Red Aces

by Edgar Wallace

  “I’m sorry for McKay in a way, although he is such an impossible swine, but it’s a case of his life or mine, Machfield. Either he goes down or I go down – and I’m not going down.”

  Nothing wearied Mr Machfield worse than heroics. And yet he should have been hardened to them, for he had lived in an atmosphere of hectic drama, and once had seen a victim of his lying dead by his own hand across the green board of his gaming table. But it was years ago.

  “You’d better slide back to the room,” he said. “I’ll come in a little later. Don’t play high: I’ve still got some of your papers, dear boy.”

  When he returned to the room, the manager had found a seat at the table and was punting modestly and with some success. The croupier asked a question with a flick of his eyelids, and almost imperceptibly Machfield shook his head, which meant that that night, at any rate, Kingfether would pay for his losses in cash, that neither his IOUs nor cheques would be accepted.

  From time to time the players got up from the tables, strolled into the buffet, had a drink and departed. But there was always a steady stream of newcomers to take their places. Mr Machfield went back to his study, for he was expecting a telephone message. It came at a quarter past ten. A woman’s voice said: “Ena says everything is OK.”

  He hung up the telephone with a smile. Ena was a safe bet: you could always trust that girl, and he did not question her ability to keep her visitor occupied for at least two hours. After that he would do a little questioning himself. But it must be he, and not that other fool.

  There was no sign of raiders. He had special scouts posted at every street corner approaching the house, and a man on the roof (no sinecure this on a night of rain and sleet) to take and transmit their signals in case of danger. If there were a raid he was prepared for it. More likely the police, following their invariable custom, would postpone the visitation until later in the week. And by that time, if all went well, the house would be closed and the keys in the hands of the agents.

  Kingfether was winning; there was a big pile of Treasury and five-pound notes before him. He looked animated, and for once in his life pleased. The bank was winning too; there was a big box recessed into the table, and this was full of paper money and every few minutes the pile was augmented.

  A dull evening! Mr Machfield would be glad when the time came for his loud speaking gramophone to play the National Anthem. He always closed down on this patriotic note: it left the most unlucky of players with the comforting sense that at least they had their country left to them.

  He was looking at the long folding door of the room as it opened slowly. It was second nature in him to watch that opening door, and until this moment he had never been shocked or startled by what it revealed. Now, however, he stood dumbfounded, for there was Mr Reeder, without his hat, and even without his umbrella.

  Nobody noticed him except the proprietor, and he was frozen to the spot. With an apologetic smile Mr Reeder came tiptoeing across to him.

  “Do you very much mind?” he asked in an urgent whisper. “I find time hanging rather heavily upon my hands.”

  Machfield licked his dry lips.

  “Come here, will you?”

  He went back to his study, Reeder behind him.

  “Now, Mr Reeder, what’s the idea of your coming here? How did you get in? I gave strict instructions to the man on the door–”

  “I told him a lie,” said Mr Reeder in a hushed tone, as though the enormity of his offence had temporarily overcome him. “I said that you had particularly asked me to come tonight. That was very wrong, and I am sorry. The truth is, Mr Machfield, even the most illustrious of men have their little weaknesses; even the cleverest and most law-abiding their criminal instincts, and although I am neither illustrious nor clever, I have the frailties of my – er – humanity. Not, I would add, that it is criminal to play cards for money – far from it. I, as you probably know, or you may have heard, have a curiously distorted mind. I find my secret pleasures in such places as these.”

  Mr Machfield was relieved, immensely relieved. He knew detectives who gambled, but somehow he had never associated Mr J G Reeder with this peculiar weakness.

  “Why, certainly, we’re glad to see you, Mr Reeder,” he said heartily.

  He was so glad indeed that he would have been happy to have given this odd-looking man the money wherewith to play.

  “You’ll have a drink on the house – not,” he added quickly, “that I am in any position to offer you a drink. I am a guest the same as yourself, but I know the proprietor would be annoyed if you came and went without having one.”

  “I never drink. A little barley water perhaps?”

  There was, unfortunately, no barley water in the establishment, but this, as Machfield explained, would be remedied in the future – even now if he wished. Mr Reeder, however, would not hear of putting “the house” to trouble. He was anxious to join the company, and again by some extraordinary quality of good luck, he managed to insinuate himself so that he sat opposite the croupier. Somebody rose from their chair as he approached, and Mr Reeder took the vacant seat.

  He might have taken a chair on the opposite side of the table, for at the sight of him a pallid Kingfether had whipped out his handkerchief and covered the lower part of his face as though he were suffering from a bad cold.

  Stealthily he rose from his seat and melted into the fringe of people standing behind the players.

  “Don’t let me drive you away, Mr Kingfether,” said Reeder’s voice, and everybody heard him.

  The manager dropped back till he stood against the wall, a limp helpless figure, and there he remained through the scene that followed.

  Mr Reeder had produced a bundle of Treasury notes which he counted with great care. It was not a big bundle. Mr Machfield, watching, guessed he was in the ten-pound line of business, and certainly there was no more than that on the table.

