Читать книгу The Green Bungalow - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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It was shortly after nine o'clock when Harley walked down the steps of the Metropolitan Hotel and made his way in the direction of Brunswick Square. There he stopped at No. 201, and rang the bell. In response, there appeared a manservant, correctly attired enough, but somewhat dark of skin, and speaking a soft accent that suggested vaguely South America. In answer to Harley's question he replied that Mr. Macglendy was at that moment in the drawing-room with the mistress of the house, and two other gentlemen, whom Harley placed in his mind as Prest, his friend and rival, and Mark Shute. Macglendy he did know, but found him to be a tall, rather handsome spare man, with a prominent nose of the Jewish type, and a splendid beard that flowed over his chest. He was a pleasant mannered man enough, shrewd and worldly, with a pronounced Scotch accent that seemed also grotesque with a man who carried a Semitic suggestion in every line and gesture of him. Mrs. Macglendy appeared to be absolutely pale and colourless, like a sort of frightened atomaton that moved and spoke in a dream, and, quite evidently under the hypnotic influence of her husband. Her face was an absolute mask, and her manner exceedingly refined and polished, with a suggestion, every now and then, of one who, in her earlier days, had been au fait with the very best society. But after the first convulsive greeting she dropped back to her seat like a toy that has run down and spoke not another word until the others rose to go.

"Well, we had better be getting along, I think," Shute suggested. "By the way, Harley, I suppose you didn't forget to bring those cards along that I asked you for? I am afraid if you did, we shall be more or less in the cart."

"Oh, that's all right," Harley said. "I bought a couple of packs this afternoon, and they are in my pocket at the present moment. I am ready, if the rest of you are."

"And the car is at the door," Macglendy said.

They drove along the front presently, past Shoreham until they came at length to the road that leads down to the group of bungalows on the Shorehaven beach. Here the car was dismissed, with instructions to the chauffeur to return shortly after midnight, and the little party made their way over the shingle in the direction of a sort of bluff on the left side of the beach, where they could see the outline of a bungalow that stood a hundred yards or so apart from the other buildings. So far as Harley could see, there was behind the bungalow a sort of floating landing stage, locked in on either side by concrete bastions. The bungalow itself had been fashioned at some remote period out of a wreck, and indeed, in the uncertain moonlight, it looked very like a ship itself.

"Rum old place, isn't it?" Shute said, as he opened the door and switched on the lights. "I have taken it furnished for a year from an eccentric old mariner who made his money out of salving operations. This old wreck is one of the speculations, and he turned it into a living house. It's the ideal spot for man who has literary work to do, and that's why I took it. Every convenience you see, even to electric light and cooking. When I am rusticating, I can look after myself and dispense with a servant. I have even got a landing stage here, with a floating raft—the very thing for your yacht, Harley. I have half a mind to go into the smuggling trade. I believe I could work it quite easily. What do you say, Harley, to joining up with that yacht of yours?"

Harley made some laughing reply, but he was too interested in the common sitting-room to the bungalow to take much heed of what his companions were saying. It was a quaint, odd-shaped room, with large portholes on either side, in fact, it was the exact reproduction of a large and comfortable ship's cabin, and, in a good many ways, it reminded Harley of his own quarters on the yacht that he had invested in directly he had come into his money.

"And a verra nice comfortable hermitage it is," Macglendy said, in that broad Scotch accent of his. "Mon, ye could write here all the year round and never a sound. That book of yours ought to make interesting reading."

"Well, I think it should," Shute murmured. "I have been knocking about the world for the last twenty years, and I flatter myself I have had more adventures than most men."

"Yes," Macglendy said. "A striking example of the rolling stone that does gather moss."

"Oh, I haven't done so badly," Shute said modestly. "Now then, gather round the table whilst I get the drinks out. By the way, Harley where are those cards?"

"I put them on the mantlepiece," Harley said. "There they are, just behind you. I suppose they are all right. They were the best I could get at Weston's, and I thought two packs would be enough. If you want any more——"

"Oh, that's all right," Shute said. "That will be all right for to-night. You'd better take them down and tear all the wrappings off."

