“It seems astonishing,” said I, “that anyone should practise it. But perhaps they don’t.”
“Oh, don’t they?” said Gillum. “You must understand, Mortimer, that to the real, perfect gambler, the charm of the game is the risk of losing. The bigger the risk, the greater the thrill. Plenty of people at the club, particularly the roulette players, double the stakes when they lose; and there is a temptation, you know, when you have lost, to take another chance in the hope of getting your money back. But it is a bad plan, because you stand to lose so much more than you stand to gain.”
“Don’t some people double on their winnings?” I asked.
“Ah,” said he, “but that is quite a different kind of affair. There is some sense in that because it is quite the opposite of the other method. If you win you win, you don’t merely get your money back; and if you eventually lose, you have only lost your original stake—plus your winnings, of course. Supposing you take an even chance at roulette, say you put a hundred pounds on red and you win; and suppose that you leave the stake and the winnings—two hundred pounds—on the table as a fresh stake. If the red turns up again you take up four hundred, of which one hundred is your original stake. You have won three hundred. But if you lose, you have only lost a hundred, plus the three that you had won. From a gambler’s point of view it is quite a sound method.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “I see that, at least, you start with the knowledge of the amount that you stand to lose. But the whole thing is beyond my comprehension. I can’t begin to understand the state of mind of a man who is prepared to risk his money in a transaction over which he has no control and in respect to which no judgement, calculation or prevision is possible.”
He laughed gaily and refilled our glasses. “You are a banker to the fingertips, Mortimer,” said he; “and, as you happen to be my banker, I am not disposed to quarrel with your eminently correct outlook. I suppose you have never seen a gambling den.”
“Never,” I replied; “and I am an absolute ignorant on the subject of gambling. I hardly know how to play the common card games.”
“I think you ought to know what these shows are like,” said he. “I can assure you that, as a mere spectacle, a regular gaming house is worth seeing. What do you say to strolling round to the club with me when we have had our coffee? It’s too late to do anything else.”
It was really too late to do anything but go home and to bed. But I could hardly, in the circumstances, suggest that course. Nor, in fact, was I particularly disposed to; for the excellent dinner and the equally excellent wine had produced a state of exhilaration that made me not disinclined for adventure. In my normal state, nothing would have induced me to set loot in a gambling den. Now I fell in readily enough with Gillum’s suggestion.
“But shan’t I be expected to play?” I enquired. “Because I am not going to.”
“That will be all right,” he replied. “I shall explain to Madame, and she will see that you are left in peace. But you understand that this is an unregistered club and that you will keep your own counsel about your visit there. I shall have to guarantee your secrecy.”
I gave the necessary undertaking and Gillum then held the wine bottle up to the light.
“There’s half a bottle left,” said he, making as if to refill my glass. “Won’t you really? Not another half-glass? Well, I don’t think I will, either. We will just have our coffee and a cognac and then toddle round to the club and see the ball roll.”
CHAPTER III
The Gaming House
From Giamborini’s we strolled forth into Wardour Street, and, proceeding in a southerly direction, promptly turned into Gerrard Street. I knew the place slightly and on my occasional passage through it had found a certain bookish interest in contrasting its recent faded and shabby aspect with that which it must have presented in the days when Dryden was a resident, and, later, when the Literary Club with Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith and Gibbon, held its meetings here.
“Queer old street,” Gillum commented, looking about him disparagingly. “Quite fashionable, I believe, at one time, but it is down on its luck nowadays. Very mixed population, too. All sorts of odd clubs, British and foreign, and tradesmen who seem to have survived from the Stone Age. There is a fellow some where along here who makes spurs. Think of it. Spurs! In the twentieth century. This is our show.”
He halted at a doorway which, shabby and grimy as it was, yet preserved some vestiges of its former dignity, and having run his eye over an assortment of bell handles, put his finger on an electric button which surmounted them and pressed several times at irregular intervals.
