Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

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.

It was dark in the office except for the pool of light falling across the drawing board from the anglepoise lamp. Duncan Craig put down his slide-rule and stretched with a sigh. It was almost eight o’clock and for the past two hours he had worked on alone after the rest of his staff had left.

There were footsteps in the corridor and as he turned, the door opened and the night guard entered, a black and tan Alsatian on a lead at his side. He put a thermos flask on the desk and grinned.

“Just checking, colonel. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”