Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

Miller went back into the outer office and sat down at his desk. Jack Brady came across, a sympathetic grin on his face, and leaned against the wall as he filled his pipe.

“You did ask for it, you know.”

Miller sighed and ran his hands over his face. “I’m right, Jack — I know I am.”

“Perhaps you are, but I fail to see what you can do about it until something happens. Did you see that note I left for you?”

“This one?” Miller picked a sheet of paper from his In-tray.

“That’s right. It came in half an hour ago. You did say you wanted to know of anything concerning Chuck Lazer’s place, didn’t you?”

Miller read the report quickly and then picked up the telephone. “Get me the District Inspector for the R.S.P.C.A.” He looked up at Brady. “This could mean trouble.”

“That’s what I thought.”

A voice clicked in on the other end of the wire. “Forbes here.”

“Good morning, inspector. Detective Sergeant Miller, Central C.I.D. You’ve sent us a routine report on two poisoned dogs — Dalmatians. I wonder if you’d mind telling me what happened?”

“We got a call from a Mr. Lazer of the Berkley Club in Cork Square at nine o’clock this morning. He found his dogs dead in the alley at the side of the club. Arsenical poisoning, which was why I reported it.”

“Did he have any idea who was responsible?”

“He said very little. He was obviously quite distressed — and I don’t blame him. They were beautiful animals.”

Miller thanked him and replaced the receiver.

“What do you think,” Brady said, “a declaration of war?”

“I should imagine so.” Miller stood up and took down his trenchcoat from the stand. “We’d better go round and see if we can damp down this little affair before it bursts into flame.”

Chuck Lazer was sitting at the piano in the empty casino, a glass at his elbow. He gave a tired grin when Miller and Brady entered and kept right on playing.

“Bad news travels fast.”

“It certainly does,” Miller said. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

“My affair.”

“Not in my book.” Miller pulled a chair forward and sat astride it, arms resting on the back. “He’s going to squeeze you out, Chuck. This is only the first step.”

Lazer shrugged and moved into a pushing, intricate arrangement of Blue Moon . “I can look after myself.”

“What with — a gun?”

Lazer cracked suddenly and completely. “What in the hell do you expect me to do? Bow out gracefully and let him take over? I’ve put a lot of sweat into this place, Nick. I run an honest game for a nice class of people, which suits me and suits them. I’m damned if I’m going to let Max Vernon walk all over me.”

Miller got to his feet, walked across to one of the green baize tables and picked up a pair of dice. He rattled them in his hand and turned, a frown on his face.

“When do you think they’ll start, Jack?”

“Probably tonight if what happened to the dogs is anything to go by,” Brady said. “Half a dozen heavies mingling with the regular members, complaining about the service, starting a punch-up or two. The usual pattern. Before you know where you are this place will be as dead as the Empire music hall.”

Lazer’s face had gone grey and his shoulders sagged as he stopped playing. “Okay — you win. What do I do?”

“You do nothing,” Miller said. “Just leave everything to us. What time do you open?”

“Eight o’clock, but things don’t really get moving till nine-thirty or ten.”

Miller turned to Brady enquiringly. “Feel like a night on the town, Jack?”

“Suits me,” Brady grinned. “Naturally I’ll expect my chips to be on the house.”

Lazer managed a faint smile. “I might as well get ruined that way as the other.”

Miller clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Chuck, we’ll have the heavy brigade standing by. Anyone who starts anything tonight is in for the shock of their lives.”

On returning to Headquarters, Miller went in to see Grant to report on this latest development and then sat down at his desk and started to work his way through some of the paper that had accumulated in his In-tray. It was just before one and he was thinking about going down to the canteen for a sandwich when the ’phone rang.

It was a woman’s voice, cool, assured and faintly familiar. “Detective Sergeant Miller?”

“Speaking.”

“Harriet Craig here.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Craig?”

“I was wondering if we could have a chat.”

“I don’t see why not. Are you free this afternoon?”

“No, I’m afraid not, and this evening I’m going to the symphony concert at the George Hall with friends.” She hesitated as if slightly uncertain. “It finishes at ten. I could meet you then or would that be too late?”

“Not at all,” Miller said. “Shall I pick you up outside?”

“No, I’d rather not if you don’t mind. There’s a bar in Gascoigne Square — the Romney. Do you know it?”

“I certainly do.”

“I’ll meet you in the lounge at ten fifteen.”

Miller replaced the receiver and stared into space, thinking about Gascoigne Square by night and the lounge bar of the Romney, the neon lights of the Flamingo Club flashing across from the other side.

“And now what’s she up to?” he asked himself softly.

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.