Double or Die

  Wolfgang found a hose and clumsily attached it to an outside tap. He fiddled and cursed but eventually got it working and aimed it at the flames, keeping a safe distance from the inferno.

  The men stopped bringing water from inside and instead stood in a group around Wolfgang, arguing and pointing at the burning Daimler. James saw his chance. He took a deep breath and moved in a crouch towards a gap in the outbuilding wall where a window had once been. He was hidden from the men here, so he quickly climbed out and edged his way around the wall until he could see the firefighters and the open doors.

  He watched and waited, and as soon as he was sure that nobody would see him, he darted across to the factory and ducked inside.

  He found himself in a long corridor with doors to right and left. He picked one at random and went through, closing it behind him.

  He was once more in darkness, but he couldn’t risk putting on the light; instead he lit another match. Its feeble glow showed him a large, empty workshop. There was not much in here except the remains of some machinery, a pile of broken shelving and a long workbench. A drill and a metal saw were fixed to one end of the bench, and on it were some thin brass rods. Boxes stacked next to it were filled with thousands of cogs of different shapes and sizes. Pinned to a nearby wall was a complicated blueprint for a machine, and as James was looking at it his match burnt down.

  He waited in the dark.

  It was freezing in here and he was painfully aware that his clothes were damp and tattered. He had to replace them somehow. He was far too conspicuous like this.

  He heard footsteps and voices in the corridor. The men were coming in from outside. He listened until they had all passed by, then waited some more, counting slowly until he had reached a thousand.

  He lit another match.

  There was a door he hadn’t spotted before, with a sign on it reading HAZARDOUS CHEMICALS – KEEP OUT.

  He opened the door and looked inside. It was a small storeroom that had been almost completely emptied some time ago. There were a few dusty jars and canisters left, however. He read the labels – ‘Caesium’, ‘Potassium’, ‘White Phosphorous’, ‘Magnesium’, ‘Lithium’.

  He remembered lighting thin magnesium strips in a science class, how they had made a brilliant white light, and had carried on burning underwater. These other chemicals were all in their way highly unstable. Some ignited in air, some in water. An accident in this storeroom would cause a devastating explosion and a fire that would be hard to put out. Some of the bottles didn’t look at all safe. They must have been here for years, and there was an unpleasant chemical odour seeping out of them.

  James grabbed a bottle of potassium. He knew it was reckless, but, apart from his little penknife, he had no weapon. He looked at the contents of the jar. There were three silvery grey lumps of metal sitting in some cloudy liquid.

  He slipped the bottle carefully into his pocket.

  He went over to the main door and inched it open just enough to look out.

  All quiet.

  He moved into the corridor and headed deeper into the factory. As he rounded the corner at the end he heard something: a distant hum and throb. He walked on towards the noise. He could make out a steady beat, now, as if there was music playing, and the buzz of voices.

  Maybe the building wasn’t deserted after all?

  A big, rusted, steel door blocked the end of the corridor. The noise was coming from the other side. He put his ear to it and instantly jumped back as there was a harsh clank and a squeal.

  Somebody was opening the door from the other side.

  James flattened himself against the wall and mercifully the door opened towards him so that he was completely hidden by it. Deighton the butler came through and walked away down the corridor. He was dragging a man along, who was pleading feebly with them. The man was smartly dressed and had an aristocratic air about him.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I can pay. I promise you. I have the money. Please…’

  Deighton bundled him round the corner out of sight.

  There was a scream and a shout of ‘No!’ then James heard the sickening sound of a soft body being hit by a hard object. He didn’t wait to hear any more and went through the door.

  It was like stepping through the looking glass into another world.

  This part of the factory had been utterly transformed. A plush carpet woven with a motif of playing cards and dice covered the floor. The walls were decorated with heavy flocked wallpaper and hung with gilt-framed mirrors, ornate gold light fittings and paintings of plump nudes, lounging on beds, eating fruit. The music was unmistakable here, and the hum of voices had risen to a low roar.

