Читать книгу Under the Tiger's Claws; Or, A Struggle for the Right - Carter Nicholas - Страница 5

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“Last turn! Four for one if you call it right!”

The monotonous voice of the cuekeeper, announcing with hackneyed phrase the alluring possibility, broke the strained silence of an elaborately furnished room.

It was a room on the second floor of the famous gambling resort owned and conducted by Moses Flood. It was that particular room in the house in which King Faro held sole sway.

The house was in a fashionable street, and had an attractive exterior. No layman would have dreamed that it masked a lair of vice. It was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

It was one of a superb block of brown sandstone residences within a stone’s throw of Fifth Avenue, with a broad flight of carved steps leading to the front door. The elegant stained windows of this front door, as well as those of the lower rooms, were protected with strong, iron gratings, that thieves might not break through and steal.

Incidentally, the police also were thus excluded—unless they came with a warrant. In that case, even, which a wardman was liberally paid to prevent, they would have “found nothing.” It takes time to read a search-warrant—all the time that would be required to effect a transformation scene within. Such are the precautions taken by vice.

Entrance could be had only with the sanction of a burly attendant constantly at the front door, and by means of the magic talisman of previous acquaintance, or the voucher of a known and reliable friend. One entering from the street would have seen only a superbly furnished hall, with sumptuous parlors adjoining, and a library and smoking-room beyond.

To see more, one must go higher.

The tiger lurks on the floors above.

To one only of the upper rooms is attention here invited—the room already mentioned.

It was large and richly furnished. A heavy Wilton carpet covered the floor. Massive walnut chairs stood a little away from the beautifully frescoed walls, and the ceiling, done in exquisite colors, and so as to produce the effect of height, revealed a lavish expenditure of money. It might have been a room in a king’s palace.

Rare paintings adorned the walls. A large sideboard, rich with silver and cut glass, stood at the back of the room. Costly ornaments occupied shelves and niches here and there.

The door leading to the main hall of the house was closed and heavily barred. It had in one panel a “peek,” so called, with a moving slide, through which an attendant could look into the hall. This was another precaution taken by vice.

At the front of the room was a long, baize-covered table, on which was a faro layout, the various suits painted in natural colors on enameled cloth. It was the tiger, courted while feared. It should have been called the snake, for it fascinated before it killed, rendering powerless the victims it lured to destruction.

Back of the table sat the dealer, who played his luck against all opponents. His duties were arduous. He sold the stacks of ivory chips, handled all the money, shuffled and dealt the cards from the silver deal box before him, and took or paid all bets. He seldom spoke unless addressed. His brain was active, his eyes alert, his hands busy; but his face, whether he won or lost, evinced no emotion.

In a chair to his right, and somewhat above the table, sat the lookout. His duty was to see that the dealer made no mistakes. The lookout thus protects the house. The players have no protection. They who “buck the tiger” must look out for themselves.

At one end of the table sat the cuekeeper. In front of him on the table lay the cue-rack, a small wooden frame, pierced with wires, on which movable buttons indicate the cards already dealt and those still remaining in the deal box.

The cuekeeper in a faro-bank is every man’s menial. The losers curse him; the winners sometimes tip him. The cuekeeper in this place was a humpback, named John Green. He more frequently was called Humpty. All cuekeepers are malformations; the longer they live, the worse they become.

On a couch at one side of the room a young man lay sleeping. It was the deep, dead sleep of intoxication. Yet he was well clad, and his boyish features indicated culture and refinement. His name was—Harry Royal.

The companion with whom he had entered this place some hours earlier was seated at the gaming-table, in a chair directly opposite the dealer and amid several other players. He was a tall, fair man, and his knit brows, his pressed lips, his glowing eyes, and tremulous hands, indicated his intense interest in the game then in progress.

He appeared quite collected, however, and placed his bets promptly, like one playing a system. He was setting a rapid pace, too, if one might judge from the stacks of chips in front of him. Yet he plainly was not a winner. The ugly light in his frowning eyes was convincing evidence of that.

Such was the place, and the employment of its several occupants, which Moses Flood was at that hour approaching.

The May day was drawing to a close, and the dusk of early evening had begun to fall.

The cuekeeper repeated his announcement:

“Last turn! Four for one if you call it!”

The man last described glanced at the cuekeeper:

“What’s in, Humpty?” he demanded.

“A cat-hop, Mr. Kendall—two kings and a seven. He’s got to show a king first, hasn’t he?” replied the humpback, with a weird smile stealing over his broad, unpleasant-looking face.

“It’s two to one he does,” growled Kendall, as the dealer briefly paused before making the turn.

Kendall placed a hundred to win on the seven, coppered the king for a like amount, and called the turn for fifty.

Several other players, most of whom were wealthy bloods about town, men who would have given thousands rather than have been caught in Flood’s gaming-house—these men also had placed their bets.

“All ready?” queried the dealer indifferently.

“Let her come, Mr. Bruce,” said one impatiently.

Tom Bruce, a dealer who had been in Flood’s employ for several years, deftly pushed the cards from the box.

He showed a seven, and then two kings.

Cecil Kendall had lost two hundred and fifty dollars on the turn.

For the bare fraction of a second he shrank, shuddered visibly, and his drawn features took on a deathly pallor and the haggard look of secret despair.

“Curse the infernal luck!” he growled audibly. “Will it never change?”

The lookout, a man named Nathan Godard, also in Flood’s employ, smiled faintly.

“What’s the trouble, Kendall?” he asked, in bantering fashion. “Can’t you get ’em down right?”

“I didn’t get those bets down right, that’s evident,” snarled Kendall bitterly.

“So I see.”

“What you don’t see, Godard, isn’t worth seeing.”

“Oh, is that so? You must be a loser, Kendall.”

“About eighteen hundred.”

“Ah, well, don’t let it bother you,” laughed Godard, a bit maliciously. “You’re not playing for your life.”

Kendall evidently did not like the interference, nor the tone in which the last remarks were made. He glanced sharply up at the rather unprepossessing face of the speaker, and retorted curtly:

“No, not for my life, Nate Godard! But I’m playing for something as dear to me as life.”

“A fortune, eh?” grinned Godard, not in the least disturbed.

“No, not a fortune,” snapped Kendall.

The dealer glanced across the table at him, still shuffling the cards for the next deal, but he said nothing.

Godard, however, could not resist voicing the thought that arose in his mind.

“Well, if you’re playing for something more dear than either life or fortune, Kendall, you’re taking infernally long chances,” said he pointedly. “Honor is something not wisely staked upon a faro layout, and if——”

In an instant Kendall was upon his feet, ghastly with passion.

“Who spoke of honor?” he cried furiously. “Do you dare imply that I——”

Clang!

The bell on the hall door had rung sharply.

It rang an immediate knell to the brief disturbance.

It brought a moment of absolute silence, in which every eye was turned swiftly toward the door.

Humpty Green, the malformation, leaped up from his chair and ran to the peek. One glance was sufficient. He closed the slide, then threw both hands above his head with a grotesque gesture of warning.

The eyes of all were upon him. His lips moved, but his voice, was silent, yet all received the mute message he conveyed.

“Hush! It’s the boss! It’s Moses Flood!”

Then he removed the heavy bar and opened the door.

Moses Flood, with face as calm as a sea of ice, gravely entered the room.

He was followed closely by two men, both of whom were in disguise.

One was the famous New York detective’s chief assistant, Chick Carter.

The other was Nick Carter, the great detective himself.

The humpback closed the heavy door and replaced the bar.