She started to rise. He waved her back into place with a hand as agile as the flipper of a seal. “My dear Mrs. Bessinger,” his voice was sepulchral, “I did not come here to gamble. I came here to drink—”
“But, Mr. Rice—”
“You are one of the few women who have not stripped all the niceties from life. I appreciate your delicacy in refusing to join me without your husband—nevertheless, I shall order wine!”
He clapped his hands loudly in front of Mrs. Bessinger’s face. “Bring wine, boy” he ordered, so realistically that she could hardly credit her senses when she turned and found no waiter behind her.
From beyond the swinging doors came the sound of protesting voices, a few bursts of loud laughter, and a moment later a rending crash. It proved too much for Mrs. Bessinger. Followed by Stan she jumped to her feet and rushed into the roulette room.
The scene was too much to take in at a single glance. Chips were scattered about the floor in every direction. Five frightened women were huddled together on one side of the table watching a group of men on the other side with distended eyes.
In the middle of the group, a croupier in evening clothes was jumping up and down like a maniac, swearing loudly in fluent French. With the handle of his rake he was pointing, and poking, at something on the floor, concealed from the swinging doors by the intervening table.
Teetering slightly, Stan walked gravely around the table, Mrs. Bessinger close on his heels. Holding a fat wallet in one hand, Millie was seated astride the apoplectic form of Durlyn Bessingcr, who kept making vain snatches at the wallet held just out of his reach.
“Durlyn ol’Durlyn,” yelled Millie, brandishing the wallet at Stan. “Hesh goin’ to buy winel Chateau Why-queems!”
The short man with the automatic smile appeared at Stan’s side. “What’s the trouble here?”
“That woman has stolen my husband’s walletl” Mrs. Bessinger pointed a trembling finger.
“Thash a lie—a dirty lie—” Millie began to weep real tears.
“She didn’t steal anything,” said a girl in the crowd. “She’s a bit tight and having a little fun—that’s all.”
“You better let me handle this,” Stan proclaimed with great dignity.
“Go ahead and handle it,” said the manager. “But make it snappy! I’ll appreciate it if you’ll take Miss LaFrance home.”
“Quit crying, Millie,” Stan said tenderly, “and get off of Mr. Bessinger’s stomach. You can give him his wallet, too. I’ll buy you some wine.” He helped the weeping Millie to her feet, and handed the wallet to the disgruntled Durlyn. With a deep bow to the assemblage, he left the room with Millie holding his arm. Five minutes later they were in the Buick with Patterson driving them toward town.
“Tough luck, Millie.” Stan shook his head. “I thought you might get a chance to see what he was carrying. I’m afraid they’re on guard now.”
Millie was heating the electric lighter on the dash. She applied it to the top of a cigarette, watching Stan over the glow. “My God!” She took a deep inhale. “Why do you think I knocked all his chips off the table? You didn’t expect me to take his pants off, did you? I had twenty seconds to go through the wallet—that’s a lot of time.”
“For nothing?”
“If you call a sight of a bunch of thousand dollar bills nothing. I’ll bet he’s carrying around fifty grand—if he has a nickel.” Her cigarette glowed bright. “Fifty grand, Stan Rice, and one playing card—the eleven of diamonds!”
Before they passed the Deauville Casino, Miles Standish Rice was sound asleep with his head on Millie’s shoulder. “Shall I take him home, Miss?” Patterson asked.
“Home?” Millie repeated, disgusted and sleepy. “Who the hell ever heard of a man going home after a night like this? Take him to my apartment!”
But it was Captain LeRoy’s bodyguard, Patterson and Hogue, who finally put them both to bed.
Chapter XXII
Stan’s sensitive nostrils brought him back to consciousness. The odor of good coffee and sizzling bacon acted on him more effectively than any alarm clock, and the smell permeating his tired body was unmistakable. Tentatively he opened one eye not very wide, and with some effort allowed it to travel over the rear view of disturbing feminine curves visible through a doorway. They were draped in a black negligee, but Stan knew feminine curves when he saw them.
The eye snapped shut, producing a violent pain in his head. He reached out one hand, blindly groping, and discovered that someone had built an upholstered wall on one side of his bed. It was too much. He emitted a frightful groan and sat up, realized he was on the divan in Millie’s apartment, and collapsed. At least it was a pleasant place to die.
“Drink this.” Millie was standing over him with a large glass of tomato juice, delightfully chilled. He sat up again, propagating an entirely new crop of aches, and thirstily gulped the contents of the glass. It reduced the layers of crêpe de Chine lining his mouth, but he doubted if life would ever be worth living.
“One of your women phoned you,” Millie told him, as she took the glass. “The name is Doris. She was very sweet, and insisted you call her. She says you know the number.”
“Oh Lord!” He dolefully touched the plaster the doctor had left on his head. “I’ll never hear the end of this. How did she find out I was here?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Millie, from the kitchen. “Unless one of two detectives who spent the night here with us could have phoned her to tell her you were drunk and