  There was nobody around and James took the opportunity to explore the area. The second door he tried opened into a changing room.

  Christmas had come early for James.

  This was better than stumbling into a sweet shop with pocketfuls of cash.

  Men’s clothes were hanging on pegs around the walls, and there was a rack of chef’s uniforms and waiter’s aprons.

  He wondered how many changes of clothing he would get through before this weekend was over. He had already lost his own clothes, which he had to abandon last night in the hospital, then the suit that he’d stolen from the patient. Now he was ditching the expensive outfit he’d borrowed from Perry, and was about to steal another one.

  He searched the pegs until he found a jacket and trousers that looked like they might fit him. Then he undressed quickly and pulled them on, dumping his wet and torn clothes into a bin.

  The suit was old and badly worn. It was shiny at the elbows and, although the legs and sleeves were roughly the right length, it was made for someone much fatter than James and was loose and baggy. It was a relief, though, to be out of the wet clothes and into something dry.

  At the last moment he remembered the bottle of potassium and retrieved it from his old suit.

  When he was ready, he moved on. The changing room led through into a huge kitchen that was bright and noisy and filled with busy Chinese cooks who bustled about shouting at each other and noisily clattering pans on the banks of stoves. It was hot and humid in here and filled with delicious cooking smells.

  James hurried through, trying not to be noticed. At the far end of the kitchen two doors were busily swinging backwards and forwardS as waiters hurried in and out with dirty dishes or plates piled high with food.

  James followed a waiter and found himself in the heart of the factory. Only it wasn’t a factory any longer. All the machinery and factory fittings had been stripped out and replaced by tables and chairs. There was an open area in the middle and balconies around the sides. The balconies were filled with men and women who were eating and drinking and yelling at each other in order to be heard over the general racket.

  It was a nightclub.

  There was a stage at one end and a jazz band was playing wild dance music, but nobody was dancing, because, where you would have expected the dance floor to be were gaming tables. Cards and dice and roulette. People, mostly men, crowded around the tables, throwing down money.

  Apart from the central gaming area, which was flooded with light, the place was dim and shadowy. Tiny lamps on the dining tables were covered by scarlet shades and the waiters had to grope their way around in the gloom.

  The air was thick with tobacco smoke and reeked of sweat and alcohol. The noise was overwhelming. A young black girl started singing a song about love, but nobody was listening. They were all intent on gambling.

  There were all types here, from toffs in black tie, their partners dripping with jewellery and furs, to gangs of drunken sailors in uniform. There were intense Chinese men from Limehouse, local criminals in loud suits, and here and there, standing or sitting alone, were quiet, desperate men with haunted looks on their faces.

  A woman in a glittery red dress and too much make-up saw James and sauntered over, her wide hips swaying in time to the music.

  ‘You’re a bit young,
aren’t you, love?’ she said. ‘But you don’t look very sweet and innocent. How’d you like to buy a lady a drink?’

  ‘Some other time,’ said James and he walked quickly away.

  He noticed a few other young men there, boys of sixteen or seventeen, trying to look grown-up and cocky, but with slightly scared looks in their eyes.

  James saw a bowl of matchbooks on one of the tables. He picked one up. It was the same as the one he’d found in the Daimler.

  So this must be the Paradice Club.

  James knew that gambling was supposed to be illegal in England, and although this casino was hidden inside a disused chemical factory, it was still big and noisy and obviously very popular. Hoping nobody would notice it was a little like hoping that nobody would notice an elephant in Oxford Street. That meant that nobody here had any fear of the police. Including the owner.

  James decided he’d been here long enough. It was only a matter of time before somebody spotted him. He hadn’t been expecting any of this. He wanted to get away and think things through.

