by Sax Rohmer
“No doubt,” murmured Destrée lazily.
“That — unfortunate misunderstanding, which led him to insist upon withdrawing his capital before the close of play, resulted in a dangerously awkward situation. As you remember, a run on the table after he had gone very nearly broke the bank.”
“That is why we play again to-night. We must restore our fortunes.”
“A perilous procedure. A link between Loeder and roulette is almost certain to be established by the police. It was my advice, and it remains my conviction, that we should lie low until the activities of Scotland Yard in this matter have worn themselves out a little. Normally, our risks are negligible, but if we should find ourselves called as witnesses in a murder case — this would be a different affair.”
“It would be a truly unpleasant affair. But the situation was one for which I confess I had not provided.”
Michaelis frowned. “It is our duty to foresee every eventuality. We know what to expect if we fail. There are circumstances concerning that unfortunate night which I find disturbing. I am not even sure that I enjoy your entire confidence in this respect.”
Destrée stretched out her hand in a gesture of appeal. “Hugo, why are you so distrustful?”
Michaelis clasped the tiny hand, stooped, and seemed to feast his eyes upon its delicate ivory and coral. He pressed the slender fingers to his lips for lingering seconds, his gaze fixed, now, upon Destrée’s provocative face. She made a petulant moue, withdrawing her hand. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
“I was thinking that I would sacrifice everything in the world — if I were sure of you.”
“But what else? You were thinking of something else.”
He placed his cigar in a bronze bowl, and seating himself on the divan, passed his arm lightly around her shoulders. “I was thinking that many men have loved you, and wondering how many of them you have made happy.”
She snuggled her glossy head against his sleeve, like a contented kitten, closing her eyes. “What does it matter,” she murmured. “I have always had greater interests: they have left me little time for love, and so—” That expressive dimple appeared upon one shoulder, the dimple which came to life when she shrugged: his arm tightened around her.
“You are so utterly maddening, Ysolde, that sometimes I am afraid—”
“Afraid of what, Hugo?” the drooping lashes were partly raised.
“It would be difficult to express.” He spoke with icy coldness. “Afraid, perhaps, that I might be tempted to—”
“Yes?”
“To tell you the truth.”
“About what?”
“About yourself.”
Destrée fully opened her dark eyes, but otherwise did not stir. “Do you think it would be news to me?”
“No; but it would make you angry. There is no place for anger in our friendship. I watch you as every man watches the woman he loves. Your self-command is perfect — it is wonderful; but I was not alone in detecting your temporary loss of poise when Loeder brought the little brunette to Mrs. Sankey’s. Before, I had doubted: then, I knew.”
“What did you know?”
“I knew that he was your lover. You were unable to hide your jealousy — from me. I am not reproaching you. Your life is your own.”
Destrée lay almost perfectly still, reclosing her eyes. “Perhaps, Hugo,” she said, so softly that her voice sounded like an echo of fairy bells, “you may jump to conclusions — yes? But what does it matter? Tell me who else thinks as you do.”
“Francis.”
“Oh!” she smiled. “As Giles is dead, you find another to be jealous about. Poor Julian! Have you talked it over with him, Hugo?”
Michaelis withdrew his arm, gently, and stood up. “You are angry. It is my fault, and I am sorry.”
“Truly, Hugo, truly, I am not angry. I know how much you care, and so, how could I be angry?”
“Yes — I care deeply, and so, I am always watching over you. It is why I am anxious to-night. After all, this man Bernstein is a stranger.”
“And if the police should become rudely inquisitive? Well—” Destrée again extended that tiny hand, curling the fingers upward so as to resemble a half opened lotus— “our arrangements have always worked perfectly. Why should they fail us now?”
Michaelis picked up his still smouldering cigar and considered the cone of ash. His urbanity was in no way disturbed, but a slight frown remained between his brows.
“I hope you may be right, Ysolde.”
Around the roulette wheel excitement was rising.
