The Scarlet Thread (48 page)

“Steven Lawrence.” She said the name aloud. It didn't sound very Italian. But then Eugène had said he certainly had Latin blood. He was very tall and very dark; he could have been French from the south, or Monégasque, by the look of him. Nobody knew much about him, except that he had an English wife and a son.

He'd employed Ralph Maxton when he was destitute and unable to get another job. He seemed very rich, judging by the way he'd restored the old Palais Poliakoff.

Eugène had been able to find out so much because his sister's niece worked at the casino as a waitress. Pauline knew the web of relationships that stretched throughout the families along that coastline. His description could be made to tally. Or it could prove false and misleading. Steven Falconi the gangster was dead. The newspapers said so. His widow had just remarried when the massacre began. Minutes after the ceremony, the report had said. On the church steps.

There was no Falconi working at the Poliakoff; Eugène was positive. Maxton worked for Steven Lawrence. But she had heard them, Maxton and his French woman, in the bar, sniggering together: “your boss, Mr. Falconi … Gangsters don't exactly grow on one.…”

She finished the champagne and touched her face with her fingertips. “I'm going,” she said aloud. She often talked to herself. “I'm going and I shall know if it's the same one. Then I can ask him the question. I'll show him this, and then I'll say, ‘Tell me, was this done because of you?'”

She dressed for dinner as usual; she put on her fine rings and a ruby necklace.

When the floor waiter arrived with the trolley, she was sitting on the sofa, a heavy black veil over her head. “Come in,” she called out to him. “Come in. Set it up over there, please. Don't you think this suits me?”

He went out, followed by her low, self-mocking laughter.

May 28 was chosen for the gala; it had been widely publicized, and to Steven's gratification, there was a scramble for invitations. Maxton had carefully leaked a rumor about the Shah and his empress, and nobody discouraged it. When the time came, they'd have to make do with Princess Ashraff. She was glamorous enough.

They'd been open for business since April, and the casino was well attended, with some serious gamblers visiting regularly. There was an air of excitement among the staff as the gala evening drew near. Steven worked as long and as hard as anyone, supervising the smallest detail, poring over the menus, working out the firework displays and the timing. Flowers were Angela's province, and he told her to be as lavish as possible.

“This is going to make us or break us,” he insisted. “We can't afford to do this every year, so we've got to make a big splash that will be remembered.”

Ralph Maxton called the staff together. The croupiers and dealers gathered in the
salon privé
for a final briefing. Everything was ready; the roulette wheels were polished, the green baize tables brushed to perfection.

Maxton said, “Gentlemen, tomorrow's the big night. We've got to make it a bigger success than our opening. I don't have to remind you that all our jobs depend upon it. You've had the list of names; you know who should get star treatment, and one or two that shouldn't.”

A few people laughed.

The dealers knew who tried to pay with bad checks. They would find it very difficult to get into the play.

Someone called out, “What about the Save the Soul rule? Do we still apply that?”

Maxton shrugged. “Those are the orders. The boss says no one's to be allowed to play beyond his limit.” He made a joke of it. “The only thing we want hanging from the trees around here are fairy lights!”

They didn't understand this philanthropy. Suckers were suckers; the more compulsive the gambler, the better for the casino and the profits they all shared. But when Mr. Lawrence made a rule, nobody broke it and kept his job. The staff dispersed, and Maxton went to his office to take a breather. He needed one. They'd all been working overtime for days.

Angela would be coming to the gala. He still dined at the villa once a week, and she went out of her way to be friendly with him. She was trying to make up for Steven's reserve. It was even harder for Ralph not to respond. But that way lay dismissal. He knew Steven Falconi. He'd stopped thinking of him as Lawrence since that morning at Val d'Isère. He called him by the name that denoted what the man really was: a hood, a fraud.

Maxton couldn't chance being fired. He had to keep his feelings tied up tight. He tried not to look at Angela too often, not to talk more to her than to Steven or anyone else who happened to join them. If he lost his job, he'd lose his opportunity. And that would come. He knew it.