  He saw a door and headed towards it. It led into a smaller room, which, if anything, was even more packed and noisy than the first one. There was a makeshift boxing ring in the centre and two men were stripped to the waist having a bare-knuckle fight. Their faces were battered and gashed and they looked dead on their feet. The smartly dressed men and women in the front row were cheering loudly and laughing. Their clothing was spotted with blood.

  James backed out and glimpsed another exit on the far side of the gaming floor. Two men stood guard, but they were checking the people coming in and ignoring anyone going out.

  James pushed through the crowds.

  A laughing sailor offered him a beer, which he refused. A woman in a fur stole and pearl necklace winked at him and ruffled his hair. But he kept moving, weaving between the tables.

  Then a man grabbed him. A small man in a cheap suit and shabby grey shirt. He had an unhealthy look about him. His small baggy eyes were unfocused, his hair lank and greasy, his nose broken. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and appeared to be as drunk as everyone else.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ he said in a thick American accent. ‘I need some good luck. You got a lucky face. Help me out here.’

  ‘I was just leaving, actually,’ said James.

  ‘Yeah?’ said the man and he smiled. As James tried to walk on, however, the man grabbed him again and waved a yellow gambling chip in his face.

  ‘Look at this!’ he said. ‘I’m down to my last chip. Five English pounds. You know how much I came in here with? Five hundred.’ He turned to a man at his side. A fat, pasty-faced fellow with receding hair. ‘How much is that in real money, Abbadabba?’ he said.

  ‘Two thousand four hundred and thirty-five dollars.’

  ‘You hear that?’ said the American. ‘Two thousand bucks down the swannee. Here…’

  He pressed the yellow chip into James’s palm.

  ‘Put it on the table for me, kid. Turn my luck around.’

  ‘No,’ said James, but the man leant in close and tightened his grip on James’s arm. He was surprisingly strong and his fingers dug painfully into James’s flesh.

  ‘Nobody says “no” to me,’ he murmured with a hint of menace. ‘Now put this chip on the table. If you win I’ll give you a cut. If you lose…’ He raised his eyebrows and nodded at James.

  In a moment James found himself thrust through the crowd and staring at the roulette table in some confusion. It was covered with numbers and boxes and symbols that were littered with different-coloured chips. Tommy Chong had taught him the basics of roulette on a miniature set that his cousin had sent him. But they had only played a few times before Codrose had confiscated it. The betting system was complicated and James dredged his memory for the information about how it all worked. Slowly, it came back to him.

  Alternate black and red numbers from one to thirty-six ringed the wheel, and there was a green zero. These matched up with the numbers on the table. You could bet on any number, and if it came up you’d win thirty-five times your original stake. The chances of your number coming up, though, were thirty-seven to one, which was close to being no chance at all.

  There were other ways of betting, however. You could bet on either a red or a black number coming up, for which you would double your money if you guessed right. Or you could bet on odd or even numbers, or low or high numbers. There were also ways of dividing the table, so that you could bet on columns of numbers, rows or groups. By placing your chip on the corner of four numbers, for instance, you would be betting on any of them coming up, with odds of eight to one.

  James didn’t want to risk doing anything foolish, and he wanted to get out of here quickly before someone spotted him, so he played the safest bet he could think of and put the chip on red. There was a fifty-fifty chance of it coming up. Or at least there would have been if there hadn’t been the zero on the wheel. If the ball landed on the zero then, unless someone had bet on it, none of the other bets on the table would win. This gave the casino a slight advantage and made sure that whatever happened they would always come out on top at the end of the night.

  The croupier, a hard-faced man with a thin moustache, spun the wheel in one direction and threw the ball on to it in the other. It clattered around, bouncing in and out of the slots, and at last settled on eighteen.

  Red.

  The American slapped James on the back, nearly knocking him over, and blew cigar smoke over him as he yelled, ‘Well done, kid,’ in his ear.

  The croupier slid another yellow chip over to join the original one. The American’s £5 had now become ten. It wasn’t quite five hundred, but it was better than nothing.

