You’re pretty good right now, Malone thought, but he didn’t say a word. He felt the Queen’s eye on him but didn’t turn around. After all, she was on his side — wasn’t she?
At any rate, she didn’t say anything.
“Perhaps it would be best,” Barbara said, “if you and I — Your Majesty — just went home and rested up. Some other time, then, when there’s nothing vital to do, we could—”
“No,” the Queen said. “We couldn’t. Really, Lady Barbara, how often will I have to remind you of the duties you owe your sovereign — not the least of which is obedience, as dear old Ben used to say.”
“Ben?” Malone said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Johnson, dear boy,” the Queen said. “Really a remarkable man — and such a good friend to poor Will. Why, did you ever hear the story of how he actually paid Will’s rent in London once upon a time? That was while Will and that Anne of his were having one of their arguments, of course. I didn’t tell you that story, did I?”
“No,” Malone said truthfully, but his voice was full of foreboding. “If I might remind Your Majesty of the subject,” he added tentatively, “I should like to say—”
“Remind me of the subject!” the Queen said, obviously delighted. “What a lovely pun! And how much better because purely unconscious! My, my, Sir Kenneth, I never suspected you of a pointed sense of humor — could you be a descendant of Sir Richard Greene, I wonder?”
“I doubt it,” Malone said. “My ancestors were all poor but Irish.” He paused. “Or, if you prefer, Irish, but poor.” Another pause, and then he added: “If that means anything at all. Which I doubt.”
“In any case,” the Queen said, her eyes twinkling, “you were about to enter a new objection to our little visit to the Palace, were you not?”
Malone admitted as much. “I really think that—”
Her eyes grew suddenly cold. “If I hear any more objections, Sir Kenneth, I shall not only rescind your knighthood and — when I regain my rightful kingdom — deny you your dukedom, but I shall refuse to cooperate any further in the business of Project Isle.”
Malone turned cold. His face, he knew without glancing in the mirror, was white and pale. He thought of what Burris would do to him if he didn’t follow through on his assigned job.
Even if he wasn’t as good as Burris thought he was, he really liked being an FBI agent. He didn’t want to be fired.
And Burris had said: “Give her anything she wants.”
He gulped and tried to make his face look normal. “All right,” he said. “Fine. We’ll go to the Palace.”
He tried to ignore the pall of apprehension that fell over the car.
Chapter 6
The management of the Golden Palace had been in business for many long, dreary, profitable years, and each member of the staff thought he or she had seen just about everything there was to be seen. And those that were new felt an obligation to look as if they’d seen everything.
Therefore, when the entourage of Queen Elizabeth I strolled into the main salon, not a single eye was batted. Not a single gasp was heard.
Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet eye on the crew. Drunks, rich men or Arabian millionaires were all familiar. But a group out of the Sixteenth Century was something else again.
Malone almost strutted, conscious of the sidelong glances the group was drawing. But it was obvious that Sir Thomas was the major attraction. Even if you could accept the idea of people in strange costumes, the sight of a living, breathing absolute duplicate of King Henry VIII was a little too much to take. It has been reported that two ladies named Jane, and one named Catherine, came down with sudden headaches and left the salon within five minutes of the group’s arrival.
Malone felt he knew, however, why he wasn’t drawing his full share of attention. He felt a little out of place. The costume was one thing, and, to tell the truth, he was beginning to enjoy it. Even with the weight of the stuff, it was going to be a wrench to go back to single-breasted suits and plain white shirts. But he did feel that he should have been carrying a sword.
Instead, he had a .44 Magnum Colt snuggled beneath his left armpit.
Somehow, a .44 Magnum Colt didn’t seem as romantic as a sword. Malone pictured himself saying: “Take that, varlet.” Was varlet what you called them, he wondered. Maybe it was valet.
“Take that, valet,” he muttered. No, that sounded even worse. Oh, well, he could look it up later.
The truth was that he had been born in the wrong century. He could imagine himself at the Mermaid Tavern, hob-nobbing with Shakespeare and all the rest of them. He wondered if Richard Greene would be there. Then he wondered who Richard Greene was.
Behind Sir Kenneth, Sir Thomas Boyd strode, looking majestic, as if he were about to fling purses of gold to the citizenry. As a matter of fact, Malone thought, he was. They all were.
Purses of good old United States of America gold.
Behind Sir Thomas came Queen Elizabeth and her Lady-in-Waiting, Lady Barbara Wilson. They made a beautuful foursome.
“The roulette table,” Her Majesty said with dignity. “Precede me.”
They pushed their way through the crowd. Most of the customers were either excited enough, drunk enough, or both to see nothing in the least incongruous about a Royal Family of the Tudors invading the Golden Palace. Very few of them, as a matter of fact, seemed to notice the group.
They were roulette players. They noticed nothing but the table and the wheel. Malone wondered what they were thinking about, decided to ask Queen Elizabeth, and then decided against it. He felt it would make him nervous to know.
Her Majesty took a handful of chips.
The handful was worth, Malone knew, exactly five thousand dollars. That, he’d thought, ought to last them an evening, even in the Golden Palace. In the center of the strip, inside the city limits of Las Vegas itself, the five thousand would have lasted much longer — but Her Majesty wanted the Palace, and the Palace it was.
Malone began to smile. Since he couldn’t avoid the evening, he was determined to enjoy it. It was sort of fun, in its way, indulging a sweet harmless old lady. And there was nothing they could do until the next morning, anyhow.
His indulgent smile faded very suddenly.
Her Majesty plunked the entire handful of chips — five thousand dollars! Malone thought dazedly — onto the table. “Five thousand,” she said in clear, cool measured tones, “on number one.”
The croupier blinked only slightly. He bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said.
Malone was briefly thankful, in the midst of his black horror, that he had called the management and told them that the Queen’s plays were backed by the United States Government. Her Majesty was going to get unlimited credit — and a good deal of awed and somewhat puzzled respect.
Malone watched the spin begin with mixed feelings. There was five thousand dollars riding on the little ball. But, after all, Her Majesty was a telepath. Did that mean anything?
He hadn’t decided by the time the wheel stopped, and by then he didn’t have to decide.
“Thirty-four,” the croupier said tonelessly. “Red, Even and High.”
He raked in the chips with a nonchalant air.
Malone felt as if he had swallowed his stomach. Boyd and Lady Barbara, standing nearby, had absolutely no expressions on their faces. Malone needed no telepath to tell him what they were thinking.
They were exactly the same as he was. They were incapable of thought.
But Her Majesty never batted an eyelash. “Come, Sir Kenneth,” she said. “Let’s go on to the poker tables.”