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At 11 pm Charles Ruskin headed for the exit of Casino Milano. His cocky smirk and confident swagger spoke truthfully of successful gambling but belied the failure of his mission. Reaching the double swing door he pushed the right door open, just as the left was pushed open from the outside. A bull-necked man entered. He had a crooked nose and shrewd eyes like a boxer who knew all the dirty tricks. When Ruskin hurried past the man, something brushed against his leg. A paper bag in the boxer’s left 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. Now what? Follow the lead that had just been thrown at him, risk missing the last airship to London, and thereby disobeying a direct order. Or ignore the lead and accept failure. He strode back and pushed the door open. A clamour of voices hit him. He dived 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. He manoeuvred to a spot that would give him a good look at the bag, just as the boxer shifted it to his right hand and elbowed his way out of the crowd. Ruskin felt a hand on his arm. “Did you also lose?” A woman looked up at him with wide eyes and an inviting smile. Had let his annoyance show? “Just bad timing. Sorry.” He turned and looked around. The boxer was on the way around a diorama of volcanos erupting with gas flames. Ruskin circled it in the opposite direction. Intricate models of passenger-carrying balloons drifted down from the ceiling. Earlier, he had won a fair amount by betting on which balloons would land safely and which would perish in a volcano. He timed himself so he got a clear view of the bag when the boxer walked away from the diorama. The text read, Signorina Elegante. His fleeting impression had been spot on. Now it was a question of what the man did next. The risk of being spotted would be too high if he continued walking directly behind him. Instead, he made a detour to a group of brass sculptures of nymphs lounging around a pond. When the boxer stopped and looked around, Ruskin turned and tossed a coin into the water. A nymph lifted an amphora and poured wine into a golden goblet. The boxer seemed to be heading to the back of the room. In front of a Japanese temple, two clockwork samurai shot arrows at a target. Keeping a group of gamblers shouting encouragement at the samurai, between himself and the boxer, Ruskin once again closed the distance. The boxer glanced around and slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the casino.