“Don’t talk that way, Sengoun,” said Neeland sharply. “We owe these pistols to her.”
“Oh,” muttered Sengoun, shooting a menacing glance at her. “I didn’t understand that.” Then his scowl softened and a sudden laugh cleared his face.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said. “You’re quite welcome to your low opinion of me. But if anyone should ask me, I’d say that I don’t understand what is happening to us. And after a while I’ll become angry and go downstairs for information.”
“They know nothing about you in the salle de jeu,” she said, “but on the floor below they’re waiting to kill you.” 372
Neeland, astonished, asked her whether the American gamblers in the salon where Sengoun had been playing were ignorant of what was going on in the house.
“What Americans?” she demanded, incredulously. “Do you mean Weishelm?”
“Didn’t you know there were Americans employed in the salle de jeu?” asked Neeland, surprised.
“No. I have not been in this house for a year until I came tonight. This place is maintained by the Turkish Government—” She flashed a glance at Sengoun—“you’re welcome to the information now,” she added contemptuously. And then, to Neeland: “There was, I believe, some talk in New York about adding one or two Americans to the personnel, but I opposed it.”
“They’re here,” said Neeland drily.
“Do you know who they are?”