Experiment in Crime

by Philip Wylie

  He located the Club Egret--and drove past it. The Club Egret was boldly set amidst showy residences. It had no windows. Under its portico, attendants were serving the owners of vehicles which markedly outshone his prewar, hand-repainted coupe.

  Conscience urged him both ways. To enter was folly; not to enter, after being committed, was weak. He drove around the block and under the portico.

  An obviously disenchanted attendant handed a parking check to him. He gave the man a quarter and received audible thanks. He walked up a flight of stairs.

  He found himself in a foyer. There was a checkroom at his left--and a curtained hall--guarded, apparently, by two men in tuxedoes. Straight ahead was a bar-long and shimmering--low lighted--with tables and people at the tables. Men in sports coats--in plain suits--and a few, he saw with relief, in dinner jackets. Overhead was a rosy, vaulted dome. To his right were steps going down--into a tremendous dining room where people in twos and sixes and twenties were busily consuming dinner. The dining room had grey walls with chromium trimmings, a thick, grey carpet, and glass stars in its ceiling; behind each star was a colored light. A large orchestra played rhythmically on a podium. People were dancing. The polychromatic stars twinkled in what seemed to be orchestral tempo.

  It was dim in the room. The expanse of white tablecloths, the gleaming dance floor, the lofty ceiling and stellar lights, made the professor think of the snowcape under a Christmas tree, expanded magically, so that human beings could walk into it.

  The headwaiter came forward. "One?"

  Professor Burke was escorted into the shimmering, theatrical wonderland. He was seated along the wall.

  "Something to drink?"

  "A martini. Very dry."

  Professor Burke was familiar with the best dining places of Boston. One of these had a bar that turned like a merry-go-round. He was familiar with night clubs through rare visits to the motion pictures. A single cocktail was his limit. However, he knew a good martini from a fair one. He was served a martini he regarded as excellent.

  He ordered dinner. He began to look, covertly but searchingly, at the people around him. He thought of them in terms of the textbooks and newspaper articles. They were largely--he felt--gamblers, gangsters, corrupt politicians, labor czars squandering the dues of union members, ladies of the evening, and the like. It would have surprised him a good deal--and disappointed him even more--had he realized that nearly all the men and women were respectable citizens of, or visitors to Miami Beach enjoying an evening of dining and dancing--and not even planning to gamble.

  When he cut an excellent filet mignon--for which he would pay a shocking seven dollars--he beckoned the headwaiter. "Where is the gaming room?"

  The phrase was not the ordinary one. And it was not customary of newcomers to ask that information of the headwaiter. "You--oh--have not been here before, sir?"

  "No, I haven't."

  The headwaiter said, "Quite so," and walked away, leaving the professor deeply embarrassed.

  The office of Mr. William Sanders was paneled in cypress. In these walls were slots from which the two principal chambers of the Club Egret could be discreetly surveyed. The room also contained a powerful wall safe, expensive, modernistic furniture, and Mr. Sanders himself--a very tall man, lanky, and pleasant. His smile was ready, almost constant; his voice quiet and amiable. One needed, as a rule, a second glance to note that his eyes had a quality like the blade of an adze--seen edge-on.

  There was a knock on his door.

  Mr. Sanders glanced up from his desk. He said nothing. The door opened and a man entered--a thick-shouldered man with black hair parted in the middle and black eyes of the sort called liquid. The term connotes fluidity and warmth. There was nothing warm about The Tip. If there ever had been, it had turned to ice years before, during The Tip's childhood on the streets of South Chicago.

  Mr. Sanders still said nothing.

  "There is a laddie-boy outside whose looks I dislike." The Tip touched the ruby-red bow above his soft evening shirt. "Table eighty-six. Are you sure, Double-O, that you have all the dope on tonight's operations?"