The room, closely blacked-out, began, in spite of its spaciousness, to grow stuffy; but this is not to say that it had approached the state of almost solid fug which characterises “The Kitchen” at Monte Carlo. Its atmosphere had become psychologically tense, and play was evidently more serious. Teddie Olivar, gallantly investing the capital of his lady partner, was losing heavily on her behalf. Captain Fyne cashed another twenty pounds. Spin after spin swelled the bank’s coffers at the moment that Mr. Michaelis returned and strolled up to the table. To this slaughter of the innocents, however, there was one exception; and the exception was Mr. Bernstein.
A Babylonian mound of winnings lay within reach of his left hand. He occupied a chair behind which two or three spectators stood watching his method, and occasionally they endeavored to follow it in a sporadic fashion.
Mr. Michaelis exchanged glances with Mr. Francis across the table, then strolled around to join him. “A run of bad luck for you, my dear friend.”
“Others are losing; that will level it up a bit. Teddie Olivar has earned his rake-off. I don’t think he tries to lose; in fact, I doubt if that’s possible. But he hardly ever wins. He has presented us with a hundred pounds of Lady Keffington’s money. That’s ten pounds for a night’s work, plus his cut on whatever Fyne loses.”
Teddie Olivar, using a rake, at this moment pushed five ten pound notes across the cloth to a cashier, demanding, with an accompanying flick of his long lashes, “Ten fives, if you please ... and that sees me right out.”
Mr. Bernstein’s forehead displayed a dew of perspiration. He frequently mopped it with a Cambridge blue handkerchief. Through his spectacles his eyes gleamed triumphantly. Rubbing his red hands together and surveying the cloth with the air of a field marshal planning a battle, he began to toss stakes on to selected numbers, calling out to the croupier:
“Nineteen ... twenty-one ... Shove over that onto eleven, old cock ...”
These arrangements being completed, the officiating croupier seized the cross-bar and slowly reversed the wheel into a new spin, at the same time flicking the ivory ball into play. He had set it on its course somewhat too vigorously, however, for from the very first stud with which it came in contact the ball leapt high in the air, dropped on to the green baize, and bounded from there to the carpet. Here, silently, it rolled away into shadow.
The man responsible glanced with a rather guilty smile towards Mr. Francis; and Mr. Bernstein became even more voluble than usual.
“That’s done it!” he declared. “There goes me run o’ luck. That’s torn it! Blimey! not half it hasn’t!”
Mr. Francis rang a bell, and the white-coated barman came in. “The ball has been lost. Try to find it.”
As the man, using a torch, began to peer under chairs and other pieces of furniture: “Who is that croupier?” Mr. Michaelis directed his monocle upon the offender. “Rather a clumsy fellow.”
“Oh, no, I have always found him quite efficient. It’s not an uncommon accident. He plays for Mrs. Sankey. Wake is a better croupier, but we thought it advisable to dispense with his services at present.”
“That was wise.”
“Here! what about my blinkin’ stakes?” Mr. Bernstein demanded. “What happens now?”
Several people had joined in the hunt for the ball. It could not be found.
“Put another ball into play,” said Mr. Francis. The croupier, taking one from a little box,
hesitated for a moment, apparently uncertain whether he should reverse the wheel or let it pursue its present course. “An entirely new spin,” added Mr. Francis rather irritably. “The stakes remain.”
Some few players made hasty readjustments before the words “Rien ne va plus” were spoken. The new ball rattled into a number and came to rest ... “Trente-cinq, noir, impair et passe.”
Mr. Bernstein’s misgivings were fulfilled. He had lost every piece he had on the table.
“What did I tell you?” he inquired, extending both palms in a general appeal. He glared at the croupier responsible. “See what you’ve done for me? Broke the sequence. Lo’ lumme! — that’s torn it, that has.”
However, he renewed his stakes; the hunt for the missing ball was abandoned, and the game went on ... “Messieurs! faites vos jeux!”
A bell rang: it continued to ring — and a red light glowed immediately above the billiards marking-board.
“Here!” cried Mr. Bernstein, mopping his moist brow— “what’s up now? A blinkin’ air raid?”
