m ahead,” she said. “What are they playing over there?”

“One of the oldest games of chance in the world,” Miller told her. “You simply throw the dice and pray that the right number comes up.”

“Any skill required?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then that’s the game for me.”

The table was a popular one and not only were all the seats taken, but a fair-sized crowd stood around watching. Harriet had to wait for five minutes before her chance came. The first time she threw, she didn’t cast the dice far enough and the croupier handed them back to her with a whispered instruction. There were one or two good-humoured remarks and then she made two straight passes and doubled her money.

There were encouraging smiles from the crowd and she laughed excitedly. “These dice can’t possibly have any more luck in them. Can I have a new pair?”

“Certainly, madame.”

The croupier passed them across and removed the others. Harriet rattled the dice in one hand and threw a pair of ones. “Snakes’ eyes,” said a military-looking gentleman with a curving moustache who was standing next to her. “Bad luck.”

She tried again with no better luck and the third throw cleaned her out. “How strange,” she said with a little laugh. “I just keep getting a pair of ones, don’t I?”

“The luck of the game, my dear,” the military-looking man said.

She picked up the dice and rolled them gently no more than a foot or so. “Look, there they are again. It just isn’t my night.”

The croupier’s rake reached out, but the military man beat him to it, a frown on his face. “Not so fast there.”

“I hope monsieur is not suggesting that there could be anything wrong with the dice?”

“We’ll see, shall we?”

He rattled the dice together and threw them the length of the table. Snakes’ eyes. The croupier’s rake moved out, but the military man beat him to it again. “Oh, no you don’t, my friend. These dice are loaded.” There was a sudden hubbub amongst the crowd and he turned to an elderly, white-haired man at his side. “See for yourself.”

The elderly man tossed the dice across the table and the result was plain for all to see. Voices were raised suddenly, people got up from other tables and came across as the news spread like wildfire.

Harriet Craig moved through the crowd to Miller’s side. “They are getting excited, aren’t they?”

Before he could reply, Vernon appeared on the scene, pushing his way through the crowd, his face angry. “What’s going on here?”

“I was just going to ask you the same question, Vernon,” the white-haired man said. “To start with you’ll oblige me by throwing these dice.”

Vernon stood there, holding them in his hand, a bewildered frown on his face and then he threw. There was a roar from the crowd and the white-haired man gathered them up quickly.

“That settles it. Somebody better get the police.” He turned and addressed the crowd. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve dropped four hundred pounds here during the past couple of weeks and I’m not leaving till I get it back.”

“Ladies and gentlemen — please.” Vernon raised his arms in an attempt to placate them, but it was no use.

The voices rose angrily on either side and Miller pushed his way forward and tapped the white-haired man on the shoulder. “I think I’d better have those, sir.”

“And who the devil might you be?”

“Detective Sergeant Miller, Central C.I.D.” Miller produced his warrant and the dice were passed over without a murmur.

Miller looked across at Vernon. “Are these your dice, sir?”

“Of course not.”

“I notice that in accordance with a specific regulation of the Gaming Act, they carry this club’s registered mark as placed there by the makers. What you are saying is that you have a full set without this pair? That these are forgeries?”

“But that’s rubbish,” the white-haired man put in. “What on earth would be the point of a player substituting for the real dice a pair that would make him lose every time he threw.”

Vernon’s shoulders sagged and his knuckles gleamed whitely as he gripped the edge of the table. He glared across at Miller, who returned his stare calmly.

“Right — I think that’s it for tonight, Mr. Vernon.”

“What in hell do you mean?” Vernon demanded furiously.

“I mean that I’m closing you up.”

“Yes, closing you up for good, you damned crook,” the white-haired man said, leaning across the table.

For a moment, Vernon gazed wildly about him and then he turned, pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared upstairs.

It was just after eleven when Miller went down the Town Hall steps to the Cooper. The radio was playing faintly and when he opened the door, Harriet Craig sat in the passenger seat, humming softly to herself.

“All finished?” she said brightly.

Her handbag was at her feet and he picked it up without answering and searched it quickly.

“What on earth are you looking for?”

“The other pair of dice — the ones you palmed. Where are they?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Miller tossed the handbag into her lap, switched on the engine and drove away. “I don’t like being used.”

“Not even in a good cause?”

“For God’s sake, Harriet, don’t you realise what you’ve done? You’ve finished the Flamingo. An exclusive gaming house lives on its reputation. All it takes is one tiny scandal — just one and the clientele disappear like the snow in the springtime.”

“Poor Mr. Vernon. What rotten luck.”

“If you imagine for one moment he’s going to take it lying down, you’ve got another thought coming.”

“We’ll see, shall we?” She settled back in her seat, arms folded and sighed. “Those murals were wonderful — really wonderful. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be willing to sell them now.”

“You’ll come in for a drink?” she said when they reached the house.

“Are you sure it isn’t too late?”

“Of course not. We’ll have something to eat if you like. I’m starving.”

She unlocked the front door and led the way into the hall and Miller was at once aware of the low persistent hum of a dynamo. “Daddy must still be working,” she said. “Come on. I’ll take you through to the workshop. You two can chat while I make some supper.”

When she opened the door at the end of the corridor Miller paused in astonishment. The room had been expertly equipped and fitted, of that there could be no doubt. The walls were lined with shelves which seemed to carry just about every kind of spare imaginable in the electrical field. There was an automatic lathe, a cutter and several other machines whose purpose was a complete mystery to him.

Duncan Craig leaned over a bench, spot-welding a length of steel rod to what looked like the insides of a computer. He glanced up as the door opened, killed the flame on the blow torch and pushed up his goggles.

“Hello there,” he said. “And what have you two been up to?”