  Perhaps six people in the world called Mr. Sanders "Bill." Possibly twenty people called him "Double-O" to his face. Thousands, however, used that name when he was not present--though they called him "Mr. Sanders" when they accosted him. Newspapers, also, referred to him on frequent occasion as "Double-O" or "Double-O Sanders."

  He regarded The Tip with a smile. The Tip's words showed not the slightest trace of Chicago's streets or even its universal nasal register. The Tip spoke in pure American Park Avenue--an eastern accent which, itself an imitation, is readily copied by anyone who is willing to practice affectation. Smooth phoniness amused Double-O. He answered the question.

  "Who's ever positive he has all the dope, in this town? Tonight's operations are set--sure. What's wrong with the guy?"

  "Just--keeps looking the place over. The customers. Could be a new Fed income-tax snooping. He asked Rudolph where the 'gaming room' was. Sounds too sappy to be solid. If he is a Fed, he's outsmarting himself."

  Double-O crossed to one of the discreet slots, his long legs moving like jointed crowbars. He peered. "I see what you mean," he said, after a while. "I'm willing to bet he's a husband with a wife at a hen convention--afraid somebody he knows will see him here. But tell Connie, anyhow."

  Professor Burke ordered coffee and a cigar. He was pleased by the pulchritude of the cigarette girl--and startled by her costume. Hardly enough clothing, he thought, for a large doll. He tipped her a quarter and lighted the cigar. Like everything else in the establishment, it was of superlative quality. He blew smoke.

  He was filled with a sentiment of self-satisfaction. The fact was that he liked the Club Egret. The fact also was that, even while he enjoyed the music and the lights and the spectacle of the people, he was contriving a few sentences to slip into his next year's lecture--sentences which would make it plain that he had personally investigated the dens of iniquity and found them a tinselly sham.

  The house lights went down. A master of ceremony took possession of a microphone--in a cone of smoke-washed light. The professor recognized the first joke as almost identical with one which had been used by Plautus, a little more than two thousand years before.

  A girl said, "Hello!"

  He turned with surprise--and some discomfiture. The young lady, not identifiable in the dark, was standing at his side.

  "May I sit down?" she asked in a warm, husky voice.

  "Why, certainly. Of course!"

  The professor hurried to assist her. She had long, blonde hair, done up beautifully.

  Her arms and shoulders were bare, as if she had swum part way out of her evening dress.

  The dress itself winked, and glistened. Her nose turned up slightly. That was all he could discern--excepting that she wore a perfume which had a stunning effect--as a spray has a stunning effect on an insect.

  The professor felt slightly guilty, and the resultant course of his thoughts was to be expected. There are some men whom no women, however predatory, however young and inexperienced or old and desperate, will try to pick up. Instinct warns them that the attempt would be futile from every viewpoint. Professor Burke was the archetype of that species of man. And, since no such effort had been made in his case, he suspected none now. He assumed, instead, that the young lady was a former student of his, or a former undergraduate--and that, having recognized him, she had ingratiated herself out of the common, feminine love for scandal. It was, of course, scandalous for him to be dining at the Club Egret.

  "My name," said the lady, "is Connie Maxson."

  He failed to place it--which in no way surprised him. It usually took him a semester to learn the names of his students--and he seldom remembered them long.

  "Would you like coffee? Or a drink?" he asked resignedly.

  "Love one."

  He beckoned. The lady ordered Scotch and water. After reflection, he said, "The same."

 
"Enjoying yourself?" she asked.

  He raised his eyebrows and blew smoke in an ironical manner--hoping she would be able to read the gesture. "You would hardly expect a professor of socio-psychology to enjoy himself here. Say rather, I am enjoying the spectacle of a rich, moronic element indulging in pleasures which deprive the body politic of integrity."

  The girl said, "Well!" After a moment she asked, "On a vacation?"

  "I drove over from the Gables, naturally. Vacation doesn't start for several more days. This is in essence a research project. I'd even intended to watch the gambling for a while. Possibly to squander a few dollars as a sort of payment-in-kind for the experience.