“Remember our first gala, when we opened?” Steven asked. “This has something more—no rough edges this time!”

“There weren't any then,” Angela said. “You're a perfectionist, that's the trouble. It looks marvelous, and you're right, darling—there's a very special atmosphere tonight. It'll be a huge success.”

“It had better be,” he muttered. “I've spent a fortune on the fireworks alone. Did I tell you how beautiful you look?”

“You said the same thing last time,” she reminded him.

“You chose the dress to match the necklace,” he noted. “Blue always looks good on you. Wait a minute, sweetheart. I just want to check something.”

Angela could see her reflection in the big gilt-framed mirror that hung in the casino's entrance hall. He'd given her a sapphire-and-diamond necklace after Anna's birth. It glittered as she turned. Too expensive, too generous, especially since he admitted he had stretched his resources for the gala. She had stopped him from giving her jewelry, because she felt uncomfortable wearing it. This time he hadn't listened. He wanted to deck her out in a visible sign of his gratitude and love. She would sooner have had a single string of pearls. She had kept her slim figure, and the dark-blue dress fitted snugly. She looked very good in it. In spite of her dislike of ostentation, the gleam and flash of the jewels around her neck was exciting. It was going to be a very special evening. A huge success.

Then she saw him hurrying toward her, and they were side by side, waiting to greet the first guests as they arrived. Photographers began snapping, flashlights popped. He wasn't hiding anymore. Steven Falconi was truly dead and gone. Steven Lawrence was in his place, alive and free of danger.

It was nearly midnight when the Iranian princess arrived. By that time the reception was long over. They came to the entrance and onto the steps to meet her. Steven conducted her upstairs for a private supper party before the fireworks began. After that, she could play a little baccarat if she wished. And she did wish. Twenty minutes after the multicolored stars and rockets began to blaze into the sky, the pièce de résistance—the Iranian royal coat of arms—rose and exploded in a million colored lights, then finally sputtered and died. The princess hurried to the
salon privé
with her escorts. When she was settled at the table, with cigarettes in case she wished to smoke, and a waiter ready with champagne in case she wished to drink, Steven was able to go up to his office with Angela and watch the TV screens. And Maxton decided he could slip away and join the friendly American O'Halloran for a drink at the bar.

“How does this compare with Monte Carlo?”

Maxton didn't see why he should be tactful. “It doesn't. It's well done, very spectacular, but it's all a bit new. The old Queen invented the gala night; here we're looking for gimmicks.”

“Who's the Queen? I thought Grace Kelly was a princess,” Mike said.

“Oh, how confusing for you—that's the name we all call the casino. The Queen. The Queen of the Coast. You'd better go up and see for yourself.”

“How come you're advertising the opposition?” Mike finished his Scotch. “Let me buy you another, Mr. Maxton. Waiter?”

Maxton accepted. He was adept at not drinking drinks if he didn't want them. The trick was not to annoy a client by refusing. “I'm only suggesting you take a look,” he said. “I've got a soft spot for the place. I worked there for ten years.”

“Were you a manager there too?” Mike asked. He sounded interested. So many of the people Maxton entertained talked only about themselves. He mustn't keep him talking too long. He should lead him to the tables, suggest a modest flutter. What the hell … Mike O'Halloran wasn't a rich fish to hook. He'd got the invitation through the Carlton Hotel at Cannes. He'd booked in there especially to come to the new casino.

“I managed the PR,” Maxton said. “The celebrities who got drunk, welshed on their bets, felt up ladies at the baccarat table. I told the press the right thing about the wrong people, and I made sure nobody made any trouble. It was a fascinating job. Didn't do much for one's opinion of the human race, though.”

“I guess not,” O'Halloran agreed. “So why did you leave? Or was that why?”

“I'm afraid not.” Maxton had his own brand of charm, and the self-deprecating smile was part of it. “Nobody leaves a well-paid job in a paradise like Monaco just because he doesn't like people. I was offered something better here. Let's say I needed a challenge.”

“Starting up here from scratch must have taken a hell of a lot of nerve. But your boss looks like he's got plenty. Quite impressive when you meet him. I only shook hands and got passed on, but all the same …” He left it open for Maxton.

