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Charles Ruskin headed for the exit of Casino Milano at 11 pm, just in time to catch the last flight to London, where he planned to stay in the airship’s bar until he no longer was pissed off by having been recalled before he could finish his mission. Reaching the double swing door he pushed the right door open, as the left was pushed open from the outside by a man with the crooked nose and shrewd eyes of an unfair boxer. When Ruskin hurried past the man, something brushed against his leg. A paper bag in the boxer’s left hand. Violet, and imprinted with flowery, barely readable letters. 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 a frustrating evening of futile prying, a lead had been thrown at him. Now what? Follow the lead, risk missing his flight, and in effect disobey a direct order. Or ignore it and accept failure. He strode back, pushed the door open, was hit by a clamour of voices, and dived back into cigar smoke and perfume fragrances. Beneath the candle chandeliers, the boxer zig-zagged 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 reached a spot that would have given him a good look at the bag, but just then the boxer shifted it to his right hand and elbowed his way out of the crowd. Ruskin allowed himself to mumble an oath. “Lost this one, did you?” A man with a silly grin leaned toward Ruskin. Ruskin wiped the grin away with a look. The boxer walked around a diorama of volcanos erupting with gas flames. Ruskin circled it in the opposite direction. 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. When the boxer walked away from the diorama, Ruskin got a clear view of the bag. The text read, Signorina Elegante. His fleeting impression had been spot on. Now, where would the man take the bag? The risk of being made would be too high if Ruskin continued to keep close to his target. Instead, he took a detour around a group of brass statues of nymphs lounging around a pond. The boxer stopped and scanned the room. Ruskin turned away and tossed a coin into the water. A nymph lifted an amphora and poured wine into a goblet. The boxer walked toward the back of the room where two clockwork samurai, standing in front of a Japanese temple, shot arrows at a target. A group of gamblers shouted encouragement. Keeping the group between himself and the boxer, Ruskin closed in on his quarry. The boxer glanced around and slipped into a narrow aisle between the temple and the back wall of the room. Ruskin reached the aisle. The narrow space was dark and empty. Ten feet down a door in the back wall closed with a metallic clank. He strode to the door and tried the handle. Locked. Kneeling, he pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. If he didn’t leave soon, he would miss his airship. He pressed four times on the crown. An L-shaped metal rod swung out from the side of the watch. He inserted the rod into the lock and delicately turned the crown. Should he, as he had promised the diplomats, let the police take over now that he had located the woman? A clunk sounded from the lock. No way in hell a bag from a ladies’ fashion store would make them raid a casino. Screw the diplomats. He drew his gun, held it ready and pushed the door open. Dim light from the neighbouring skyscrapers revealed the boxer, hunched against the driving rain, crossing a cobblestone bridge leading to a docking tower.