  With a feeling of huge relief, James turned to leave. But the American held him back.

  ‘Where’ya goin’, kid?’ he said. ‘This ain’t over yet. You’re my lucky mascot. Play it again.’

  ‘Really,’ James protested. ‘I’ve got to go…’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ said the American with all the menace back in his voice. ‘Place another bet.’

  There was nothing James could do. The man was drunk and looked like he could easily become violent.

  James didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He went back to the table.

  ‘Well?’ said the American. ‘Whaddaya reckon?’

  ‘Leave it where it is,’ said James, miserably.

  ‘On the red?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  Again the croupier spun the wheel, and this time the ball landed on thirty-four.

  Another red.

  James couldn’t help smiling as the croupier pushed over two more yellow chips. He had won £15 for the man now.

  The American was laughing. He put an arm around James’s shoulder. ‘You’re all right, you know. What do they call you, kid?’

  ‘My name’s Bond, James Bond,’ said James without thinking, and then instantly regretted it. He should have lied and used a fake name again, but he had got caught up in the excitement of winning.

  ‘My name’s Flegenheimer,’ said the man. ‘But you can call me Dutch.’

  ‘Not so loud,’ said the man’s friend, Abbadabba.

  ‘Cool it, Abbs,’ said Dutch. ‘Me and the kid are pals.’

  Dutch sniffed and held James by the chin. ‘We’re goin’ again, kid,’ he said. ‘Twenty pounds is peanuts. I came in here with five hundred and I ain’t leaving till I’ve made my dough back.’

  ‘No,’ said James. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Place your bets,’ shouted the croupier.

  ‘You heard the man,’ said Dutch. ‘Place your bet.’

  James stared at the table. He had to get away from here. Well, he thought, the best way to get out was to finish it. If he could lose the man’s money he wouldn’t see him as a lucky charm any more. He recklessly pushed the pile of chips over towards the centre of the board, on to the number sixteen.

  ‘Whoah,’ said Dut
ch. ‘You’re putting it all on sixteen? That’s a hell of a gamble, kid.’

  ‘Do you trust in my luck or not?’ said James.

  The man stared into James’s face. There was something cold and dead about his eyes, something inhuman. Here was a man who would kill you without a thought.

  ‘Luck is a lady you got to treat real mean,’ he said. ‘If she smiles at you, you got to take her for all she’s got. Yeah, I trust ya, kid. Half this dough should by rights be yours. But I warn you, I’m a very bad loser.’

  Dutch turned away to say something to Abbadabba and the two men laughed.

  James looked at the piles of chips on the table. It was a powerful feeling when you won, but to lose… what would that feel like?

  The croupier prepared to spin the wheel and at the last moment James leant over and slid his chips along the table to number seven.

  His own lucky number.

  The wheel spun, the ball was rolled, it whizzed around the rim, dropping slowly, ever so slowly, then it caught the slots and bounced across, rattling and jumping in all directions. It seemed to rest for a moment in one slot only to jump out again a moment later and hop across the wheel to another.

  James was sweating. He was aware of nothing else in the whole world except this one tiny object – the silver ball as it danced around the wheel.

  He had no idea if the band was still playing, even if there was anyone else in the casino. It was just him and the roulette wheel.

  He could bear it no more. He closed his eyes, just as the ball stopped making any sound. There was a brief hush then a cheer went up and James opened his eyes.

  The ball was nestling snugly in the number seven slot.

  James turned round. Dutch was staring at him with murder in his eyes. ‘I warned you, kid, not to lose.’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ said James. ‘I changed the bet.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. I put everything on seven.’

  ‘What happened to the sixteen?’ said Dutch, pushing past James and studying the table. ‘Oh, Mamma, he done it! Keeyiyay, he done it! That’ll get some money in that treasury. Quick, Abbadabba, what’s thirty-five times twenty?’