  One by one those little notes of Reeder’s disappeared, until there was nothing left, and then a surprising thing happened. Mr Reeder put his hand in his pocket, groped painfully and produced something which he covered with his hand. The croupier had raised his cards ready to deal – the game was trente-et-quarante – when the interruption came.

  “Excuse me.” J G Reeder’s voice was gentle but everybody at the table heard it. “You can’t play with that pack: there are two cards missing.”

  The croupier raised his head. The green shade strapped to his glossy head threw a shadow which hid the top half of his face.

  He stared blandly at the interrupter – the dispassionate and detached stare which only a professional croupier can give.

  “Pardon?” he said, puzzled. “I do not understand m’sieur. The pack is complete. It is never questioned–”

  “There are two cards without which I understand you cannot play your game,” said Mr Reeder, and suddenly lifted his hand.

  On the table before him were two playing cards, the ace of diamonds and the ace of hearts. The croupier looked down at them, and then, with an oath, pushed back his chair and dropped his hand to his hip.

  “Don’t move – I beg of you!”

  There was an automatic pistol in Mr Reeder’s hand, and its muzzle was directed towards the croupier’s white waistcoat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to be alarmed about. Stand back from the table against the wall, and do not come between me and Monsieur Lamontaine!”

  He himself stepped backward.

  “Over there!” he signalled to Machfield.

  “Look here, Reeder–”

  “Over there!” snarled J G Reeder. “Stand up by your friend. Ladies and gentlemen” – he addressed the company again without taking his eyes from the croupier – “there will be a few moments of acute unpleasantness. Your names and addresses will be taken, but I will use my best endeavours to
avoid police court proceedings, because we are after something much more important than naughty people who play cards for money.”

  And then the guests saw strange men standing in the doorway. They came from all directions – from Mr Machfield’s study, from the hall below, from the roof above. They handcuffed Lamontaine and took away the two guns he carried, one in each hip pocket – Machfield was unarmed.

  “What will the charge be?”

  “Mr Gaylor will tell you that at the police station. But I think the question is unnecessary. Honestly, don’t you, Mr Machfield?”

  Machfield said nothing.

  11

  >Mr Reeder kept what he called a casebook, in which he inscribed a passionless account of all the cases in which he was engaged. Some of these cases had no value except to the technician, and would not interest anyone except perhaps the psycho-pathologist. Under the heading “Two Aces” appeared this account, written in his own handwriting.

  In the year 1919 (wrote Mr Reeder) there arrived at the Hotel Majestic in Nice a man who described himself in the hotel register as Rufus Machfield. He had a number of other names, but it is only necessary that Machfield should be used to identify this particular character. The man had a reputation as a card-sharp, and, in the pursuit of his nefarious calling, had “worked” the ships plying between England and New York. He had also been convicted on two occasions as a professional gambler in Germany.

  He was of Danish origin, but at the time was a naturalized Englishman, with a permanent address in Colvin Gardens, Bayswater. At the Majestic Hotel he had met with Charles or Walter Lynn, an adventurer who had also “operated” the ships on the North Atlantic. On one of these trips Lynn had become acquainted with Mr George McKay, a prosperous woollen merchant of Bradford. There is no evidence that they ever played cards together, and Mr McKay does not recall that they did. But the friendship was of value to Lynn because Mr McKay was in the habit of coming to Nice every year, and was in residence at the time Lynn and Machfield met. McKay was known as a resolute and successful gambler, and before now had figured in sensational play.

  The two men, Lynn and Machfield, conferred together and decided upon a scheme to rob McKay at the tables. Gambling in Nice is not confined to the recognized establishments. There was at the time a number of Cercles Privés where play was even higher than at the public rooms, and the most reputable of these was “Le Signe” which, if it was not recognized, was winked at by the French authorities.

  In order to swindle McKay, a patron of this club, it was necessary to secure the co-operation and help of an official. Lynn’s choice fell upon a young croupier named Lamontaine, and he in turn was to suborn two other croupiers, both of whom it was intended should receive a very generous share of the money.

  Lamontaine proved to be a singularly pliable tool. He had married a young wife and had got into debt, and was fearful that this should come to the ears of the club authorities. An interview was arranged in Lyons; the scheme was put before the croupier by Lynn, and he agreed to come in, taking a half share for himself and his two fellow croupiers, the other half being equally divided between Lynn and Machfield. Lynn apparently demurred at the division, but Machfield was satisfied with his quarter share; the more so as he knew Mr McKay had been winning very heavily, and providing he had the right kind of betting, there would be a big killing.

  The game to be played was baccarat, for McKay could never resist the temptation of taking a bank, especially a big bank. It was very necessary that arrangements should be hurried on before the merchant left the South of France, and a fortnight after the preliminaries, Lamontaine reported that everything was in trim, that he had secured the co-operation of his comrades, and it was decided that the coup should be brought off on the Friday night.

  It was arranged that Lynn should be the player, that after play was finished the conspirators should meet again at Lyons, when the loot was to be divided.