“Are you ringing out a code message?” I asked.
“Well, yes, in a way,” he replied. “There is a particular kind of ring that the regular members give just to let the people upstairs know that it isn’t a stranger. There is always the possibility of a raid and our friends like to have time to make the necessary arrangements.”
The idea of a police raid was not a pleasant one and the suggestion tended rather to damp my enthusiasm. I expressed the hope that this would not happen to be the occasion of one.
“No, indeed,” said Gillum. “it would be unfortunate for you. Wouldn’t increase your prestige at the bank. But you needn’t worry. There has never been any trouble since I have known the place. I have sometimes suspected that Foucault has some sort of discreet understanding with the authorities, but in any case, I know there is a bolt hole through into the next house where an Italian club has its premises.”
This did not sound very reassuring. I felt the exhilarating effects of the champagne evaporating rapidly; and when at length the door was opened, the aspect of the janitor did not produce a favourable impression. He was a big, powerful man, with a heavy jaw and beetling brows and a strong suggestion of the professional pugilist. He carried an electric lamp, the light of which he cast on us while he inspected us critically. Then the truculent expression faded suddenly from his face and a cheerful Irish voice exclaimed:
“Whoy, it’s Mr. Gillum. Good evening, sorr. And the other gentleman, would he be a friend of yours?”
“Yes,” replied Gillum, “it’s all right, Cassidy. All’s well and the lights are burning brightly, sir.”
Mr. Cassidy chuckled as he let us in and shut the door. “Many’s the time,” said he, “as I’ve spoken them same wurrds in the days when I used the sea. What did ye say the gentleman’s name was?”
“His name is Mortimer,” replied Gillum.
“To be sure it is,” said Cassidy, adding, as he threw his light downwards: “Kape your oyes on the stairs, sorr. There’s a tread loose at the turn.”
The stairs were, in fact, in somewhat indifferent repair, but I noticed as the light flickered over them that this had once been quite a handsome staircase though a trifle narrow; and even now the fine moulded handrail and the graceful twisted balusters redeemed its extreme shabbiness. At the top of the second flight we came to a bare landing with a door facing us. This Cassidy opened, and, having admitted us, passed in himself, crossed the room and disappeared through mother doorway, presumably to report our arrival and identity.
I looked round the room which we had entered and was conscious of a faint sense of anti-climax. It was so very ordinary and so very innocent; much like the interior of the cheaper kind of old-fashioned Soho restaurant. At the farther end of the room was a large sideboard, presided over by a man in a white coat and cap and piled with a variety of food, including a ham, a number of different types of sausage, a great stack of sandwiches and long French loaves. On a shelf behind was a long row of bottles of mineral waters but on the sideboard I noted several champagne bottles, a few of whisky, and some of absinthe and other liqueurs.
The room was moderately full of people; full enough to have given Mr. Cassidy considerable occupation if they had been admitted separately. Some of them were lounging about, talking; others were seated at little tables, taking food rather hurriedly, and some were actually drinking gi
nger ale, though most of them were provided with wine, whisky or Dutch gin. One or two of the tables were furnished with chess-boards and sets of dominoes, but none of them appeared to be in use. Apparently their function was purely psychological. They were part of the “make-up” of the establishment.
I had not much time to examine the company, but a rapid inspection conveyed to me the impression that they were all rather abnormal and slightly disreputable. There was an air of eagerness, anxiety and excitement about them, mingled, in some cases, with a sort of wild hilarity. Those at the tables gobbled their food as if they were hastily stoking up and were anxious to get the business over. Particularly I noticed a group of four men standing by the sideboard devouring sandwiches wolfishly and gulping champagne from tumblers. But, as I said, I had little time to observe them, for, after a brief pause and a curious glance round the room, Gillum conducted me to a door near the farther end from which Cassidy emerged as we approached.