Many of the players stood up. The bell ceased to ring; the red light went out. A door behind one of the croupiers opened and Destrée came in, languid and smiling as usual.
“Will you please all be so good as to take up your stakes, and any counters you have before you. Put them in your pocket or handbag.”
Mr. Bernstein was first to obey. “Lumme! it’s the cops!” he exclaimed, transferring mounds of pieces from the cloth to his pockets with astonishing dexterity.
Teddie Olivar obligingly opened Lady Keffington’s handbag which lay beside her, and bundled all the remaining stakes into it. “Safer with you than with me, dear.”
“Will you please all come out by this door,” the bell voice of Destrée ordered. “Don’t make unnecessary noise, and you have nothing to worry about. The counters Mr. Francis will redeem later.”
In a retirement which threatened to become a rout, the gamblers obeyed, to find themselves in a short passage, led by Destrée who carried a torch. This passage terminated in a tiled kitchen where the white-coated barman stood by with wraps, furs, hats and other belongings, which he returned to their several owners. A door was opened to admit the tang of chill night air, as four croupiers joined the party.
“These gentlemen will lead the way,” said Destrée quietly. “You will go up the fire ladder to the flat above; and provided you make no noise, there is nothing to be alarmed about. Mr. Francis will join you in a few moments.”
“I say, Teddie,” remarked Peter Fyne, “this will break me if I’m caught.”
“Don’t be so pettish, Peter,” Teddie implored: “you are such an amateur of life ...”
Reclosing the door behind a final departing guest, Destrée returned to the gaming room. It was transformed. The table had been dismantled with the speed of a stage illusion; the wheel, the bank and the rakes had been packed into a wicker basket; the green baize cover, which was in two sections, each of these folding screen-wise into three again, had been removed. The barman, his white coat discarded in favor of a black one, already was carrying the wooden sections off to some other room. Mr. Francis rearranged chairs. The roulette table had become again what it was in reality — a billiard table. Mr. Francis shouldered the laden basket and made for the kitchen passage: despite the burden his gait remained feline, almost that of one who moves on tiptoes. Mr. Michaelis opened the door for him and closed it behind him. Then, stiffly upright, he focussed his monocle upon the figure of Mr. Bernstein, crawling beetlesque about the carpet; but it was Destrée, hands on hips, who spoke.
“May I inquire what you are doing, Mr. Bernstein?”
“I have dropped a chip.”
“Oh!” murmured Mr. Michaelis— “that is important. Let me help you to find it. I may add that it is too late for you to leave.”
“I’ll take my chance. Ah! got it!”
He stood up, holding between finger and thumb a five shilling counter, which, with a golden grin, he slipped into his pocket, watched by the imperturbably smiling Destrée. The whine of an ascending elevator became audible, for all doors were open. Then, followed the metallic clang of lift gates.
“Let us go into the bar,” suggested Destrée. “Will you take a drink with me, Mr. Bernstein?”
“Not half! Just what I need. Go down very well, that would.”
The doorbell rang. Following a suitable interval, the ex-barman opened the door. Chief Inspector Firth and Sergeant Bluett stood outside.
When, the door being closed, Firth and Bluett were left alone in the lobby (for the man who had admitted them had gone to inform Destrée of their arrival) those spiritual discords which it symbolised impressed themselves on both in a different way.
Sergeant Bluett sniffed the lilies — which he could not believe to be real — and with difficulty repressed a sneeze. Firth, his hazel eyes narrowed, stared at the painted Madonna, at the crucifix above it; and they spoke to him with the voice of blasphemy; they shouted obscenely in raucous merriment. He turned away, tight lipped. A door opened and Destrée joined them. She wore a lace wrap over her evening frock, and her languor, her smile of Eleusis, had not deserted her.
“Good evening, Inspector.” She glanced down at a card which she held and then up at the Chief Inspector, who towered above her tiny figure, perhaps wondering if he had grown out of his tweed suit or if it had always been too small for him. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Do I address Mrs. Destrée?”
