Free Night Without End by Alistair MacLean Page A

Johnny Zagero, future heavyweight champion, apologisin' for being a boxer. The white hope for the world, that's all. Rated number three challenger to the champ. A household name in all-" 
         
         "Ask Dr Mason if he's ever heard of me," Zagero suggested. 
         
         "That means nothing," I smiled. "You don't look like a boxer to me, Mr Zagero. Or sound like one. I didn't know it was included in the curriculum at Yale. Or was it Harvard?" 
         
         "Princeton," he grinned. "And what's so funny about that? Look at Tunney and his Shakespeare. Roland La Starza was a college boy when he fought for the world title. Why not me?" 
         
         "Exactly." Solly Levin tried to thunder the word, but he hadn't the voice for it. "Why not? And when we've carved up this British champ of yours - a doddery old character rated number two challenger by one of the biggest injustices ever perpetrated in the long and glorious history of boxin" - when we've massacred this ancient has-been, I say-" 
         
         "All right, Solly," Zagero interrupted. "Desist. There's not a press man within a thousand miles. Save the golden words for later." 
         
         "Just keepin' in practice, boy. Words are ten a penny. I've got thousands to spare-" 
         
         Tousands, Solly, t'ousands. You're slippin*. Now shut up." 
         
         Solly shut up, and I turned to the girl beside Zagero. 
         
         "Well, miss?" 
         
         "Mrs. Mrs Dansby-Gregg. You may have heard of me?" 
         
         "No." I wrinkled my brow. "I'm afraid I haven't." I'd heard of her all right, and I knew now that I'd seen her name and picture a score of times among those of other wealthy unemployed and unemployable built up by the tongue-in-the-cheek gossip columnists of the great national dailies into an ersatz London society whose frenetic, frequently moronic and utterly unimportant activities were a source of endless interest to millions. Mrs Dansby-Gregg, I seemed to recall, had been particularly active in the field of charitable activities, although perhaps not so in die production of the balance sheets. 
         
         She smiled sweetly at me. 
         
         "Well, perhaps it's not so surprising after all. You are a bit distant from the centre of things, aren't you?" She looked across to where the youngster with the broken collar-bone was sitting. "And this is Fleming." 
         
         "Fleming?" This time the wrinkling of my brow was genuine. "You mean Helene?" 
         
         "Fleming. My personal maid." 
         
         "Your personal maid," I said slowly. I could feel the incredulous anger stirring inside me. "Your own maid? And you didn't even bother to volunteer to stay while I fixed her shoulder up?" 
         
         "Miss LeGarde did it first," she said coolly. "Why should I?" 
         
         "Quite right, Mrs Dansby-Gregg, why should you?" Johnny Zagero said approvingly. He looked at her long and consideringly. "You might have got your hands dirty." 
         
         For the first time the carefully cultivated facade cracked, the smile stiffened mechanically, and her colour deepened. Mrs Dansby-Gregg made no reply, maybe she had none to make. People like Johnny Zagero never got close enough even to the fringes of her money-sheltered world for her to know how to deal with them. 
         
         "Well, that leaves just the two of you," I said hastily. The large Dixie colonel with the florid face and white hair was sitting next to the thin wispy-haired little Jew. They made an incongruous pair. 
         
         "Theodore Mahler," the little Jew said quietly. I waited, but he added nothing. A communicative character. 
         
         "Brewster," the other announced. He made a significant pause. "Senator Hoffman Brewster. Glad to help in any way I can, Dr