[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
open the door. No wonder Celine's necklace was stolen, he thought
disgustedly.
He'd seen sturdier locks on dollhouses.
That was when he heard the voices. Moving as carefully as he did
when performing his most dangerous illusions, he inclined his head toward the
crack in the door and listened.
There were two speakers, both male. Their voices were faint, as if they were
far from the door. Still, Chance didn't think it wise to risk opening the door
any farther.
"Am I right about the necklace?" said one voice. It was Dureau. No doubt about
it. The nasality was unmistakable.
"Don't you think we have more important things to discuss?"
Chance blinked. The second voice sounded awfully familiar, but surely he
was mistaken. It didn't make sense.
"Oh, come on, Wilson," said Dureau.
What the hell was going on? Chance leaned closer to the door and closed his
eyes in concentration, straining to catch every word.
"I didn't expect this," Wilson said.
Expect what? Chance wondered. Expect Dureau to steal the necklace?
"This complicates everything," Wilson continued.
"You surprise me," Dureau said. "I didn't think you'd be squeamish
about murder."
Murder?
"Squeamish? On the contrary. It'll be a pleasure."
"I rather thought so," Dureau said dryly.
"Chance? What are you doing?" Ally asked.
He nearly jumped through the ceiling. Instead, he plunged headlong through
the doorway, involuntarily dragging Ally down into a messy heap on the floor
when she made a grab for his jacket.
"Chance!" she cried.
"Who's there?" Wilson's voice sounded about as cordial as the bark of an
attack dog.
"
Chance
?" Dureau repeated from the next room. "The magician?"
Chance was on his feet in a split second, spinning Ally around and shoving her
out the door. "We've got to get out of here!"
He looked over his shoulder to see Wilson emerge from the bedroom portion of
Dureau's suite. He held a very large gun in his right hand. One good look at
it made
Chance feel ill. Instinctively using his skills at misdirection, he threw the
first handy object he could grab in this case, Ally's purse directly at
Wilson's face, lunging sideways in case the man pulled the trigger. Twenty
years of practice probably saved his life, since the surprise move worked.
Wilson's reflexive grab to catch the purse made him drop the gun, giving
Chance the time he needed to slam the door and shove Ally toward the
emergency stairs.
"Chance, what's going on?" she demanded, staggering as he forced her down a
flight of stairs.
"No time to explain! Just run
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, Ally."
"But why?"
"Don't ask questions! Just do it!"
They made a mad dash down a dozen more flights of stairs, by which time he
assumed Ally had run out of breath for asking questions; he had certainly run
out of breath for answering them.
"Wait," she finally panted, digging in her heels and coming to a complete
stop somewhere around the tenth floor. "What are we running from?"
"You didn't see it?" he demanded, breathing hard.
"See what?"
"The gun."
"What gun?"
"The one pointing directly at us."
"Someone was pointing a gun at us?" He nodded. Without another word, Ally
started running down the stairs again.
By the time they reached the lower levels, their descent was
essentially a controlled fall. When they arrived at the ground floor, Ally
stopped for breath again.
"Why& isn't& he& chasing& us?" she asked between gulps of air.
Chance grunted. "Maybe& he's still& waiting for& the elevator."
For some reason, this set her off into peals of laughter.
"Ally& not now."
"Sorry& sorry. We've got to& report this."
When they opened the fire door and stepped into the lobby, they found
things even more chaotic than before. Socialites and celebrities were
milling all over the place, the check-out desk was mobbed by a vast herd of
guests who were suddenly eager to leave, and the bell captain's station was
buried beneath a pile of designer luggage.
"Hotel security," Ally suggested, still struggling for breath.
"No!" Chance grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the main doors.
"What? Chance!"
"No!" he repeated, wiping sweat off his face with his jacket sleeve. How could
he tell the Wilson Palace security people that Wilson himself was running
around with a gun? No, he had to go directly to the Atlantic City Police and
tell them about Wilson and Dureau. He only wished he knew what he was going to
say. It made no sense. It would probably sound crazy.
