Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 47

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“Messieurs, I have reserved for you the two chairs nearest the bank at the left,” smiled St. Sylvain.

A high favor, since the players nearest the bank were paid first, so that if it was exhausted they stood a chance to receive their money while more distant players went without.

Bowie took the place next to the casino owner, with Narcisse on the other side of him. Across the table was a small man with thin auburn hair turning white at the temples, who was introduced as Monsieur Jarvis. Opposite Narcisse sat a rubicund, portly gentleman named Lombardi. The other three players at the far end Bowie knew: Cabanal, Lebain, and Contrecourt, the professional swordsman.

“The bank is five thousand, messieurs,” said St. Sylvain, riffling the deck. “Any part of it, or all, is yours. Bets if you please.”

The rules were absurdly simple, somewhat resembling vingt-et-un, which Bowie knew as blackjack. Instead of twenty-one, the points were nine or eight, with nine taking precedence. Tens and face cards counted zero. If one had a count of five or less, it was well to ask for a card: if more, to refuse. Only three hands, in each deal, competed: that of the dealer, and of a player on each side of him. After each hand the play moved up the table, so all had a chance to try their luck and pit their skill. But though only two played against the bank each time, all the others could bet, either on their own side to win, or on both sides to win against the dealer. The latter procedure, which required some daring, was called à cheval.

Experimentally Bowie pushed forward ten red chips. Two cards slid toward him. He looked: a five and a three. Eight. He turned up his cards. A slight buzz of pleasure rose from his side of the table.

“A card, Monsieur Jarvis?” asked St. Sylvain.

The red-haired man opposite nodded. He took the card and studied his hand. “Six,” he said, turning it up.

St. Sylvain glanced at Bowie’s eight and turned up his own cards. “Seven,” he said.

The gambler had swiftly computed the bets on each side, and since they were slightly heavier on the right than the left, took his loss on the latter to collect on the former.

“The bank is five thousand, two hundred,” he said.

Bowie saw the idea of the game. He pushed out three hundred in chips. Narcisse was the player. His count of seven won. Opposite, Lombardi called for a card, got a count of thirteen, and lost. Left seemed to be in luck.

“I’m betting five hundred,” Bowie said, “à cheval.”

“Right’s not winning,” whispered Narcisse.

“We’ll see,” Bowie said.

For the first time both sides did win. In three bets Bowie had taken fourteen hundred dollars. Including his faro winnings he had thirty-four hundred.

“The bank,” said St. Sylvain, “is two thousand, one hundred.”

An impulse seized Bowie. “Banco. I take it all.”

It was his privilege and took precedence of all other bets.

Imperturbably St. Sylvain dealt to him only. A deuce and a three: a count of five.

“Another card, monsieur?”

“Please.”

He looked at the third card and turned up his hand. “Nine.”

St. Sylvain pushed over all his chips. “The bank is exhausted. Your pardon a moment while it is replenished.” To Bowie he gave his gray smile. “Monsieur’s good fortune is exemplary.”

Narcisse was silent. Contrecourt and Cabanal frowned over at Bowie, talking together in a low voice. His mouth set stubbornly. If they didn’t like it, it was immaterial to him. Before him was more than five thousand dollars in chips.

“The bank is five thousand again——” began St. Sylvain.

“Banco!”

Faces turned on Bowie, growing taut.

“It is you and I then, monsieur?” St. Sylvain dealt. At once Bowie turned up his cards: a trey and a six.

St. Sylvain smiled. “The bank is exhausted again, and for the second time by this gentleman.”

Scowls and mutterings about the table. Bowie said, so that all could hear, “I shall propose banco each time in the future, if I am able to do so.”

Contrecourt rose with a curse.

“Decidedly this Américain fool is making a nuisance of himself,” he said to Lebain in an undertone which clearly carried. Bowie appeared not to notice. He said, “Would you consider an increase in the bets, Monsieur St. Sylvain?”

“What increase?”

“I have here ten thousand, six hundred. I suggest—ten thousand, six hundred.”

An intake of breath from about him. Contrecourt became silent. St. Sylvain glanced about. Eyes, scores of eyes, were fixed on him, waiting to see what he would do. One of those contre la maison situations had suddenly risen, which constitute the greatest gambling drama. Every table in the casino was deserted to watch.

“What you propose is contrary to the rules of this house.” The gambler’s face was icy. “But for this occasion ... we suspend the rules.”

Narcisse sat helpless. The crowd jostled to see. About him Bowie saw faces, Creole faces, hostile faces, in their midst the hard glare of Contrecourt. They all hated him, hoped for his defeat.

Two oblongs of cardboard slithered across the table; He picked up the cards and looked at them. Ace and five. Hard decision. If he drew he risked breaking his hand. If not, the margin for his opponent was wide.

“A card,” he said.

It was a trey. St. Sylvain drew almost perfunctorily. Bowie had won again.

“Twenty thousand, I believe?” said the gambler.

Bowie hesitated, and his glance flicked to Narcisse. Perspiration stood on his friend’s face. Narcisse was worried ... Narcisse the brother of Judalon, whose laugh kept repeating in his brain. Twenty thousand and some hundreds more if he stopped now. Twenty thousand was good. But with forty thousand of his own ... not even the de Bornay girl could laugh at him ...

He counted. “I have here,” he said, “twenty-one thousand, two hundred, to be exact. Will you raise the limit again, monsieur?”

St. Sylvain had a grievous problem. If he lost again to the American he would be more than forty-two thousand dollars down for the night. A very large sum, and if continued this might mean the breaking of his house.

But he nodded.

Colonel Grymes pushed into the circle. Beside him was a man whimsically theatrical in appearance, in a blue military surtout and a tall black stock that almost seemed to cut off his ears. He was slightly larger around the waist than anywhere else, his black hair was plastered with pomatum close to his bullet head, his mustaches were waxed into two upthrusting horns, and across his dark oily face, from the right ear to the corner of the mouth, ran a long white scar.

Philippe Cabanal, unable to stand the suspense, stood up and leaned on the table with both hands, chewing nervously on the end of his mustache. At Bowie’s left, Narcisse went white. Complete, tense silence fell.

St. Sylvain shuffled and dealt.

Bowie turned up his hand. Deuce and five of hearts. Seven.

Now St. Sylvain put his two cards face up on the table. All saw that he had a four and a king. An ugly hand. The face card counted as a zero, and since he could draw only one card, it must be either a four or a five to beat Bowie. One five already in the American’s hand, and one four in his. In his mind St. Sylvain computed the odds. Eight to one in his opponent’s favor.

He must draw. More than forty thousand dollars on the turn of this card. In all the room Bowie and St. Sylvain alone seemed calm.

They all saw the card as St. Sylvain turned it. The five of spades.

“The house wins, monsieur,” the gambler said.

A yell of pure relief from the onlookers.

The great young American bull had lost. Victory for the Creoles, victory for their kind, the placation of the secret wish of every heart.

Bowie rose, and the correctness of his attitude was remembered. Not even an eyelash quivered.

He said, “I am finished. Monsieur St. Sylvain, I thank you for your great courtesy.”

A servant appeared beside him with a silver tray. He took from it a small glass of cognac.