There was certainly nothing innocent about the room that we now entered. A single glance convicted it. The roulette table alone furnished evidence to which there could be no answer, and the groups of haggard, intent men and women gathered round the card tables that filled most of the room, if less conclusive to a possible raider, were unmistakable, seen as I saw them.
From one of these tables the lady of the restaurant rose, and laying down her cards, came to meet us.
“So you have persuaded Mr. Mortimer to come,” she said, bestowing a gracious smile on me and offering an extensive sample of teeth for my inspection (apparently she had got my name from Mr. Cassidy).
“Yes,” replied Gillum, “but he has only come as a spectator. I have just brought him round to show him the ropes in case he may feel disposed for an evening’s sport later on.”
“That is very good of you, Jack,” said she. “Of course, he can please himself as to whether he plays or not. Perhaps, when he has looked on for a while, he may feel inclined to try his luck. People who come to look on very often do.”
“I have no doubt they do,” said Gillum with a sly mile. “The complaint is catching and fools who come to scoff remain to play.”
“I hope Mr. Mortimer hasn’t come to scoff,” said she; and when I had protested with more emphasis than sincerity she asked: “Where is your pupil going to take his first lesson?”
“Well,” he replied,” as he knows practically nothing about card games, I think roulette will suit him best. Besides, it is the beginner’s game and it is the most typical game of chance.”
That’s true,” Madame agreed, “though it seems to me a dull game, if you can call it a game at all. Let me find a couple of chairs so that you and your pupil can sit together; and then, when Mr. Mortimer is comfortably settled, I want to have a few words with you.”
We secured two chairs and placed them in a vacant place at the end of the table by the compartment distinguished by a red lozenge on the green cloth. Then Madame introduced me to the croupier, whom she addressed as Hyman—his surname I found later to be Goldfarb—and when Gillum had placed his hat on his chair, she linked her arm with his and led him away among the multitude of card tables.
Left to myself, I first disposed of my hat and stick under my chair, as I noticed that several other men had done, though there was a large hat rack in the adjoining room. Then I proceeded to make my observations.
There was plenty to observe, and it was all strange and novel to me. There were, for instance, the various players, most of them seated at the table, though some preferred to stand and hover about behind the chairs, and there was the croupier, a pleasant faced Jew, calm, impassive and courteous, though obviously very much “on the spot,” and there were the parties of players at the card tables, most of whom I could see from my position without appearing to spy on them.
I considered them one by one. My next neighbour was an elderly woman whom I judged to be French, who sat like a graven image, silently and immovably intent on her game. She seemed to have the disease in a chronic form, for she played mechanically without a sign of satisfaction when she won or annoyance when she lost. At each spin of the wheel she laid a ten-shilling note on the space before which she sat—that marked with the red lozenge. If she won, she put the note that she had gained into a little hand bag and held the other in readiness for the next turn of the wheel; if she lost, she fished a note out of the bag for the next coup. So she went on as long as I observed her; always the same stake on the same spot. It looked deadly dull, and it was not gambling at all in any proper sense; for, by the ordinary laws of chance, it was almost impossible for her either to win or lose to an appreciable extent. So fatuous her proceedings seemed that I almost felt more respect for her next-door neighbour, a small German who might, from his appearance, have been a waiter. He certainly took risks, for his formula was two numbers “a cheval,” and he kept to the same two numbers. As the odds against him were seventeen to one, he naturally lost with great regularity; and when he lost cursed under his breath—not very far under—shook his head and grimaced angrily. I think he must have been pretty near the end of his resources, for I saw him take out a wallet and look into it anxiously. But at this moment his magic number was announced, whereat he gave a yell of ecstasy, grabbed up his winnings, stuffed them into his wallet excepting one pound note, which he laid on the same spot as before and lost within a minute.