"Chance!" Ally cried, struggling against his grip on her arm. "We can't just
leave
."
"
Nothing is getting me back inside the hotel, Ally."
Outside the main doors, a doorman approached him and asked
solicitously, "Taxi, sir?"
Ally said, "No, thank you. We have a car."
"Yes, we'll take a taxi."
"What? But, Chance "
"There's no time, Ally. We've got to get out of here!"
"We can't "
Her protest was interrupted by the wail of sirens, followed closely by the
screech of tires. Within seconds, three blue-and-whites and an unmarked police
car all pulled up in front of the Wilson Palace Hotel and Casino.
"The police," Ally said with relief. "Now can we stop running?"
"There he is!" cried a voice from behind them. Chance whirled to find
himself facing Mrs. Pollingsworth-Biddle.
"He who?" Ally asked, even though the lady was clearly pointing at Chance.
Four husky security guards rushed forward and seized Chance, shoving
Ally roughly aside.
"What's going on?" asked a dark-haired man in a trench coat, emerging from the
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unmarked car.
"That's the culprit, officer! That's your man. Helmut Wilson just identified
him!"
Mrs. Pollingsworth-Biddle cried.
"What do you mean, 'identified him'?" Ally demanded in confusion.
"Mr. Wilson's stuck on the top floor, sir," said one of the hotel security
guards, addressing the dark-haired cop. "This fellow," he added,
jerking Chance by the shoulder, "just threatened him with a gun."
"That's crazy!" Ally snapped.
"He stole the diamonds, officer," Mrs. Pollingsworth-Biddle cried.
"What diamonds?" Ally said.
"Celine's diamonds," Chance said wearily.
"I don't get it," Ally said, looking at him plaintively.
He sighed. "Let's just say I'm having one of those days."
The trench-coat cop, despite his Italian looks, turned out to be named
O'Neal.
Ally felt almost sorry for him, since he was clearly having a difficult time
trying to bring order to chaos and to make sense out of insanity. She and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
open the door. No wonder Celine's necklace was stolen, he thought
disgustedly.
He'd seen sturdier locks on dollhouses.
That was when he heard the voices. Moving as carefully as he did
when performing his most dangerous illusions, he inclined his head toward the
crack in the door and listened.
There were two speakers, both male. Their voices were faint, as if they were
far from the door. Still, Chance didn't think it wise to risk opening the door
any farther.
"Am I right about the necklace?" said one voice. It was Dureau. No doubt about
it. The nasality was unmistakable.
"Don't you think we have more important things to discuss?"
Chance blinked. The second voice sounded awfully familiar, but surely he
was mistaken. It didn't make sense.
"Oh, come on, Wilson," said Dureau.
What the hell was going on? Chance leaned closer to the door and closed his
eyes in concentration, straining to catch every word.
"I didn't expect this," Wilson said.
Expect what? Chance wondered. Expect Dureau to steal the necklace?
"This complicates everything," Wilson continued.
"You surprise me," Dureau said. "I didn't think you'd be squeamish
about murder."
Murder?
"Squeamish? On the contrary. It'll be a pleasure."
"I rather thought so," Dureau said dryly.
"Chance? What are you doing?" Ally asked.
He nearly jumped through the ceiling. Instead, he plunged headlong through
the doorway, involuntarily dragging Ally down into a messy heap on the floor
when she made a grab for his jacket.
"Chance!" she cried.
"Who's there?" Wilson's voice sounded about as cordial as the bark of an
attack dog.
"
Chance
?" Dureau repeated from the next room. "The magician?"
Chance was on his feet in a split second, spinning Ally around and shoving her
out the door. "We've got to get out of here!"
He looked over his shoulder to see Wilson emerge from the bedroom portion of
Dureau's suite. He held a very large gun in his right hand. One good look at
it made
Chance feel ill. Instinctively using his skills at misdirection, he threw the
first handy object he could grab in this case, Ally's purse directly at
Wilson's face, lunging sideways in case the man pulled the trigger. Twenty
years of practice probably saved his life, since the surprise move worked.