  The headwaiter, however, was rather huffy about my inquiry."

  The house lights went on suddenly.

  The girl was extremely beautiful--and the professor was sure he had never seen her before in his life. He would have remembered the face, even if not the name. She was staring at him. She ignored the tango artistes who now appeared on the dance floor.

  "Is that straight?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid," he said, coloring a little, "that we don't know each other, after all. I assumed you'd been one of my students at the University of Miami."

  The drinks came. She made a feint at a toast, sipped, and said, "No, professor. I'm a--sort of hostess--around here. I went to college in the north for one dismal year.

  Couldn't stand it. Came hack here--and couldn't stand the family, either. Gin rummy on the even nights and backgammon on the odd. I--took a job."

  "My name is Burke--Martin Burke."

  "And you were just looking around?"

  He explained in some detail. She was amused, surprised--and, somehow, pleased.

  "You're certainly right!" she said. "You shouldn't lecture without background.

  Now, I tell you. When you're ready, I'll see that you get into the gambling room. If you want, perhaps I can fix it up for you to meet Double-O."

  "You mean the notorious Double-O Sanders?"

  "He's a lamb, really! Strictly a gambler. No rackets and no other angles. Some of the most important people in the United States come in, regularly." Miss Maxson finished her highball. "I've got to leave you. Thanks for the drink. Ask for Al in the foyer--and he'll show you to the "--she smiled--"'gaming room.'"

  Chapter IV

  He thought--along Tennysonian lines--that she was a delightful creature. He found himself also repeating--along undergraduate lines--that she was a warm swarm. He watched her move among the tables until she was out of view.

  Then he called for his check, paid it, tipped ten per cent, added fifty cents, and beckoned to the girl in doll-clothing for another cigar. A corridor led to the gambling room. Al held back the velvet curtain and the professor sauntered through.

  He found himself entering a most luxurious room--a room with a lower ceiling and restrained decoration. There were three roulette tables, a cashier's window, two tables surrounded by men, troughlike affairs in which dice were bounding, and other games with which he was unfamiliar. Large floor vases of beige roses were set about. The air was cool and clear, in spite of the continual smoking of its hundred or so occupants. It was like an elegant drawing room--with this exception, he thought: the guests were hypnotized.

  They stood around the tables, light reflected up into their faces from the green baize, the polished mahogany. Some were obviously nervous--their hands toyed with chips or twisted handkerchiefs. Some were strenuously nonchalant. Some were stoical and without expression. The women, he thought, seemed more eager and anxious than the men--a natural result of their more emotional natures. There were women of sixty--even seventy--in fur wraps, wearing jewels. There were young women, with and without jewels. The most continuous sound was the soft talk of the croupiers. The loudest sound was the clatter of fortune set up by the dance of the ivory pellets around the rims of surging wheels.

  For a long time, he watched. No one spoke to him--no one seemed to mind his surveillance. He presently realized that there were other onlookers. He studied the game.

  Roulette, he soon saw, was childishly simple. Hardly more complex than parcheesi.

  He was not in the least tremulous when he went to the cashier's window and purchased twenty, two-dollar, or white, chips. His face was impassive when he returned to the table he had selected. He put two chips on Red. The wheel spun and the number was called. The croupier put two chips on his two. He left them where they were. After the next spin, he had eight.

  He thought of a number. The number he thought of was nine. He put four chips on nine and four on black. Nine lost. He tried again. Nine came up. He was dumbfounded by the number of chips which were pushed into his possession.

  It may be that the best system for winning at gambling is to play with the sincere purpose of losing--of losing a politely decent sum so that (for example) in future years one may warn one's classes, with a little personal anecdote as an illustration, against the folly of betting on the turning of a wheel. In any event, Professor Burke won. He soon noticed that some of his intent associates were waiting until he placed his bets--and following suit. He began to be embarrassed by the size of his pile of chips. He exchanged some for what he called "counters?' of a higher denomination. He thought up numbers--

  and then deliberately bet on others, with the firm intention of defeating himself.