“Nick took me to the Flamingo,” Harriet said. “Quite an experience, but I’ll tell you all about it later. Keep him occupied while I get the supper.”

The door closed behind her and Craig offered Miller a cigarette. “She seems to have enjoyed herself.”

“How could she fail to? Seeing Max Vernon fall flat on his face must have quite made her day.”

Craig’s expression didn’t alter. “Oh, yes, what happened then?”

“Apparently the casino was using crooked dice. There was quite a fuss when it was discovered.”

“My God, I bet there was.” Craig contrived to look shocked. “This won’t do Vernon much good, will it?”

“He might as well close up shop. There’ll be a prosecution of course, but even if it doesn’t get anywhere, the damage is done.”

“How did he react?”

“Oh, he said he’d been framed. That the loaded dice must have been passed by one of the players.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Craig said. “I could imagine a player trying to substitute dice that would win for him, but not a pair that would lose. Anyway, a club’s dice have to be specially manufactured and accounted for. It’s a regulation of the Gaming Act expressly aimed at stamping out this sort of thing.”

Miller moved along the bench and picked up a small stick of lead. “Easy enough for a man with some technical know-how to inject a little lead into a pair of plastic dice.”

“But what would be the point of the exercise?”

“I think that’s been achieved, don’t you?”

“Well, I’m hardly likely to shed tears over Max Vernon, am I?”

“I suppose not.”

Miller wandered round the bench and paused beside a curious contrivance — a long, chromium tube mounted on a tripod. It had a pistol grip at one end and what appeared to be a pair of small headphones clipped to a hook.

“What’s this — a secret weapon?”

Craig chuckled. “Hardly — it’s a directional microphone.”

Miller was immediately interested. “I’ve heard of those. How do they work?”

“It’s a simple electronic principle. The tube is lined with carbon to exclude side noises, traffic for instance. You aim it by ear through the headphones. It can pick up a conversation three hundred yards away.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course these are even handier.” He picked up a small metal disk that was perhaps half an inch thick and little larger than a wrist watch. “Not only a microphone but also a radio transmitter. Works well up to a range of a hundred yards or so if you use a fountain pen receiver. Wire that up to a pocket tape recorder and you’re in business.”

“What as?” Miller asked.

“That depends on the individual, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re aware that all these gadgets are illegal?”

“Not for the Managing Director of Gulf Electronics.”

Miller shook his head. “You’re a fool, colonel. Carry on like this and you’ll be in trouble up to your neck.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Craig smiled blandly. “By the way, harking back to what you said earlier about doctoring the dice. One would have to get hold of them first.”

“Easy enough to get into a place like the Flamingo, especially in the small hours just after they’ve closed.”

“I should have thought that might have presented some difficulty.”

“Not for the kind of man who broke into a Vichy prison in 1942 and spirited away four resistance workers who were due to be executed next morning.”

Craig laughed. “Now you’re flattering me.”

“Warning you,” Miller said grimly. “It’s got to stop. Carry on like this and you’ll go too far and no one will be able to help you — just remember that.”

“Oh, I will,” Craig said, his smile still hooked firmly into place.

“Good.” Miller opened the door. “Tell Harriet I’m sorry, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

The door closed behind him. Craig’s smile disappeared instantly. He stood there staring into space for a while, then pulled down his goggles, re-lit the blow torch and started to work again.

Max Vernon walked to the fireplace and back to his desk again, restless as a caged tiger, and Carver and Stratton watched him anxiously.

“This is serious,” he said. “Don’t you stupid bastards realise that? One single scandal — that’s all you need in a prestige club like this and you’re finished. My God, did you see their faces? They’ll never come back.”

“Maybe things aren’t as bad as you think, Mr. Vernon,” Carver ventured and Vernon turned on him.

“You bloody fool, we’ve been living from day to day, waiting for things to build up. I’ve been using the take from the Flamingo to keep the betting shops running. Now what happens?”

He sat down behind his desk and poured himself a brandy. “Who’s done this to me — who?”

“Maybe it was Chuck Lazer,” Stratton suggested.

“Do me a favour?” Vernon drained his glass. “I know one thing. Whoever it is will wish he’d never been born before I’m through with him.”

He slammed his fist down hard on the desk and something dropped to the floor and rolled across the carpet. Vernon leaned over and frowned. “What was that?”

Stratton picked up the small steel disk and passed it over. “Search me, Mr. Vernon. It fell off the desk when you hit it. Must have been underneath.”

Vernon stared down incredulously and then grabbed a paper knife and forced off the top. “I’ve seen one of these before,” he said. “It’s an electronic gadget — a microphone and transmitter.” His face was suddenly distorted with fury and he dropped the disk on the floor and ground his heel into it. “We’ve been wired for sound. Some bastard’s been listening in.”

He reached for the brandy bottle and paused, eyes narrowing. “Just a minute — Craig’s Managing Director of an electronics firm, isn’t he?”

Stratton nodded eagerly. “That’s right and his daughter was here tonight remember.”

“So she was,” Vernon said softly. “Plus that nosy copper, Miller. Come to think of it, that’s twice he’s stuck his nose into my business in one night. That won’t do — that won’t do at all.”

“Do you want Ben and me to handle it?” Stratton said.

Vernon shook his head and poured himself another glass of brandy. “Not on your life. Contract it out, Billy. A couple of real pros should be enough. One of the south London mobs might be interested. Just make sure they don’t know who they’re working for, that’s all.”

“How much can I offer?” Stratton asked.

“Five hundred.”

“For Craig?” Stratton’s eyes widened. “That’s a good price, Mr. Vernon.”

“For both of them, you fool. Miller and Craig.” Vernon raised his glass of brandy in an ironic salute. “Down the hatch,” he said and smiled grimly.