“I am Mrs. Destrée. Is anything wrong?”
“Weel — that remains to be seen, madam. In fact, I would wish, if it will no’ inconvenience you, to take a look around.”
Destrée continued to smile, soundlessly tapping the toe of one red sandal upon the carpet, and her fairy-bell notes fell like enchanted music on the ears. “Can this be, Inspector, what is known in Axis countries as a domiliciary visit?”
The Chief Inspector’s frown, created by the painted Madonna and the crucifix, grew more severe; Sergeant Bluett coughed.
“The Defence of the Realm, madam, slightly extends, it may be, the powers o’ the police. If ye mean have I a search warrant, I have none. But acting upon information received, I thought it might be wise if I just took a look around the premises.”
“You are welcome, Inspector, although I cannot think what you expect to find. Where would you like to begin, please?”
“Weel, while Sergeant Bluett remains here in the lobby, suppose you and I go along this way and see what we find.”
“I am entirely at your service, Inspector — except that if we had gone the other way we might have found a drink.”
Firth smiled, but it was a fierce smile, which displayed his small, even lower teeth. The aura of this woman dismayed him. He knew her by repute, but hitherto had never seen her. A man of uncommon probity and by nature religious, he sensed the fact that her beauty was a snare, that indeed she was insidiously evil. But coolness in face of danger always appealed to Firth, so that Destrée’s charming nonchalance won his reluctant admiration. With no trace of hesitancy, she showed him her own sitting-room where miniature lily pools glittered under purple lamps. She showed him two bedrooms, voluptuously appointed, and a more Spartan sitting-room and bedroom, apparently those of a man-servant; then, a room allotted to a maid. This maid (wife of the man-servant) was out. Even bathrooms were explored.
“That is all at this end, Inspector. Let us see what we can find at the other.” Her upcast glance was taunting; her full lips were slightly parted.
They walked back along the carpeted corridor, and across the lobby where Sergeant Bluett sat reflectively tapping his knee with a tightly folded copy of an evening paper. They entered the gaming room.
“Hello,” said Firth suspiciously, “what have we here?”
“It is the billiard room,” Destrée explained naively.
Firth’s fierce eyes swept around as he took in every detail. “A queer feature in a lady’s flat,” he commented.<
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“I quite agree, Inspector.” Destrée gave a trilling little laugh. “But I didn’t trouble to disturb it, you see, when I took the place over. I found it so useful for bridge parties. My flat really belongs to Colonel Lexinham: I am only his tenant. It was too much trouble to take down his billiard table; also, some of my friends like a game of snooker.”
“Some of your friends seem to have been here to-night!” Firth inhaled vigorously.
“Yes, they left just a while ago: a small party who came on from a theatre. In fact, I am not sure that they are all gone.” She raised her tinkling voice. “Mr. Bernstein, Mr. Michaelis — have you gone?”
The bar door opened, and Mr. Bernstein, wetly hot, came in followed by Mr. Michaelis; both gentlemen carried tumblers.
“Oh!” Destrée clapped her hands like a playful child. “I thought we had thirsty stragglers! Chief Inspector Firth has just called. I am sure he would like a drink, too.”
Mr. Bernstein, in nodding acknowledgment of this introduction, spilled some of the contents of his tumbler. With a murmured apology, he pulled out the Cambridge handkerchief, dropped on one knee and began to mop the carpet. He stood up less hurriedly, for his earlier movement had created a suspicious chinking sound traceable to the counters which loaded his pockets. However, he conquered any embarrassment which may have threatened him.
“Wonderful how the police get to know where they keep a drop o’ good stuff!” He smacked his lips. “Anything wrong, Inspector? Mrs. Destrée been slackin’ off on her fire-watching, or something?”
“I confess that I cannot imagine,” said Mr. Michaelis coldly, “to what circumstance you are indebted for the pleasure of this call, Mrs. Destrée.”
Inspector Firth studied the stiff, monocled figure reflectively.
“I gather that your name is Mr. Michaelis?”
“That is my name.”
