Day of Reckoning

'So what do we do, Signore?' Falcone asked. 'Move them out?'

'Don't be stupid,' Fox said. 'This is one of the most prestigious gambling clubs in London. Scandal is the last thing we want. You expect me to expel a brigadier general and his friends? No, we wait and see what they're up to.'

The dice table was a popular one, every inch taken up by the crowd standing around. Ferguson said to Hannah, 'Would you like to have a go, Superintendent?'

'No, sir. I don't know craps. It's not one of my vices.'

'Well, it's one of mine,' Blake said. 'Let's do it.'

He had to wait ten minutes for his chance, then took the offered dice and started. Strangely enough, he did quite well for the first three throws, actually won money. Then he palmed the dice and tossed two of Roper's.

'Snake eyes.'

There was a groan from the crowd.

The dealer passed the dice to Dillon, who palmed them for the real article, and made two successful throws. Then, just when he had everything riding on the toss — 'snake eyes!' 'Hey,' he said ruefully, 'bad luck I understand, but this is diabolical.'

Ferguson moved in. 'Let me try, old boy. Mind you, these dice do seem to have lost their edge.' He turned to the croupier. 'Let me have a new pair.'

The croupier complied. Ferguson rolled and immediately came up with snake eyes. He turned to a military-looking man with a stiff moustache next to him. 'How strange.' He laughed. 'We all keep getting the same thing.'

'Yes,' the military-looking man said slowly. The croupier's rake reached out, but the military-looking man said, 'Not so fast,' and grabbed the dice.

The croupier said, 'I hope monsieur isn't suggesting there could be something wrong?'

'Let's see.'

The man rolled the dice and threw them the length of the table: again, snake eyes. The croupier's rake reached out and the military gentleman beat him to it.

'Oh, no, you don't. That's snake eyes too many times. These dice are loaded.' There was a sudden murmur from the crowd and he turned to an ageing gentleman. 'See for yourself. Pair of ones guaranteed.'

The man threw and the result was clear. The outrage in the

crowd was plain to see, and Mori hurried down the steps. 'Ladies and gentlemen, please. A misunderstanding.' Are you the manager?' Ferguson demanded.

'Yes,' Mori replied.

'Then oblige us by throwing those dice.'

Mori hesitated. People in the crowd shouted, 'Get on with it.'

Mori threw. The dice rolled. Snake eyes.

The crowd roared in anger. The military-looking man said, 'That settles it. Loaded dice, and I've lost a bundle here in the last few weeks. We need the police.'

'Ladies and gentlemen, please,' Mori called.

Fox, Falcone and Russo stayed well to the rear.

Hannah Bernstein moved forward and said to Mori, 'The dice, sir, I'll have them.'

'And who the devil are you?' He was so upset he asked her in Italian.

Hannah replied with fluency in the same language. 'Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch.' She looked at the dice she picked up. 'I notice that, in accordance with the Gaming Act, these carry the club's registered mark. Do you agree?'

'Well, yes,' Mori said lamely, then added, 'Someone must have substituted false ones.'

The military-looking man said, 'Don't be stupid. What on earth would be the point of a player substituting for the real dice a pair that would make him lose?'

There was a roar from the crowd, Mori sagged across the table, and Hannah said, 'In accordance with the statutory provisions of the Gaming Act, sir, I must issue an order closing you down until such time as Westminster Magistrate's Court can consider the matter. I believe you also own twelve betting shops in the City of London. Is that so?'

'Yes,' Mori told her.

'I'm afraid they must close, also. Any infringement of this order means a fine of one hundred thousand pounds with further penalties thereafter.'

'Of course.' Mori raised his voice shakily. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid we must close by order of the police. Please leave now. Don't forget your things.'

The crowd faded, and at the rear were Ferguson, Bernstein, Dillon, Blake, and Roper in his wheelchair. At the door, Dillon turned and waved to Fox.

'Hey, there you are, old buddy. Have a good night!'

They went out. Fox turned to Falcone. 'I want to know where they go. There must be a couple of young punks available. Not Rossi or Comeci.'

Russo said, 'There's Borsalino and Salvatore in the kitchen.' 'Get them now. I know who most of them are, but not the one in the wheelchair. Then follow him to hell.'

They took Roper from his wheelchair, eased him into the Daimler, and then followed him, after folding his wheelchair.

'Now what?' Blake asked.

'We wait for Fox to react,' Dillon said.

'Shall we eat?' Ferguson asked.

'Not me, Brigadier,' Roper told him. 'I want to check out the computer again. Take me home, then you lot go and enjoy yourselves.'

But already following the Daimler was a very ordinary Ford car driven by a young man named Paolo Borsalino, with his friend, Alex Salvatore, sitting beside him. In Sicilian terms, they were Piccioti, youngsters gaining respect, doing the odd killing, climbing up the ladder. Borsalino had acted as executioner three times, and Salvatore twice, and they were eager to do more.

The Daimler stopped in Regency Square, and Dillon got out, set up Roper's wheelchair and helped him into it. They all got out and Dillon took Roper's key and opened his door.

Ferguson said, 'We'll speak tomorrow. Excellent job, Captain.'

'We aim to please, Brigadier.'

Dillon pushed Roper up the ramp into the hall. 'You're a hell of a fella, Roper.'

'Well, considering your background, I take that as a compliment.'

Dillon closed the door and went back to the others. 'Now what?'

'Fredo's — it's round the corner from Cavendish Square. A nice Italian restaurant,' Ferguson said. 'We can have a look at what's next.'

The Daimler drove away, and Borsalino and Salvatore, parked at the end of the square, watched them go. Salvatore said, 'Now what?'

'You watch the car,' Borsalino said. 'I'll be back.'

He walked to the other side of the square and found a corner shop, the kind that stayed open until midnight. The man behind the counter was Indian. Borsalino asked for two packs of Marlboros.

'You know, I saw this guy earlier getting out of a taxi in the square in a wheelchair. I thought I knew him, but I'm not sure.'

'That would be Mr Roper,' the Indian said. 'He was a captain in the Royal Engineers. Blown up in Ireland.'

'Oh, well, I've got it wrong. Thanks, anyway.'

Borsalino returned to the Ford, called Fox on the mobile, and relayed the information, also telling him where they were.

Fox said, 'Stay there. I'll be back.'

At that point, he was still in Mori's office at the casino. He picked up the telephone and called Maud Jackson in New York. It was late afternoon there and she was enjoying a pot of tea and cookies.

Fox said, 'Maud, I'm having serious problems here in London with Ferguson and company. There's a wild card, a British Royal Engineers captain in a wheelchair, blown up in Ireland, name of Roper. I'd like to know who he is right away.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm going back to the Dorchester. We had problems at the Colosseum.'

'Sounds like a bad night. Give me an hour.'

At the Dorchester, in the Oliver Messel Suite, Fox drank Krug champagne and looked across the wonderful London view by night from the terrace. Russo was down in the suite he and Falcone were sharing, but Falcone was standing by, as usual.