  The cards were to be stacked so that the bank won every third coup. It was arranged that the signal for the conspirators to begin their betting was to be the dealing of two aces, the ace of diamonds and the ace of hearts. Somebody would draw a six to these, and the banker would have a “natural” – which means, I understand, that he would win.

  Thereafter the betting was to be done by Lynn, and the first was a banco call – which meant, as the cards lay, that the bank would be swept into their pockets. They knew Mr McKay would bid for the bank, but they would bid higher, and Lynn then took the bank with a capital of a million francs. Fourteen times the bank won, and had now reached enormous proportions, so much so that every other table in the room was deserted, and the table where this high play was going on was surrounded by curious watchers.

  There were fourteen winning coups for the bank, and the amount gathered up at the finish by Lynn was something in the neighbourhood of £400,000. Lamontaine states that it was more, but Machfield is satisfied that it was in that region. The money was taken to the hotel, and the following night Lynn left for Lyons. He was to be joined the next day by Machfield, and on the Sunday they were to meet the croupier in Paris and pay him his share.

  The night that Lynn left, however, one of the officials of the rooms made a statement to his chef. He had lost his nerve and he betrayed his comrades. Lamontaine, with the other croupier, was arrested on a charge of conspiracy, and Machfield only got away from the South of France by the skin of his teeth. He journeyed on to Lyons and arrived there in the early hours of the following afternoon. He hoped that no news of the arrests would have got into the papers and scared his partner, and certainly he did not wire warning Lynn. When he got to the hotel he asked for his friend, but was told that he had not arrived, nor had he made reservation of the rooms which had been agreed upon.

  From that moment he disappeared from human ken, and neither Machfield nor any of his friends were able to trace him. It was no accident: it was a deliberate double-cross. Machfield played the game as far as he was able, and when Lamontaine was released from prison and came to Paris, a broken man, for his young wife had died while he was in gaol, he helped the croupier as well as he could, and together they came to England to establish gaming-houses, but primarily to find Lynn and force him to disgorge.

  There was another person on the track of Lynn. McKay, who had been robbed, as he knew after the French court proceedings, employed me to trace him, but for certain reasons I was unable to justify his confidence.

  I do not know in what year or month Lamontaine and Machfield located their man. It is certain that “Mr Wentford”, as he called himself, lived in increasing fear of their vengeance. When they did locate him he proved to be an impossible man to reach. I have no doubt that the house was carefully reconnoitred, his habits studied, and that attempts were made to get at him. But those attempts failed. It is highly probable, though no proof of this exists, that he was well informed as to his enemy’s movements, for so far as can be gathered from the statement of his niece and checked by the admissions of Machfield, Lynn never left his house except on the days when Machfield and Lamontaine were in Paris – they frequently went to that city over the weekend.

  It was Lamontaine who formed the diabolical plan which was eventually to lead to Wentford’s death. He knew that the only man admitted to the house was the mounted policeman who patrolled that part of the country, so he studied police methods, even got information as to the times on which the beat was patrolled, and on the night of the murder, soon after it was dark, he travelled down to Beaconsfield by car through the storm, accompanied by Machfield.

  Lamontaine at some time or other had been on the French stage (he spoke perfect English) and I have no doubt was in a position to make himself up sufficiently well to deceive Wentford into opening the door. At seven o’clock Constable Verity left the station and proceeded on his patrol. At seven-thirty he was ruthlessly murdered by a man who stepped out of his concealment and shot him po
int-blank through the heart.

  The body was taken into a field and laid out, the two murderers hoping that the snow would cover it. Lamontaine was already wearing the uniform of a police constable, and, mounting the horse, he rode on to Wentford’s house. The old man saw him through the window, and, suspecting nothing, got down and opened the door.

  He may not have realized that anything was wrong until he was back in his parlour, for it was there that he was struck down. The two men intended leaving him in the cottage, but a complication arose whilst they were searching the place, or endeavouring to open the safe behind the bookcase, The telephone rang, and they heard Margot Lynn say that she was coming on but was delayed. One of them answered in a disguised voice.

  The thing to do now was to remove the body. Lifting it out, they laid it over the horse’s saddle, and, guiding the nervous animal down to the road, led it towards Beaconsfield. Here a second complication arose: the lights of Mr Enward’s car were seen coming toward them. The body was dropped by the side of the road, and the constable took his place on the horse’s back. The animal was smothered with the blood of the murdered man, and the clerk of Mr Enward, the lawyer, taking the bridle quite innocently, must have rubbed his sleeve along the shoulder, for it was afterwards discovered that his coat was stained. That gave me my first clue, and I was able, owing to my peculiar mind, to reconstruct the crime as it had been committed.

  The two men joined one another again in the vicinity of the cottage. They were not able to make any further attempt that night. One of them, however, heard that the girl knew where the money was cached. I am afraid I was responsible for this, and it was intended that she should be taken away, with the key of the safe deposit…

  Machfield had already become acquainted with the straitened circumstances of young McKay, the son of his victim, and probably to hit at his father, who he must have known was still hunting for him, used an opportunity which was offered by chance, to ruin him, as he believed.