De Gier led the way to the couch. They sat down together.
The baron called a waiter over. "Champagne?"
"Thank you." De Gier took the glass. "No, not mated. Opposed. I think you and I should fight. That's what I saw." He grinned. "A duel to the death."
"But, my dear fellow…" The baron stared.
"Didn't you see that?" de Gier asked. "Drawn swords, and we're both riding horses, yours black, mine white, superb stallions. The fog on the field in the early morning. Gold braid on our chests, a single bright-colored feather in our bearskin hats? Going full out at each other. Swishing steel? One of us goes down."
"No…"
"Oh yes," de Gier said. "Any way you like it, of course. Choose your weapons. Til win anyway. I absolutely have to. I'm the white knight." He suddenly sat up. "Ouch." He felt his chest. "Handicapped, of course. The good always attacks from a weak position, but there should be a happy ending."
"You're on coke too?" the baron asked. "Shouldn't mix it with alcohol too much. What's the happy ending?"
De Gier smiled. "Your corpse."
A waiter came over. "Sir? Mr. Ryder wants to know if the Society can match his bet."
The baron nodded. "Be right with you." He turned to de Gier. "I still don't have your name."
"You'll know it tomorrow." De Gier stood up too.
The baron strode off. He even walks like me, de Gier thought, turning away from the satin woman, who, still unattached, roamed the room behind an all-embracing smile. Karate and Ketchup, dressed in inconspicuous gray suits, played poker. De Gier stumbled and grabbed Karate's shoulder. "Excuse me."
Karate dropped his cards. "I'll pass." He frowned at de Gier. "Get away from me. You drunk?"
"What's the matter?" Ketchup asked Karate. "You couldn't get the ace up your sleeve?"
"Sir?" Karate asked.
"I said," Ketchup said in a loud voice, "that maybe you don't have an ace up your cuff this time."
"Are you," Karate asked ominously, "accusing me of foul play?"
"Are you," de Gier asked Karate, "accusing me of intoxication?"
Two waiters hovered nearby. De Gier walked on.
"Watch those guys," he whispered to a waiter. "Sharpies, you know? Mouthy sharpies?"
The waiter, a small square man with a squint, fluttered an eyelid.
De Gier found Grijpstra in the next room, showing a piece of lobster to another waiter. He poked a finger at his plate, held close under the waiter's nose. "Feces. See? That green stuff inside the shell? That's, eh…" Grijpstra dropped his voice. "… shit. Lobster droppings. Yagh. Wah."
De Gier wandered on.
Celine stood in the hall. "Where were you? Ryder's going to put up everything he has. The manager is getting more money from the safe."
"Good," de Gier said. "Did you show Cardozo what to do?"
"Yes."
"I could love you," de Gier said.
The commissaris was talking to the roulette croupier. "Now, my man, I've been watching you. You keep tipping that wheel. Shouldn't, you know." The commissaris wagged a finger. "No." He called a waiter. "You there, bring my hat and stick, I'm leaving. I won't make any complaints, of course. In low-class joints like this, foul play can be expected. Thank you." The commissaris pounded his stick on the floor. "Disgusting."
Two tall men, barechested under their leather jackets, with rattling chains on their naked chests, were watching the roulette table, grinning inanely.
The manager came in, escorted by the baron. The manager carried an armful of cash. He put it on the table. "Ronnie," the baron said, "we're ready for you. You sure you want to do this?"
"This is my night," Ryder said, raising his hands. The room had filled up. "Are all of you with me?"
"Yes!" the crowd shouted.
De Gier walked up to Ryder and placed a finger on the big man's nose. "You."
Waiters came closer. There was a clamor elsewhere in the building. The waiters looked over their shoulders. Some shouting penetrated the room.
"You," de Gier said to Ryder. "You, sir, with your loud mouth, you've been irritating me."
The waiters surged forward. The first one, a heavy-set man with no neck, fell over the commissaris's stick. "I'm leaving," the commissaris shrieked. "Foul play."
The lights went out.
A flashlight came on. Four hands, extended from leather sleeves, swept money into linen bags. De Gier hit Ryder on the side of his chin. Ryder fell against a waiter. The shouting in the poker room increased. Cardozo's necktie made a small show of clashing color as the beam of the flashlight touched it. "Where is my waiter?" Cardozo mumbled. "On the floor," the commissaris mumbled. "Pick another."
"Green feces!" Grijpstra shouted. "Yaahg!" A body fell and a tray clanged on the floor. There was another crash in the hall, and a scream.
The lights came on again. "After them," the baron yelled, picking up waiters. De Gier, supporting the commissaris's elbow, reached the hall. The stone angel lay on the floor, without its head. Karate was showing the head to Ketchup. The revolving glass doors still turned. The doorman lay next to the angel's body.
"A doctor!" Grijpstra shouted. "This man is hurt!"
"Phone the police!" Cardozo screamed. "Where's the phone? Can I use the phone?"
"I'm leaving!" the commissaris shouted. Waiters were running toward the revolving doors. De Gier stopped the doors, with two waiters stuck inside.
"Let go of that door!" the manager yelled. De Gier stepped back. The waiters, pushing furiously inside, tumbled out, one into the street, one back into the hallway.
"What's the number?" Cardozo shouted, holding up the phone. "I've forgotten the number."
The baron wrung the telephone from Cardozo's hands and smashed it down.
"You don't want to phone the police?" Cardozo asked. "This is a robbery. Those fellows got away with the loot. I saw them. Black jackets. Chains. Didn't you see them?"
Karate tried to give the angel's head to the manager. The manager shook his head. "As you like," Karate said, "I'm only trying to be helpful." He dropped the head. The manager danced away.
"Clumsy," Ketchup said. "Look what you did. You got him on the toe."
"Sir?" Grijpstra asked the dancing manager. "Your kitchen is serving lobster feces. Do you know that? Yagh."
"After you," de Gier said to the commissaris.
The black doorman staggered away, holding his stomach.
There was a bellow from the roulette room. Ryder came into the hallway, rubbing his chin. "Where's my money?"
"Lost it, old boy," the baron said. "We lost ours too."
"Oh no," Ryder squeaked. "You're responsible for this place. You pay me back, double, I might have won."
"We'll discuss it, old boy."
"And where's the guy who hit me?" Ryder asked.
Guests were leaving the club. Cardozo left with them. "Where's the bathroom?" Grijpstra asked a waiter. "I've got lobster crap all over my hands."
"Miss?" Ketchup asked the satin woman. "Can I have some time with you now?"
Karate stood in front of a group of hostesses, pointing at them in turn. "Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…"
"We're closing," the baron shouted. "Sorry, everybody out, please. We'll be closed for the rest of the week, due to refurbishing. 'Bye now. Thank you."
"But we haven't been upstairs yet," Karate protested. "Please? We were gambling all night." He tugged the baron's arm. "We won. Can we copulate some of our winnings away?"
"Out," the baron said.
Guests were shooed to the door. The waiters who had pursued the robbers came back, shaking their heads.
Grijpstra reappeared in the empty hallway, drying his hands with his handkerchief. "Where's the chief cook? I have a complaint."
"Goodbye," the baron said.
Two uniformed policemen came in. "Any trouble?"
"No trouble," the baron said. "Thank you. Closing early tonight."