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.”
