Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 45
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ОглавлениеThe coterie had gone into the casino, and presently, when Grymes left them, Narcisse said, “Let’s enter the haunt of the tiger.”
Bowie rose at once, his stubborn recklessness growing. The haunt of the tiger? A good place to confront his enemies.
At least two hundred men were playing at the tables which crowded the floor of the casino. Above the hum of voices rose the rattle of the ivory balls in the roulette wheels and the sharp calls of the croupiers. To one side was a recessed counter, where money was exchanged for gambling tokens: red ivory disks at five dollars, white disks for one. Narcisse bought a hundred dollars’ worth, as a shout of laughter and applause came from one of the tables.
“Beaubien’s in luck tonight,” said the money-changer. “He’s making a killing—observe how the others are playing his bets.”
“Come on,” said Narcisse to Bowie. He was fidgeting, his careless, amused manner gone.
Bowie’s mood was attuned to this scene. Men crowded eagerly about tables, servants hurried with glasses on trays, laughter was high-pitched and excited. He experienced a feeling of impending events, fortunes changing rapidly every moment, a sensation almost repellent, yet suddenly enormously fascinating to him.
“Let it alone,” Audubon whispered in his ear.
Bowie shook his head. From his pocket he drew some gold coins: fifty dollars. Almost all he had. He was embarking on foolishness, but his bitter spirit impelled him. He took the ten red disks counted out to him.
“I’m for the wheel,” said Narcisse.
Bowie said, “I don’t understand roulette. But over there’s something I’ve seen before.”
“Faro? Good luck.” Narcisse departed eagerly and Audubon followed Bowie. For a few turns they watched, while stacks of chips were won or lost on different representations of cards enameled on the cloth. In the middle of the table cover a striped tiger was painted. Bowie remembered Narcisse’s expression, “the haunt of the tiger.”
He took a vacated seat. He had played faro before, but bets were large here. Might as well risk his whole stake. He placed the fifty dollars on the high card, coppered—to lose. Smoothly the dealer slipped the cards from the box. First a king. Then a seven.
“King-seven.” The dealer took in several bets. But the high card, coming first, had lost. Bowie’s stack was doubled.
“Place your bets, gentlemen.” Another turn. Bowie doubled again.
If gold coins had been stacked on the table, he might have behaved differently. But red ivory chips were not like cash. His feeling for them was only as something to compete with in this game. He was a natural competitor, and this evening an angry one. On the third bet he shoved the entire heap over on the painted ace of spades.
The dealer checked him. “The house limit, sir, is one hundred dollars on any single bet.”
Without speaking Bowie divided his stack into three piles. One hundred dollars went on the high card to win, fifty was “heeled” from king to deuce to win, and fifty “heeled” from five to eight to lose.
A murmur around the table. Foolish bet. Almost sure to work against itself by balancing losses against any win. Cards slipped from the box.
“Eight,” the dealer announced. Then, “King!”
A chorus of surprise. Bowie had won all three bets. The king had won, the eight had lost, and since king was high, high card had won also. An extraordinary combination of luck. Bowie had four hundred dollars on the table.
At his elbow was a servant with a toddy. He gulped the fiery sweet drink. A burning seemed to flow through his blood. Within him he seemed to have discovered a hidden and unknown inspiration, which fit in perfectly with his bitter recklessness.
He saw Audubon, across the table, staring strangely. Then he forgot everything except the rattle of the chips, the shuffle of the cards, the flat announcements of the banker. He won. And won again. Others began betting on his bets. A fever imbued him. Almost in a trance he was carried along on a resistless stream, which he had no wish to resist.
