I figured I’d have a drunken ride on the wobbling flat tire and wasn’t disappointed. As I neared the site where the other jeep had gone down in the swamp, I braked and loaded the Luger. There was activity at the spot, three or four figures standing at the edge of the road. I figured the men who had been in the car had escaped drowning, but I couldn’t see what they were doing.
One of them stepped into the middle of the road, waving me on. I almost shot him before I saw the loincloth and knew he and the others were not soldiers. I kept hold of the gun anyway, leveled, easing forward. I heard laughter, a grunting chant, then from the dark swamp the nose of the jeep surfaced like some dripping monster. They had a line on it, lifting it clear, throwing another line to pull it sideways onto the edge of the road. It was empty, no soldiers in it.
Noah’s little jungle helpers were taking the wheel off the axle, rolling it toward me. Here was my fresh tire with air in it. I climbed down and watched while two of them picked up the nose of my jeep, changed the wheels and set it down with wide grins that told me all was well again. Then they disappeared into the palm trees. If I had blinked, I’d have missed seeing it, the way they melted among the palms.
I rolled on fast, wondering what I’d find further on, where the big truck had blocked the road. Noah’s people were working there too, but the truck was too heavy for their vine ropes and wouldn’t budge. I got down, shoved through them, climbed behind the wheel and started the motor. I waved them out of the way and threw the truck into reverse, then jumped to the ground. It backed into the swamp, sinking out of sight except for the last foot of the long gun. The men were gone when I looked away from the bubbling gas.
I saw nobody else between there and the old resort hotel. In the kitchen a couple of men were gambling. The game was new to me. Each man had a polished bone shaped remarkably like a human finger. Taking turns they rolled their bones across the table. Whichever stopped closest to the center crack won the round, to judge by the excitement. Caco was the last to try his luck and when his joint landed in the crack itself he made a low, happy shout. The losers paid him double.
He and Lambie dropped out of the game to listen to me explain our next target. When I said I wanted them to take me inside the Sawyer hotel, they were notably unenthusiastic.
Lambie coughed apologetically. “It’s one thing to have trapped the lieutenant at the fort,” he said, “But fool the colonel? I don’t think so.”
I needed these two, needed them willing and confident for a delicate operation, not nervous and doubtful.
“Noah knows where we’re going,” I told them. “And he’ll help.”
That did it. If Noah thought it was all right, it was going to be all right. We went out to the jeep in high spirits.
The downtown streets were still empty, only about a half dozen people out. When they heard the jeep, they ducked inside like mice. There was no traffic and all the buildings were closed up, their windows blank — all except the lower floor of the Sawyer Grand LaClare hotel. I drove into the crescent drive with Caco’s rifle against the back of my neck and “Lieutenant” Lambie sitting beside him, a short gun in his lap. We stopped in the rectangle of light before the open front entrance. A sentry in the shadow beside the door watched us. Lambie got out and leveled his gun on me while Caco dropped out on his side, stepped away and ordered me to the ground with a jerk of his muzzle. With a soldier on either side, we marched forward. The sentry blocked our way.
“Sorry, sir. Colonel says nobody goes in tonight.”
Lambie drew himself up with military ferocity. “We go in or you’ll be stood against the wall. This prisoner is the Nick Carter Jerome will give a thousand dollars for. Stand aside.”
“Oh.” The sentry swung his rifle on me and licked his lips. “In that case I’ll take him in, sir.”
Lambie roared. “Oh, no, you won’t. I deliver him myself. Don’t think you can grab off that reward. Move.”
The sentry looked guilty and didn’t move fast enough. Caco stepped past me and lashed his gun barrel against the man’s ear, knocking him down. Caco’s finger snapped against his trigger. The shot went between my legs, too high for comfort. The action was getting a little too real. Lambie roared again.
“The colonel. Where is he?”
A very frightened sentry scuttled on his butt against the wall, stammering, “Yes, sir, in the casino, sir. Shall I show you, sir?”
“I believe we can find it ourselves.” Lambie’s voice was a dry threat. “Stay at your post.”
Caco prodded me past and into the lobby. Thomas Sawyer would go through the roof to see it now, a wreck. The big sofas were slashed, spilling stuffing and springs, newsstands were overturned, papers and magazines tom and trampled on the floor, trinkets and candies were looted. The glass fronts of the shops were broken in, racks and shelves emptied, walls stripped of the exotic baubles, “native” mats and masks manufactured by the ton in the cheap labor ports of the world. What a mess! Colonel Carib Jerome might be a class conspirator, but he was one hell of a lousy commander to let his army take the place apart. He could’ve made a bundle out of it later, after he won his game.
The casino looked worse than the lobby. Gambling tables that cost in the thousands were knocked over, broken. Roulette wheels were smashed so their rigging and magnets spilled among the tumbled chips. The painting of cavorting nudes above the long bar was carved up, the figures cut out like paper dolls. Caco and Lambie whistled.
“Some jump-up we missed.”
Under the painting the rows on rows of glasses had been swept to the floor. A few empty liquor bottles lay shattered against the front of the bar. The rest were gone. I mentioned that.
“Jerome’s liberation army has got itself liberally loaded.”
My men looked around the cavernous, empty rooms uneasily. “Where’d they all go? Where’s the colonel?”
“In bed. Where else, with three hundred rooms here? Except for Jerome. I bet he’s tucked himself away in Chip Cappola’s office to count the loot from the tables. Let’s go visit him.”
We went on to the cashiers’ booths. These alone were unviolated, pristine; there were no stacks of coins behind the glass partition, no trays, no bills in the open drawers. The soldiers had been kept away from here and the temptation of the till. I borrowed a knee from Caco to step up on the counter, bent over the glass partition and unlatched the door to the inside hall. The boys walked me through.
Jeb, the burly black guard, was still at his bank of control switches. Maybe he had changed sides, but it was more likely he was Jerome’s man to begin with, with eyes and ears trained to report on the hotel. We surprised him. He made a grab for the gun in his desk, saw Caco’s rifle in my spine, recognized me and laughed.
“Upon my word, Mr. Carter. Where’d you find him, Lieutenant?”
Lambie swaggered, waving his gun airily. “Picked him up at a roadblock. Tell the colonel we’re here.”
Jeb lifted a finger. He wasn’t ready to announce us. “Miss Mitzy left here with Carter. Where’s she?”
Lambie shrugged eloquently. “Wasn’t anyone with him tonight. Maybe she cleared out with the mob.”
“Well, she don’t count.” Jeb stabbed the intercom to Cappola’s office and purred into it. “Colonel, you have guests.”
Annoyment rattled back. “I said nobody...”
“Mr. Nick Carter and two soldiers bringing him.”
The voice from the office changed to a bark of satisfaction. “That’s different. Send them along.”
Jeb buzzed the office door, it slid back and we went in. Carib Jerome was at Cappola’s desk, bundles of paper currency and trays of coin filling the top of it, more of the same stacked on the floor. All the operating cash of the casino, plus the day’s receipts from the hotel and the shops around the lobby, was here — one hell of a lot of Syndicate and Sawyer money. The colonel had a computer to count it. I smiled at him.