From the roulette table my attention wandered to the other occupants of the room and occasionally to Gillum and Madame, who walked slowly to and fro at the end of the room conversing earnestly. Nor was I the only observer. Several of the card-players cast a glance from time to time at the pair, and the three occupants of the table from which Madame had risen made no secret of their interest. Two of these I could not see very well but M. Foucault sat facing me; and never have I seen a more evil expression than that which his countenance bore as he watched them. He was not a pleasant-looking man at the best, and a slight squint did not improve matters; but now his aspect was positively villainous.
Not that his manifest anger was without provocation, for Madame’s oglings and her caressing manner towards Gillum, regardless of the company, would have been offensive to the most tolerant of husbands. She might have been Gillum’s lover—and not a very reticent lover at that. It is true that Gillum took it all very coolly with no sign of responsive demonstrations; but I felt that he was being more than indiscreet. Obviously, in his association with this woman, who seemed of set purpose to exasperate her husband, he was taking the risk of serious trouble.
Presently, to my relief they strolled over to Foucault’s table and while Madame resumed her seat, Gillum drew up a spare chair and sat down facing her husband. Apparently the lady was giving some sort of explanation for she spoke volubly, leaning across the table to avoid raising her voice, while the others leaned forward to listen, and Foucault appeared to be gazing simultaneously at his wife and Gillum—an optical illusion, of course, due to his “swivel eye.”
The discussion did not last long, and it was evidently quite an amicable affair, for when Gillum stood up, he shook hands with them all, including the grim-faced Foucault, before turning away to rejoin me; and I noted the leave-taking with considerable satisfaction, for it was getting alarmingly late and I began to feel that I had had enough of this not very thrilling form of entertainment.
“Yes,” Gillum agreed, when I ventured on a hint to that effect, “time’s getting on and you’ve to be at the bank as fresh as a lark tomorrow morning. But we must have one little flutter before we go. What shall it be? Shall we try an experiment with the doubling plan that we were discussing at dinner?”
Without waiting for an answer he laid a pound note on the red beside the ten-shilling note that the elderly lady had just put down. I watched with unexpected in as the revolving wheel was checked and the little white ball clattered round the dial, and was sensibly disappointed when it settled at last in compartment 21. For 21 happened unfortunately to be black. But Gillum was as indifferent a
s the old lady, and while Mr. Goldfarb raked in the bank’s winning’s and paid out to the players who had won, he calmly selected two fresh notes from his bulging wallet.
Once more the wheel was spun, the ball was thrown out on to the revolving surface, then the croupier chanted “Rien ne va plus” and checked the wheel, Gillum laid down his two notes, and a dozen pairs of eyes anxiously followed the travels of the dancing ball. At length it dropped into compartment 32—black again; and Gillum sorted out four pound notes from his wallet.
So it went on for a while. Regardless of the law of probability, the ball persisted in dropping into black compartments, and at each failure Gillum doubled his stake. I watched the proceedings with ridiculous anxiety. At the fourth losing coup when the croupier raked in eight of Gillum’s pound notes, I noted mentally that my friend was already fifteen pounds out of pocket. If he lost the next coup, that fifteen would become thirty-one. It was positively harrowing to a thrifty man like myself; accustomed to keep a rigid account of every shilling that I spent.
However, he did not lose this time. My anxious eye following the ball, saw it eventually settle in compartment four which was red; and the croupier’s rake, instead of sweeping away Gillum’s sixteen pounds, added to them another sixteen.
“There, you see,” said Gillum; “I am one pound to the good; and that is all I should have gained if I had gone on till doomsday. But I am a gainer to the extent that I have got back what I had lost.”
He began to pick up the notes, counting them as he did so. Among them there had been four ten-shilling notes, but now there were only three; the explanation of which was that the old lady, when she had gathered up her two notes, had quietly added to them one of Gillum’s. I saw her do it, and so did he; and he now ventured, with the utmost delicacy, to point out the little inadvertency. The lady gazed at him stonily, and I think was about to contest the matter, but at this moment a shout from the farther end of the room, followed by a crash and the sound of shattering glass, effectually diverted our attention.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 191
