Lewis walked into the restaurant and had a word with Maitre d’hôtel Giovanni whom he had stolen from the Savoy Hotel, London, at a considerable cost. There were a few early tourists, studying the enormous menus that a suave Captain of Waiters had presented to them. In another hour, the restaurant would be a maelstrom of hungry, noisy people.
“All well, Giovanni?” Lewis asked.
“Perfect, sir.” The Maitre d’hôtel lifted a supercilious eyebrow. The very suggestion that it couldn’t be well in his restaurant was an implied insult.
Lewis studied the menu that Giovanni handed him. He nodded.
“Looks excellent. Tomorrow is the night. Anything special?”
“We have grouse and salmon from Scotland. Baby lamb from Normandy. The plat de jour — for the tourists — will be coq au vin. Monsieur Oliver of Paris is sending us by air his new dish… lapin et lamproie.”
Lewis looked suitably impressed.
“So we won’t starve?”
The tall, thin Maitre d’hôtel flicked away an invisible speck of dust from his immaculate dinner jacket.
“No, sir. We won’t starve.”
Lewis moved through the restaurant, noticing that each table had a bowl of orchids cunningly lit from below. He thought Giovanni’s table decoration excellent, but he wondered about the cost, for Harry Lewis was an extremely practical man.
Out on the terrace, amid the noise of the chatter and the soft music of the band, he paused until he caught the eye of the head barman. Fred, thickset, short, slightly ageing, moved towards his master, a happy grin on his fiery red face.
“Going to be a big night, sir,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Not right now, Fred. Tomorrow is going to be the night.”
“I guess. Well, we can take care of it.”
Seeing flicking fingers across the terrace, Fred turned and hurried away.
Satisfied that his machine was working smoothly, Lewis returned to his office. He had still a number of letters to deal with before he had a simple meal served on his desk. He was unaware that Jess Chandler, sitting alone at a table away from the band, nursing a whisky and soda, watched him leave the terrace.
Chandler was uneasy. Maisky’s plan seemed sound, but he was worried at the enormity of the task. Here, after spending an hour or so on the terrace, watching, seeing all these people, arrogant and so confident in their wealth, the steady movement of the guards, .45 revolvers at their hips, the feeling of solidarity that the Casino exuded, made Chandler realise that this was a millionaire’s bastion that was protected alarmingly well, and that anyone planning a robbery was taking on more than a major opertion.
He had no misgivings about his own part in the operation. He was quite happy with the role that Maisky had given him. It was just the right job for him. He was completely confident that he could talk his, way into the vault. What really worried him was that Maisky had picked Jack Perry for the operation. Chandler knew all about Perry. This man wasn’t human. In a squeeze, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill, and violence to Chandler was something he had always avoided and feared. If Perry started a massacre — and he might well do — then they all in real trouble. He knew Mish was a clever technician. He knew nothing about Wash nor did he care, but Perry scared him.
Suddenly sick of the luxury surrounding him, he paid his check and walked into the gambling rooms. For a moment he paused to look around, noting the four uniformed guards who stood by the box elevators that conveyed the money up and down to the vaults. They all looked young, aggressive and alert. Grimacing, he walked across the ornate lobby where he collected his passport from the Check-in office. There was a big crowd coming in: every woman wore diamonds and had a mink stole — the uniform of the rich. Chandler was aware that some of them looked at him with interest, their bored eyes lighting up. Not in the mood, he ignored them.
As he walked down the flat, broad steps into the garden of the Casino, he saw Jack Perry, wearing a tuxedo, a cigar between his teeth, corning towards him. Chandler turned away from the approaching man and made his way down a narrow path that led to the beach.
Maisky had told them all — not Wash, of course — to take a look at the Casino and to familiarise themselves with the background of the place. Now, Perry had arrived, but Chandler had no wish to be seen with him.
After walking down a long flight of steps, he found himself on the broad promenade that ran around the Casino’s private bathing beach.
There were still a number of people in swim suits on the beach, some sitting at tables, drinking, others in the sea. He paused to watch a couple water-skiing, holding a flaming torch in their hands and both very expert. Then he continued on his way, leaving the Casino beach and taking the circular road that would eventually lead him back to his hired car which he had parked near the entrance to the Casino.
Out of the shadows, a girl came towards him. She wore a white dress with a frilly wide skirt, decorated with a rose pattern design. She was very tanned and exciting to look at. Her dark hair framed her face and hung to her shoulders. She carried a guitar in her hand.
Because she was different to the rich bitches of the Casino and also somehow vaguely familiar, Chandler paused and smiled at her.
She stopped and regarded him. A cheap brooch of paste diamonds in her hair caught the overhead light and flashed.
“Hello, Jess…”
He stiffened, then quickly relaxed. He had no idea who she was. The trouble with me is, he thought wryly, there are too many women in my life. I know I’ve met her before, but who is she?
“Hello, baby,” he said with his charming smile. “That’s a beautiful body your dress is wearing.”
She laughed.
“You said exactly that very thing two years ago when we met almost right on this spot… but you wouldn’t remember.”
Then he did remember. Two years ago he had come to Paradise City because a pal of his had the crazy idea of walking into the Casino with ten armed men and clearing the tables. He had quickly backed out of that plan and his pal, discouraged, had decided that maybe the idea wasn’t all that hot.
Chandler had liked the City and had stayed on for a week. It was while he was wandering around the back of the Casino that he had met this girl. He even remembered her name. Lolita (that was one hell of a name now) Seravez. She came from Brazil and made a tricky living working the lesser-class restaurants, singing and playing her guitar. But Chandler had found her love technique stimulating and interesting. He had had no trouble about that. They had looked at each other, and there was a sudden fusion, and ten minutes later, they were holding each other on the hot sand, oblivious to anything except their lust.
“Hi… Lolita,” he said. “This is the nicest moment of my life. Let’s go somewhere where we can be alone.”
“My Jess… the one-track mind.” She regarded him affectionately. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t let’s waste time talking about a thing like that.” He hooked his arm in hers. “Let’s go look at the sea and feel the sand. Baby… if you knew how glad I am to see you.”
“I’ve got the idea,” she said, going with him. “It’s mutual. I’m glad to see you.”
Washington Smith lit another cigarette. He was sitting by the open window of his small, airless cabin at the Welcome Motel. Maisky had warned him not to -show himself until ten o’clock when he had a rendezvous at Maisky’s bungalow. This, Wash accepted. No one wanted to see a shabbily dressed negro on the streets. Questions would be asked. The police would converge on him. People would stare at him in that contemptuous way only the rich whites can stare at a negro.