Streaking. Brian Stableford
fabric of reality, of which this might be one—and even if the people were wrong who believed that there was some kind of ultimate account-book to be balanced, he couldn’t take it for granted that the corollary disruptions of probability would all go his way. Nor could he be sure, now that his father was fading fast, whether the records were right to declare that his luck was heading towards its minimal level, or exactly when that minimal level would be reached. If he were now a mere victim of chance, just like anyone else, it certainly wouldn’t be a good time to play the hero or the fool.
The reasonable thing to do—the only reasonable thing to do—was to let the thief take the money, slip through the curtains and vanish into the dark garden, saying “easy come, easy go” in the casually cavalier fashion that was, it seemed, the very essence of his public image.
But at a deeper level, Canny understood that none of those reasons was the real reason why he was standing still. While all of that was going through his mind, he knew that he was letting events take their course because he was paralyzed by fear. In some respects, he was only human. He could be startled, shocked, frightened...even petrified. Gambling was as natural as breathing to him, but the manner in which he played with cards and chips was still an act, a role, a performance. When he was precipitated out of that public persona by an event as outrageous as this one, his habitual self-confidence sometimes deserted him, leaving him with only the same instincts and reflexes to guide him as anyone else.
He didn’t move because he couldn’t. He was stuck.
He didn’t even say anything. He waited in vain for chance to intervene in his favor regardless—for the thief to stumble and drop the gun, or for the police to burst in and spring a trap—but nothing happened. The flow of causality seemed inexorable, immune to the superimposition of a more generous alternative.
After a slight hesitation, perhaps born of trepidation and anxiety rather than any uncertainty as to what he ought to do, the intruder grasped the black bag tightly, moved smoothly across the room, and exited via the balcony. The curtain prevented Canny from seeing him jump, and the monks’ garden absorbed the sound of his footfalls. It was as if he had vanished into the shadows like one more virtual serpent in a swarm.
Canny’s thoughts immediately became unstuck. He snatched up the phone and pressed the button that would connect him to the front desk. The night-manager’s response was immediate.
“You have intruders in the grounds,” Canny said. “In the monks’ garden. One is dressed entirely in black, with a ski-mask and an automatic pistol. He’s carrying a rectangular leather bag about fifty centimeters by thirty-five.”
“I have pressed the alarm, Monsieur,” the manager told him. “The police will be here within fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t have time to talk to the police,” Canny told him. “Can you put me through to Henri Meurdon at the casino.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
Meurdon was just as quick to reply. “Henri?” Canny said. “It’s Canavan Kilcannon. I think you might have a spotter in the casino—or might have had when I left. When I got back to my hotel there was someone waiting to relieve me of my winnings. Nobody knew I had them till five or ten minutes before I cashed up, so they must have worked very fast indeed. Check your tapes to see if anyone left within the last half hour—and take a close look at the crowd around the roulette table. You might be able to identify him, or at least narrow the field. I can’t hang around—I’ll have to leave it with you.”
“I shall take care of it, Monsieur,” was all the Meurdon said. “You will get your money back, if it is humanly possible.” There was no surprise in his voice, just grim concern—but that was part of his standard performance, and what Canny had just told him hadn’t been nearly sufficient to shock him out of it.
Canny didn’t waste time wondering whether it might have been Meurdon who had tipped off the thief. Even if everything the manager had earlier said to Canny about being delighted to see him win had been so much bullshit, Meurdon couldn’t afford to get involved in anything so stupidly brutal. He couldn’t have people lurking in his casino to tip off muggers, either. Forty-seven thousand was a very tiny sum compared to the losses he might sustain if a rumor like that got around; it wasn’t as if he was short of competition in Monte Carlo.
“Don’t worry about the money, Henri,” Canny told him. “I just thought you’d appreciate the warning, in case you do have a snake in the grass. I hope it’s a false alarm.”
“Merci, Monsieur.”
Canny rang off and resumed getting dressed. The most important thing of all, he thought, was not to let the unfortunate incident disrupt his plans too badly. It would be adding insult to injury if he were to miss Lissa Lo’s boat, and not just because it would save him ten or twelve hours by comparison with Air France’s flight to Heathrow and its British Midland connection.
He carried the suitcase down the stairs; it wasn’t heavy enough now to require the elevator, although it felt a little better once he’d added the items he’d stored in the hotel safe. He signed the account and the credit card slip.
“The intruder was about five-four—sorry I can’t do that in metric—and slimly built,” he said. “That’s all I can tell you, except for what I said before. The lock on my balcony door hasn’t been forced, although I can’t be certain that he wasn’t in the room before I opened it. You might want to check the wall and the balustrade, in case he left anything behind when he was climbing up.”
“What did he take, Monsieur?” the night-manager asked, insouciantly.
“Nothing of any importance,” Canny said. “I might have disturbed him, panicked him into running before he’d had a chance to go through my stuff and move on to other rooms. The bag wasn’t mine—it belonged to the casino.”
“Ah oui,” said the night-manager, nodding his head. “Monsieur Meurdon will doubtless take his own steps to recover it.”
“Apologize to the police on my behalf,” Canny said. “Explain about my father. I have to get down to the quay before the boat leaves, or I’ll lose half a day. That could be the difference between seeing him once more and....”
“I understand, Monsieur,” the manager assured him. “I will take care of everything. Good luck, Monsieur.”
Canny thanked him, and hurried out. The cab pulled away from the curb just as the police car was arriving, but the police made no attempt to interrupt its departure.
CHAPTER FOUR
The journey downhill was even more rapid than the journey up, but it still gave Canny time to think.
Had he noticed anyone in the casino who might be the spotter for the thief? No.
Could it possibly be anyone he knew? Certainly not.
In another life, Stevie Larkin might easily have become a petty criminal, but in this one he was a star; he probably didn’t know what Canny knew about the casino’s security, but that wasn’t an issue.
Could the cab driver have been involved? No. He would have recognized the bag for what it was, and would have known that it must contain a tidy sum, but he certainly did know what Stevie didn’t about the kind of resources Meurdon could mobilize.
It had to be someone far less obtrusive than the driver or any of the players at the table, and far more reckless—almost certainly outsiders; almost certainly nomads. What kind of accent had the thief had? Impossible to tell, from just two words, just as it was impossible to be sure whether it had been a man or a woman.
It wasn’t until all these thoughts had run helter-skelter through his head that Canny began to curse himself, silently, for being such a fool. Even if he had done the right thing in letting the thief take the money instead of chancing the Kilcannon luck in some kind of lunatic defensive exercise, he had been a fool. He had said nothing; he had observed no more than was superficially obvious. If he had only persuaded the mugger to issue a further warning or instruction, he might have had a far