But where to hide?
I ran across the glass floor out on to the terrace. I could see a row of lighted windows to my right. Unless my geography had gone awry, these would be the windows of the club’s offices. I saw there was a wide ledge running below the windows. I looked up. The roof sloped gently away into the darkness. I could just make out a small flat roof at the top. It seemed to me if I could get up there, I would be out of trouble for a while, and when the club got busy, I had a chance of exploring without attracting attention.
I heard one of the thugs groan softly, and I knew I hadn’t much time. I stepped up on to the balustrade of the terrace, reached up for the narrow coping running along the edge of the roof, got a grip, then pulled myself upwards.
I have a pretty good head for heights, but while I was dangling in mid-air, I did think of the long, long drop far below.
I got my leg up on the roof, heaved upwards and slid my body on to it. For a long moment I remained there, clutching on to the tiles and wondering if I made one more move if I’d start a slide I wouldn’t be able to stop.
I made the move, got up on hands and knees, and then, very cautiously, I stood up. My crepe-sole shoes afforded a good grip. Bending low, I walked up the tiles to the flat roof and sat down.
There was no skylight. If anyone came after me, he would have to come the way I had, and with a gun in my hand, that made my position for the time being impregnable.
I had a magnificent view over the whole of St. Raphael City and I sat admiring it.
Around eight o’clock I heard the club suddenly come to life. Far below big Cadillacs, Packards and Rolls-Royces pulled up outside the hotel entrance. A very slick dance band started up: lights came on on the terrace. I judged it safe to light a cigarette. I decided to wait an hour and then see what I could see.
By nine o’clock the rush was on. Above the precision slickness of the band, I could hear a great buzz of voices and laughter. Now was the time and I stood up.
Going down the sloping roof was a lot more dangerous than going up: one slip and I would shoot over the edge and down on the sidewalk some three hundred feet below. I moved an inch at a time, squatting on my haunches, digging my heels into the tiles and checking myself with my hands. I reached the edge, got a grip on the coping, got my legs over the edge, twisted off and swung into space.
Away to my right I could see the brilliantly lit terrace with its tables, its elegantly dressed men and women and the regiment of waiters milling around them. I was just in the shadows, and unless anyone came right to the end of the terrace, I couldn’t be seen.
My feet touched the wide ledge that ran below the windows of the offices. I let myself drop: a dangerous move, and as I landed I nearly lost my balance and toppled backwards. But by dropping my head forward I just managed to correct my balance, then I hooked my fingers into the coping and held on while I got my breath back.
The rest was pretty plain sailing. All I had to do was to walk along the ledge and look in the windows as I passed.
The first two rooms I came to were empty. They were furnished as offices with desks, typewriters and filing cabinets: everything on the de luxe scale. The third window was much larger. I paused beside it and looked in.
Cordez sat in a high-backed chair before a big glass-topped desk. He was smoking a brown cigarette in a long holder and was checking figures in a ledger.
The room was big and done over in grey and egg-shell blue. All the desk fitments were of polished steel. Three big filing cabinets, also of steel, stood along the wall. Near where Cordez was sitting was a big safe.
I kept just out of the stream of light that came through the open window, bending forward so I could peer into the room.
Cordez worked quickly. His gold pencil travelled up the rows of figures, casting them with the practised ease of an accountant.
I remained watching him for perhaps ten minutes, and then, just when I was beginning to think I was wasting my time, I heard a knock on the door.
Cordez looked up, called, “Come in,” and then went back to his casting again.
The door opened, and a fat, white-faced man in a well-fitting tuxedo entered. He had a red carnation in his button-hole and diamonds glittered at his shirt-cuffs. He closed the door as if it were made of something very brittle and stood still, waiting, his eyes on Cordez.
When Cordez had finished casting a column, he noted down the total, then looked up.
His expression was coldly hostile.
“Now look, Donaghue,” he said, “if you haven’t any money, get out. I’ve had about all I’m going to take from you.”
The man fingered his perfectly set tie. Sullen hatred showed in his eyes.
“I’ve got the money,” he said, “and don’t give me any of your damned impertinence.” He hauled out a roll of bills from his hip pocket and threw them on the desk. “Here’s a thousand. I’ll have two this time.”
Cordez picked up the roll, straightened it and counted the bills. Then he opened a drawer in his desk and dropped the roll into it. He got to his feet and walked over to the safe. Standing squarely in front of it so his body hid the combination from Donaghue and myself, he twirled the dial and pulled the door open. He reached inside, took something out, closed the safe door and came back to the desk.
He flicked two match folders across the glass top of the desk so they came to rest before Donaghue.
Donaghue snatched them up, opened them and examined them carefully, then slid them into his vest pocket. He went out without a word, and Cordez returned to his desk. He sat for a long moment staring at the opposite wall, then he picked up his gold pencil and began casting again.
I remained where I was, watching.
During the period of forty minutes, two other people came in: a fat, elderly woman and a young fellow who looked as if he were still at college. They each parted with five hundred dollars for a match folder. Each time Cordez treated them as if he were doing them a favour.
By now it was ten minutes to ten, and I remembered my appointment with Margot Creedy.
I leaned forward and looked down. Ten feet below and to my left I could see a balcony to one of the hotel bedrooms. No lights showed from the window. I decided that would be my safest and easiest way out.
Crouching, I slid past Cordez’s window and arrived immediately above the balcony. Then I sat on the ledge, turned, caught hold of the coping, let myself hang, then dropped.
The french doors were easy enough to force, and a few minutes later I was in the bedroom. I groped my way to the door, opened it and looked cautiously out into a wide, deserted corridor.
Then I set off down the corridor in search of the elevator.
It was as easy as that.
Chapter IX
I
At five minutes after ten o’clock, I saw Margot Creedy come through the hotel’s revolving doors and pause under the brightly lit canopy.
She was wearing an emerald green dress made of sequins, with a plunging neckline, that fitted her like a second skin.
Around her throat was a string of big, fat emeralds. She glittered as she stood there, and she was pretty breathtaking.
I was acutely aware of the Buick’s shabbiness as I edged it up to the hotel entrance. I pulled up, slid across the bench seat and got out.
“Hello there,” I said. “I want to be personal and tell you look wonderful. That’s just for the record. My real opinion is a little too intimate for expression.”
She gave me her small smile. Her eyes were very alive and sparkling.
“I put this on specially for you,” she said. “I’m glad you like it.”