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1. At 11 pm a pissed-off spy headed for the exit of Casino Milano. He wore a well-cut tailcoat and a cocky smirk and walked with a swagger worthy of a winner. The night’s gambling had indeed been successful, but he had come to the casino in a last attempt to finish a job, and at that, Charles Ruskin had failed. Ruskin reached the double swing door and pushed the right door open, just as the left was pushed open from the outside. A bull-necked man entered. His crooked nose and shrewd eyes made him look like a boxer who knew all the dirty tricks. When Ruskin hurried by the man, something brushed against his leg. A paper bag in the boxer’s hand. Violet, and imprinted with frilly letters obscured by curly flowers. Ruskin deciphered part of the text, s-i-g-n, and then the door swung shut behind him. In the vestibule, he slowed down. After an evening of futile prying, a clue had materialized now that he was in a hurry to reach the airport. But it shouldn’t take long to check it out. And perhaps then the drinks in the airship’s bar would celebrate victory, not dull the sting of defeat. He walked back and pushed the door open. A clamour of voices hit him. He strode back into cigar smoke and perfume fragrances. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the boxer weaved his way through the crowd of guests parading flattering gowns, tailored coats, flowing saris, and diamond-studded turbans. He got slowed down by a throng of gamblers watching a mechanical mermaid rise from the water of a roulette pool. Ruskin drew closer as the mermaid, to a chorus of sighs and cheers, opened a seashell and revealed the number 9 set in red pearls. Peering through the crowd, he made out the full text on the boxer’s bag. Signorina Elegante. His fleeting impression had been spot on. Now it was a question of what the man did with the bag. He followed the boxer through a group of people assembled around a diorama of volcanos spewing gas flames. Intricate models of passenger-carrying balloons drifted down from the ceiling. Earlier, Ruskin had won a fair amount by betting on which balloons would land safely and which would perish in a volcano. The boxer walked on. If Ruskin kept following directly behind him the risk of being spotted would be too high. Instead, he made a detour to a group of brass sculptures of half-naked nymphs lounging around a pond. He tossed a coin into the water and a nymph lifted an amphora and poured wine into a golden goblet. The boxer seemed to be heading for a Japanese temple in the back of the room. Ruskin walked in the same direction and joined a handful of old men scribbling on betting cards while watching two clockwork samurai shooting arrows at a target. The boxer glanced around and slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the casino. Ruskin hurried to the entrance of the aisle. Ten feet down, a door in the back wall swung shut. Time to step out, and let the locals take over. As a Hound, Ruskin was free to take on missions at his own discretion as long as they didn’t interfere with his orders. But he had twice ignored letters asking him to drop this case, and today a direct order to return had reached him. If he missed the last airship to London there’d be wrath in The Kennel. With luck, he would have time to stop by the police headquarters and report—what? That he’d seen a man with a bag from a ladies’ fashion store? No way in hell that would make them raid a casino. Screw them all. He rushed down the aisle, pulling his gun from its shoulder holster. Ready to force the boxer to obey, he tore the door open and ran into the night and a torrent of rain and found himself on a bridge 2000 feet above the street of Milan. The boxer was nowhere near. He was jogging across the bridge towards one of the side towers of the skyscraper.