Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 46

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The dealer turned his box on its side.

“The bank is exhausted, gentlemen,” he said. “The game is suspended until more tokens are brought from the office.”

Stiffly Bowie rose from his chair, taking from the banker a certificate of value. More than two thousand dollars. To Audubon he said, “I want a drink.”

Brandy. They stood together by the wall sipping.

The artist said, “Jim ... you’re two thousand dollars ahead. Let’s leave—it’s after midnight.”

“Two thousand,” Bowie said. “I started with fifty. Just fifty.” His look was almost dazed. “I couldn’t lose. Once in a while, but never for long. My hedge bets won, my long chances came off—as if something was guiding me—like a destiny——”

“Come away,” said Audubon.

“I can’t—not now.”

“I beg thee—something has been awakened in thee——”

“What are you talking about?” Bowie said impatiently.

“Listen to me, James. There’s an old tale of an English officer in India who brought up as a pet a tiger cub. The animal was fed on milk, as gentle and harmless as a kitten. Once the officer slept in his chair, his hand hanging downward. The tiger, grown now, but still a trusted pet, lay upon the floor and with affection licked his master’s hand. Suddenly the officer was awakened by a growl from the striped creature.”

Audubon paused, with intense earnestness. “What had happened? He knew! The rough tongue of the brute had abraded the skin of his hand so that a tiny spot of blood had come. Only a drop—but the tiger had tasted it. His loving pet had been transformed by it into a crouching beast of prey, snarling, its great hooked claws extended. Yet for one moment the tiger continued to taste the blood on its master’s hand. In that moment the officer lifted a pistol from the table beside him and shot the brute through the head, before it could leap on him, to rend and devour!”

“Well?” said Bowie.

“James—some men have that in them which once having tasted blood never leaves them until it destroys them. I saw the tiger just now—glaring forth from thy eye!”

Bowie stared, half minded for a moment to listen to Audubon’s suggestion that they leave. But a voice spoke behind him.

“Well, Jim! The place is buzzing over your tour de force.”

Bowie turned. Narcisse was accompanied by Malot. The maître d’armes smiled. “It’s not often that a player breaks the faro bank here,” he said.

“I won only two thousand,” said Bowie.

“But many others won also on your play, monsieur.”

Narcisse glanced across the room. “Our friends have been less fortunate at the wheel.”

Cabanal and the coterie. Some of them were already drunk. Among them was the square figure of Contrecourt. From his eye Bowie received a straight black stare.

A lean and very elegant man in a pearl-gray suit came from the office and glanced about the room.

“That’s St. Sylvain himself,” Narcisse said.

Malot excused himself. The others watched the owner of the casino as he began moving about from table to table, greeting his guests. Presently he came over to them.

“Ah, Monsieur de Bornay,” he said. “I rejoice at seeing you.”

“I present my friends, Monsieur Bowie and Monsieur Audubon,” Narcisse said.

St. Sylvain gave the impression of icy grayness. Not only was his attire gray, but his hair and slight waxed mustache also. His skin seemed gray, and his veiled eyes were slaty gray.

“Monsieur Audubon, your servant,” he said. “Of Monsieur Bowie I have just been informed in my office.” He gave a slight smile. “Not everyone is as fortunate as he is. It will take some minutes to rehabilitate the bank. Meantime, you of course wish to continue play, messieurs. What is your pleasure?”

Bowie felt Audubon tug at his sleeve and shook him off.

“What would you suggest, monsieur?” he said.

St. Sylvain bowed slightly. “To suggest is a pleasure. I am about to open a table of baccarat. Will you gentlemen join the party?”

The invitation was an honor in its way, a somewhat dangerous one.

“The play is very simple,” said St. Sylvain.

Bowie nodded and glanced down at the certificate of value in his hand. St. Sylvain clapped his hands.

“Bring counters for this certificate to Monsieur Bowie at my table,” he said to a servant who came at the summons. With a bow, he led the way.

Audubon hung back. “I’m going, James.”

“Good-by, then.” Bowie followed St. Sylvain.