Wilson's reflexive grab to catch the purse made him drop the gun, giving
Chance the time he needed to slam the door and shove Ally toward the
emergency stairs.
"Chance, what's going on?" she demanded, staggering as he forced her down a
flight of stairs.
"No time to explain! Just run
Page 65
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
, Ally."
"But why?"
"Don't ask questions! Just do it!"
They made a mad dash down a dozen more flights of stairs, by which time he
assumed Ally had run out of breath for asking questions; he had certainly run
out of breath for answering them.
"Wait," she finally panted, digging in her heels and coming to a complete
stop somewhere around the tenth floor. "What are we running from?"
"You didn't see it?" he demanded, breathing hard.
"See what?"
"The gun."
"What gun?"
"The one pointing directly at us."
"Someone was pointing a gun at us?" He nodded. Without another word, Ally
started running down the stairs again.
By the time they reached the lower levels, their descent was
essentially a controlled fall. When they arrived at the ground floor, Ally
stopped for breath again.
"Why& isn't& he& chasing& us?" she asked between gulps of air.
Chance grunted. "Maybe& he's still& waiting for& the elevator."
For some reason, this set her off into peals of laughter.
"Ally& not now."
"Sorry& sorry. We've got to& report this."
When they opened the fire door and stepped into the lobby, they found
things even more chaotic than before. Socialites and celebrities were
milling all over the place, the check-out desk was mobbed by a vast herd of
guests who were suddenly eager to leave, and the bell captain's station was
buried beneath a pile of designer luggage.
"Hotel security," Ally suggested, still struggling for breath.
"No!" Chance grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the main doors.
"What? Chance!"
"No!" he repeated, wiping sweat off his face with his jacket sleeve. How could
he tell the Wilson Palace security people that Wilson himself was running
around with a gun? No, he had to go directly to the Atlantic City Police and
tell them about Wilson and Dureau. He only wished he knew what he was going to
say. It made no sense. It would probably sound crazy.
"Chance!" Ally cried, struggling against his grip on her arm. "We can't just
leave
."
"
Nothing is getting me back inside the hotel, Ally."
Outside the main doors, a doorman approached him and asked
solicitously, "Taxi, sir?"
Ally said, "No, thank you. We have a car."
"Yes, we'll take a taxi."
"What? But, Chance "
"There's no time, Ally. We've got to get out of here!"
"We can't "
Her protest was interrupted by the wail of sirens, followed closely by the
screech of tires. Within seconds, three blue-and-whites and an unmarked police
car all pulled up in front of the Wilson Palace Hotel and Casino.
"The police," Ally said with relief. "Now can we stop running?"
"There he is!" cried a voice from behind them. Chance whirled to find
himself facing Mrs. Pollingsworth-Biddle.
"He who?" Ally asked, even though the lady was clearly pointing at Chance.
Four husky security guards rushed forward and seized Chance, shoving
Ally roughly aside.
"What's going on?" asked a dark-haired man in a trench coat, emerging from the
Page 66
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
unmarked car.
"That's the culprit, officer! That's your man. Helmut Wilson just identified
him!"
Mrs. Pollingsworth-Biddle cried.
"What do you mean, 'identified him'?" Ally demanded in confusion.
"Mr. Wilson's stuck on the top floor, sir," said one of the hotel security
guards, addressing the dark-haired cop. "This fellow," he added,
jerking Chance by the shoulder, "just threatened him with a gun."
"That's crazy!" Ally snapped.
"He stole the diamonds, officer," Mrs. Pollingsworth-Biddle cried.
"What diamonds?" Ally said.
"Celine's diamonds," Chance said wearily.
"I don't get it," Ally said, looking at him plaintively.
He sighed. "Let's just say I'm having one of those days."
The trench-coat cop, despite his Italian looks, turned out to be named
O'Neal.
Ally felt almost sorry for him, since he was clearly having a difficult time
trying to bring order to chaos and to make sense out of insanity. She and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]