“He's got plenty of nerve. He knows exactly what he wants, and he goes out to get it. It helps to work for someone like that. You always know where you stand. You deliver the goods, or you're out on your ear. Now, why don't I stop boring you, Mr. O'Halloran. Let me take you over and see whether you can get back some of your ticket money. Do you play roulette?”

“I've always wanted to; my game is craps back home.”

“Then let me introduce you. It's very simple. You put your money down, and we win it back!” Maxton brayed with laughter. He ushered Mike over to the roulette tables and presented him with a thousand francs of chips. “On the house, Mr. O'Halloran. Once you've lost that little lot, then you have to start writing checks.”

O'Halloran grinned. “Is this casino policy?”

“Not in this casino. Others, yes. In fishing terms it's called baiting the hook, but we don't do that here. These chips have absolutely no strings attached to them. I shan't encourage you to go on playing if you lose. That was only my little joke. We run a very straight ship. I am getting nautical, aren't I? It must be your whiskey.”

“Must be,” Mike agreed, though he had noticed that Maxton avoided drinking too much of it.

“There's a high moral tone you won't find in many casinos on the coast. Or anywhere else. Which has its funny side. Now, if you're a real beginner, why don't we start with a simple bet on
rouge et noir
and see how we get on?”

Angela had kicked off her shoes. It had been a very long evening, and very few people had gone home. The rooms were full of gamblers and onlookers. Steven was watching the Iranian princess playing at the top baccarat table. He was concentrating, absorbed. Angela closed her eyes for a moment. It had been a triumph, surpassing their first effort. Crowned by the attendance of one of the biggest and richest gamblers in the world. Even Steven had to give Maxton credit for that particular coup.… She had drifted to sleep, because she woke suddenly when there was a knock on the door. Steven switched off the screen.

“Come in.”

“Pardon, Monsieur Lawrence. There's a lady asking to see you.” It was Louis, one of the assistant managers. He saw Steven frown and said quickly, “I couldn't see Monsieur Ralph anywhere, and I was afraid she'd make a fuss. She's insisting. She's come up here with me; I couldn't stop her.” He lowered his voice.

Steven said, “Did she give a name? What does she want?”

“I don't know. She just said she wanted to speak to you in private. Monsieur, she's wearing a veil so you can't see her face.… I don't know how to get rid of her.” He glanced behind him at the closed door. “She's been sitting in the bar all night. Alone.”

Steven made up his mind. All casinos had their share of eccentrics. If she was veiled, as Louis said, she might be connected with Princess Ashraff's visit. Gambling was forbidden to Muslims. The last thing he wanted was someone making a scene about that.

“Take her to Monsieur Ralph's office,” he said. “I'll see her there. Tell Gérard to send up a woman from the cloakroom and one of his men from the door. Just in case she causes trouble. They can wait outside.”

“What is it?” Angela asked him.

“Just some nut, I expect. Don't worry. I won't be long.” He opened the door to Maxton's office. A woman was sitting in one of the armchairs, a veil covering her face completely. A handsome diamond comb kept it in place.

“Good evening, madame,” he said. “You wanted to see me?” She didn't speak; she sat there and stared at him from behind the floating tulle. He came toward her. “Madame. What can I do for you?”

It was a husky voice. “Hello, Monsieur Falconi. It's been a very long time.”

Falconi. Steven said slowly, “Who are you?”

She got up; she was not very tall.

“What do you want?” he said. There was something, something familiar about that voice. Something from the past he had hoped to bury.

“I knew it was you,” she said. “I saw you downstairs, and I was sure. I knew you, even though we spent only one night together.”

He said, “Take that thing off! I don't play games.”

“If you wish,” she said. “But I don't think you'll recognize me.” Slowly she lifted the tulle and looked up at him. He couldn't stop the shocked intake of breath. “It isn't very pretty,” she remarked. “I was a rather good-looking woman before it happened. I'm Pauline Duvalier. We slept together at the Hôtel de Paris. You were on your honeymoon. Do you remember?”