The Spoilers / Juggernaut. Desmond Bagley

the old Victorian terraced houses. Unlike the Soho clubs, there were no flashing neon signs proclaiming blackjack and roulette because this was no cheap operation. There were no half-crown chips to be bought in the Howard Club.

      Just after ten o’clock Warren strolled through the gambling rooms towards the bar. He was coolly aware of the professional interest aroused by his visit; the doorkeeper had picked up an internal telephone as he walked in and the news would be quick in reaching the higher echelons. He watched the roulette for a moment, and thought sardonically, If I were James Bond I’d be in there making a killing.

      At the bar he ordered a Scotch and when the barman placed it before him a flat American voice said, ‘That will be on the house, Dr Warren.’

      Warren turned to find John Follet, the manager of the club, standing behind him. ‘What are you doing so far west?’ asked Follet, ‘If you’re looking for any of your lost sheep you won’t find them here. We don’t like them.’

      Warren understood very well that he was being warned. It had happened before that some of his patients had tried to make a quick fortune to feed the habit. They had not succeeded, of course, and things had got out of hand, ending in a brawl. The management of the Howard Club did not like brawls – they lowered the plushy tone of the place – and word had been passed to Warren to keep his boys in line.

      He smiled at Follet. ‘Just sightseeing, Johnny.’ He lifted the glass. ‘Join me?’

      Follet nodded to the barman, and said, ‘Well, it’s nice to see you, anyway.’

      He would not feel that way for long, thought Warren. He said, ‘These are patients you’re talking about, Johnny; they’re sick people. I don’t rule them – I’m not a leader or anything like that.’

      ‘That’s as may be,’ said Follet. ‘But once your hopheads go on a toot they can do more damage than you’d believe possible. And if anyone can control them, it’s you.’

      ‘I’ve passed around the word that they’re not welcome here,’ said Warren. ‘That’s all I can do.’

      Follet nodded shortly. ‘I understand, Doctor. That’s good enough for me.’

      Warren looked about the room and saw Andrew Tozier standing at the nearest blackjack table. He said casually, ‘You seem to be doing well.’

      Follet snorted. ‘You can’t do well in this crazy country. Now we’re having to play the wheel without a zero and that’s goddam impossible. No club can operate without an edge.’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Warren. ‘It’s an equal chance for you and the customer, so that’s square. And you make your profit on the club membership, the bar and the restaurant.’

      ‘Are you crazy?’ demanded Follet. ‘It just doesn’t work that way. In any game of equal chances a lucky rich man will beat hell out of a lucky poor man any time. Bernoulli figured that out back in 1713 – it’s called the St Petersburg paradox.’ He gestured towards a roulette table. ‘That wheel carries a nut of fifty thousand pounds – but how much do you think the customers are worth? We’re in the position of playing a game of equal chances against the public – which can be regarded as infinitely rich. In the long run we get trimmed but good.’

      ‘I didn’t know you were a mathematician,’ said Warren.

      ‘Any guy in this racket who doesn’t understand mathematics goes broke fast,’ said Follet. ‘And it’s about time your British legislators employed a few mathematicians.’ He scowled. ‘Another thing – take that blackjack table; at one time it was banned because it was called a game of chance. Now that games of chance are legal they still want to ban it because a good player can beat a bad player. They don’t know what in hell they want.’

      ‘Can a good player win at blackjack?’ asked Warren interestedly.

      Follett nodded. ‘It takes a steeltrap memory and nerves of iron, but it can be done. It’s lucky for the house there aren’t too many of those guys around. We’ll take that risk on blackjack but on the wheel we’ve got to have an edge.’ He looked despondently into his glass. ‘And I don’t see much chance of getting one – not with the laws that are in the works.’

      ‘Things are bad all round,’ said Warren unfeelingly. ‘Maybe you’d better go back to the States.’

      ‘No, I’ll ride it out here for a while.’ Follet drained his glass.

      ‘Don’t go,’ said Warren. ‘I had a reason for coming here. I wanted to talk to you.’

      ‘If it’s a touch for your clinic I’m already on your books.’

      Warren smiled. ‘This time I want to give you money.’

      ‘This I must stick around to hear,’ said Follet. Tell me more.’

      ‘I have a little expedition planned,’ said Warren. ‘The pay isn’t much – say, two-fifty a month for six months. But there’ll be a bonus at the end if it all works out all right.’

      ‘Two-fifty a month!’ Follet laughed. ‘Look around you and figure how much I’m making right now. Pull the other one, Doctor.’

      ‘Don’t forget the bonus,’ said Warren calmly.

      ‘All right; what’s the bonus?’ asked Follet, smiling.

      ‘That would be open to negotiation, but shall we say a thousand?’

      ‘You kill me, Warren, you really do – the way you make jokes with a straight face.’ He began to turn away. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Doctor.’

      ‘Don’t go, Johnny. I’m confident you’ll join me. You see, I know what happened to that Argentinian a couple of months ago – and I know how it was done. It was a little over two hundred thousand pounds you rooked him of, wasn’t it?’

      Follet stopped dead and turned his head to speak over his shoulder. ‘And how did you learn about that?’

      ‘A good story like that soon gets around, Johnny. You and Kostas were very clever.’

      Follet turned back to Warren and said seriously, ‘Dr Warren: I’d be very careful about the way you talk – especially about Argentinian millionaires. Something might happen to you.’

      ‘I dare say,’ agreed Warren. ‘And something might happen to you too, Johnny. For instance, if the Argentinian were to find out how he’d been had, he’d raise a stink, wouldn’t he? He’d certainly go to the police. It’s one thing to lose and quite another to be cheated, so he’d go to the police.’ He tapped Follet on the chest. ‘And the police would come to you, Johnny. The best that could happen would be that they’d deport you – ship you back to the States. Or would it be the best? I hear that the States is a good place for Johnny Follet to keep away from right now. It was something about certain people having long memories.’

      ‘You hear too damn’ much,’ said Follet coldly.

      ‘I get around,’ said Warren with a modest smile.

      ‘It seems you do. You wouldn’t be trying to put the bite on me, would you?’

      ‘You might call it that.’

      Follet sighed. ‘Warren, you know how it is. I have a fifteen per cent piece of this place – I’m not the boss. Whatever was done to the Argentinian was done by Kostas. Sure, I was around when it happened, but it wasn’t my idea – I wasn’t in on it, and I got nothing out of it. Kostas did everything.’

      ‘I know,’ said Warren. ‘You’re as pure as the driven snow. But it won’t make much difference when they put you on a VC-10 and shoot you back to the States.’ He paused and said contemplatively. ‘It might even be possible to arrange for a reception committee to meet you at Kennedy Airport.’

      ‘I don’t think I like any