  He did not know how long he stood there. An hour, perhaps. It might have been two. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned shamefacedly. It was Miss Maxson again.

  "You're doing peachy, Professor!"

  "I'm mortified."

  "Mortified? Why, for heaven's sake?"

  "I can't seem to stop this winning streak."

  "Can't stop it!"

  "Naturally--it's out of the question for me to make a profit on a venture of this sort. In my position. You can see that."

  Miss Maxson picked up some of his chips. "Give us blues," she said to the croupier. "For the whole thing."

  The trade was made. "You'll help me--play them in?" He seemed relieved.

  "Professor, I'm going to get the money. This is your night. And it's your time to quit."

  "But the money isn't mine!"

  "It's as much yours as any money in this room is anybody's." They were attracting attention. She moved closer to him and whispered. "No fooling, Professor! Cash in the chips while you've got a lead! It's smart. The Club won't miss the money. I'm terribly glad you won. Please!"

  Groggily, he picked up the chips and walked to the window. He was paid eight hundred and eighty-six dollars. When he put the bills in his wallet, his hands shook: it was by far the largest sum of money his wallet had ever contained. It was equal to two month's salary. Gambling money, criminal money, illicit gain--and he was accepting it because Miss Maxson insisted! Because, perhaps, he was accustomed to carrying out the orders of the opposite sex to the letter. It always saved trouble--he had learned that, long ago.

  He looked up at Miss Maxson and she smiled.

  He looked back at the table and the place where he had stood had been closed up.

  They had forgotten him already--taken his departure, with his winnings, as a simple matter of course. He could not think what he was going to do. Keep the matter secret--

  obviously. His whole evening's escapade had boomeranged!

  "Buy me another drink?" She was still smiling.

  "Of course!"

  "We'll go back to the bar." They did not, however, go back to the bar. They started--and that was all.

  A man in the uniform of a police officer came suddenly from the corridor. He was not holding a gun, but he was wearing a large gun. Behind him were what seemed to the professor a platoon, at least, of police.

  The man shouted, "All right--everybody! Stop the wheels! Hold those dice! This is a raid!"

  There was silence. Then funny noises began. Women escaped. Men swore.

  Voices quickly rose up the scale. The place roared.

  The police officer held up h
is hands and gestured at the sounds--as if they were tangible and could be pushed. "Listen, everybody! Lissssen! All we're taking is the wheels! Before any dame faints, or any damn fool guy tries to start anything-- lisssen!

  We're not hauling you in. We're not even taking names. Just keep out of our way while we get the wheels--and then you can go quietly. I don't want any arguments"--he stopped for a man who had hurried up to him--"and I don't give a hoot how important you are!

  This is a raid. The joint is closed!"

  While this speech was being made, Professor Burke had been as aware of Miss Maxson as of the spectacular pandemonium. She had glanced--rather furtively--at her watch, when the police rushed in. It seemed an odd thing to do. Hysterical reflex, no doubt. She had grown rather pale, after that. He supposed, since she was a hostess, that she was going to be arrested. The idea annoyed him.

  But now, keeping her eyes on the police--who were already pushing one of the tables toward the corridor--she said softly, "Stay here and wait for me, will you?"

  "Certainly."

  She tapped on an inconspicuous door and was let into the cashier's booth. From there, she vanished.

  He turned with interest to the scene around him. One or two of the ladies lolled in chairs and their escorts fanned them. Half a dozen of the gentlemen were in states of apopleptic rage. Professor Burke felt this was uncalled for: the law was Right--ergo wrath was wrong. They were gambling; they had earned this their discomfiture.

  At the same time, he felt intensely gratified that names were not to be taken. He could imagine the attitude of the Dean--the President--the entire Faculty--if the morning papers disclosed that he had been seized in a raid on a gambling establishment! The thought brought perspiration on his brow.