“That you, Durant?” It was the voice of Lewis, who came quietly out of the darkness, a cigar-tip glowing redly. “First sight of England, eh? I’m leaving you in the morning.”
“But I’m going up to London too, instead of on to Cherbourg.”
“Good! Shall I see you in London?”
“No. Wiser not—wait for Paris.”
“Right. I’ll give you my address there. I’m going right on—taking the afternoon plane over tomorrow.”
Lewis fumbled for a card-case. He was a smallish man, very alert—a wholesale druggist from the Middle West, now engaged in smuggling a suitcase filled with cocaine into France—a task in which Durant presumably was aiding. True, Durant had saved him from Boris Makoff, had dumped the cocaine into the Atlantic and substituted baking soda for it—and for these services, known and unknown, Lewis was an ally. Once in Paris, he promised to be a most important ally.
“Thanks.” Durant took the card thrust at him. “You’ll hear from me as soon as I get settled—if not before! I’ve a rather big game to pull off, and there’ll be pickings in it. They’ll go to your friends who help me. I’m not in it for money.”
He did not say that he was not in it for crooks’ money—he had no intention of injuring the feelings of Lewis just yet. The two men separated, and Durant headed for the smoking-room, filled to bursting with the usual last-night crowd.
Makoff had a table and lounge in one corner; with him was the silent, rather offish Larson—impeccably dressed, as usual, and only a little less lonely. Helen—or Baroness Helena Glincka—had rejoined them and was drawing Larson into almost lively conversation. Cards lay waiting on the table.
Durant approached, saw Makoff make a remark, saw the eyes of Larson sweep to him with almost eager interest. He could not understand it, but came up to the table. Makoff rose.