Free Lucy by M.C. Beaton Page B

room behind him.
    He slowly turned with a decanter in his hand.
    Lucy’s opponent from the baccarat table—he who had signaled for a fresh pack of cards—was sitting in the corner of the room holding a heavy army revolver. It was pointed straight at Lucy’s head. The reptilian eyes did not waver from their target and, in heavily-accented English, he demanded, “The money, please.”
    “Money? What money?” asked MacGregor stupidly, gazing at the robber with unfocused eyes and waving the decanter wildly in one hand.
    The intruder gave a slow smile. He was a large, yellowish man, completely bald. His fat hands had done their best to make up for his lack of locks by being covered in thick ginger hair.
    “I know I was cheated this evening,” he said. “Oh, the so-polite gentlemen of the casino assured me that it was definitely luck"—here he stood up and made Lucy a grotesque bow—"but I am convinced otherwise. No one but the devil himself has such luck and no one cheats Constantine Stathos.” The hand holding the revolver did not waver. “The money,” he snapped.
    To Lucy, it was a fitting end to the nightmare of the evening. The close drawing room with its blazing coal fire, its heavy ormolu furniture, its masses of red velvet curtains draping the doorways and windows, seemed a suitable setting for this weird scene which could have come from a Victorian melodrama. She did not feel afraid. Only very, very ill. MacGregor must be very drunk, she realized. The man could hardly keep his balance and his long, gangling legs seemed to have taken on a life of their own.
    “All right, you damned Greek,” said MacGregor lurching forward. He pulled a heavy Morocco leather wallet from his pocket and held it out to Constantine Stathos.
    Jeremy stood trembling with fear. He wanted to pull out his own pistol but he was too afraid of being shot.
    Mr. Stathos reached out his hand for the wallet. MacGregor swayed so that his face was very near the Greek’s own.
    “Don’t shoot me,” whined MacGregor. “Don’t shoot, for God’s sake. I’m afraid to die.”
    “So the British are cowards after all,” sneered Stathos. He flicked a glance of contempt toward the shivering Jeremy and then back to MacGregor’s pleading, drunken eyes.
    Before Lucy had quite managed to grasp what had happened, there was a tremendous crack and the next minute the Greek was lying unconscious on the floor with blood streaming down his face.
    MacGregor calmly pocketed the money again and picked up the revolver. “Never underestimate the British, laddie,” he laughed. “Well, this calls for a wee bit of a celebration.”
    “How did you manage it?” gasped Jeremy Brent. He was very white under his tan and his hands were shaking.
    “It’s a trade secret,” MacGregor said smiling, opening the decanter. “Sit down L—Harriet. You’ve got nothing to worry about any more.”
    “I say, old man, hadn’t we better call the
Polizei
or something?” said Jeremy, beginning to recover from his fear and noticing vaguely that Miss Balfour-MacGregor’s figure seemed to have slipped completely to one side.
    “We’re leaving for London tomorrow,” said MacGregor. “We cannot wait around for law courts or magistrates or whatever they have here.”
    Jeremy had stopped fingering his pistol. The Balfour-MacGregors seemed to be quite a formidable pair. Father was in the process of getting drunk all over again and that peculiar daughter sat staring at the window as if she were in a dream. And what on earth had happened to her figure?
    “Must you go to London?” he babbled. “Practically everybody is abroad or in Scotland. You’ll find it very thin of company. Let me see …” He began to recite names and titles of the eminent who were not to be found in London at this unfashionable part of the year. “… except for Andrew Harvey who’s wintering in Brittany. Can you imagine? Brittany, this time of year!” He stopped and stared at Miss