As Shute spoke, he dived into a little cupboard by the side of the fireplace and produced a large tantalus with a syphon or two of soda, and some glasses. Harley rose, and taking the two packs of cards from the spot where he had placed them, broke the twine around them, and tore off the covers. Then he poured the two packs out on the table from their cases, and Macglendy picked them up and allowed them to sift through his fingers in a professional sort of way which would not have been lost on older men of the world than Harley, and his old friend and school chum Prest, who sat watching Harley with a smile on that handsome, somewhat stupid face of his. For Prest was a soldier first and last and all the time. A man of considerable means who had taken up the Army seriously, and, to him, the honour of his regiment was almost a fetish.

"What are we going to play?" he asked.

"I don't care what it is," Harley said.

In his happy mood it was all the same to him. He was prepared for a long evening to play a game for which he cared practically nothing, and whatever game the others elected for he was quite willing to fall in with. One or two games were suggested and then they fell back by common consent upon poker.

"What about the stakes," Shute asked. "We are quite safe here from any interference on the part of the police, so I vote that for once in a way we have a real big gamble."

"Oh, don't make it verra high," Macglendy said. "I'm not so fond of your big stakes. Ah, no, I ken the value of money too well, and how hard it is to earn. But I'm thinking these young fellows with silvers spoons in their mouths will be wanting what they call a flutter, so, just for once in a way, I don't mind going as far as fifty pounds rises."

The others began to laugh, and Shute began to rally the Scotsman upon his caution, all of which was accepted in good part. Then they sat down to play in earnest, and for the best part of an hour hardly a word was spoken. Even Harley, careless and happy as he was, began to find himself under the fascination of the game.

And, from the very first, he won steadily. It seemed to him that he could do no wrong. The more he won, the more exuberant and reckless he became, whilst the others looked on with humorous comments, and the usual allusion to a beginner's luck. It was Prest who suffered more severely, for the Scotsman, in his cautious way, threw in his hand over and over again rather than take any unnecessary risks, and Prest was just about holding his own.

"Well, that's a most amazing thing," Prest exclaimed, as Harley called his hand for the fourth time, and laid two pairs on the table. "Talk about luck. Ah, there's one thing, my boy—don't forget that lucky in cards, unlucky in love."

It sounded almost a challenge, so that Harley looked up with a mocking smile in his eyes. He was laughing to himself to think that Prest would know all about that before long, so he gathered up his winnings, secure in his position, and the knowledge that he had honourably got the best of his old friend and rival.

"Yes, it is extraordinary how everything is going my way," he said. "I had a feeling when I sat down to-night that I was going to win. It seemed to me that everything was going my way, and I suppose that that is what made me reckless. I think it's what you Scottish people call fey, Mr. Macglendy."

"Och, aye," Macglendy said. "When the tide's with ye, nothing goes wrong. Ye could call the other man with nothing in your hand, and win even if you were holding four pieces of blotting paper. And if the luck's all out, then a straight flush is no more good to you than a sick headache. I've been through it myself."

Still the game went on, with occasional lapses for a cigarette or a visit to the tantalus, and still Harley won. It seemed impossible that he could do wrong. Then Macglendy dropped out for a hand or two, and stood watching the others. Suddenly a change came over his face, and, leaning over the table, he picked up a hand which had just been dealt by Harley to the other two.

"You'll excuse me," he said, in a harsh, husky voice. "It is verra unpleasant, but my duty is plain. These cards are marked."

Harley jumped to his feet as if something had shot him.

"Marked," he cried. "Marked. Two fresh packs of cards that I bought myself and opened in your presence. Mr. Macglendy, I am afraid I don't quite understand what you are saving."

"Aye, but I do," Macglendy said stolidly. "I am too old a hand at the game to be deceived. Look at this."

He took up a handful of the cards, and held them aslant so that the light caught the glaze on the backs. And on every card there was a sort of pattern in dull, tiny spots as if the glaze had been removed by a touch of acid. There was not a single card in either pack that did not show one of these patterns. Very slowly the Scotsman dropped them one by one on the table, and then turned a cold, passionless eye upon Harley.

"You see what I mean," he said. "They are all marked. And what's more, one of the cards is missing. I think ye'll find that it is the ace of spades, and, moreover, I think Mr. Harley will find the ace of spades in his jacket pocket."

Boiling with rage and indignation, Harley plunged his hands into his jacket pockets. Then, to his own dazed amazement, he produced a square of pasteboard that fluttered from his nerveless fingers on to the table under the eyes of his companions.

"The ace of spades," he whispered hoarsely. "Gentlemen, I swear by my Maker that I never placed that card there."