The Max Brand Megapack (207 page)

“‘If I wanted to waste the time,’ says Jerry, ‘I’d get up and throw you out.’

“‘It’s a wise man,’ says Doone, ‘that does his talking from the other side of a rock.’

“‘Well,’ says Jerry, ‘d’you think I can’t throw you out?’

“‘Anyway,’ says Doone, ‘I’m still here.’

“I heard the springs squeal, as Jerry went bouncing out of bed. For a minute they wrestled, and I opened the door. What I see was Jerry lying flat, and Doone sitting on his chest, as calm and smiling as you please. I closed the door quick. Jerry’s too game a boy to mind being licked fair and square, but, of course, he’d rather fight till he died than have me or anybody else see him give up.

“‘I dunno how you got there,’ says Jerry, ‘but, if I don’t kill you for this later on, I’d like to shake hands with you. It was a good trick.’

“‘The gent that taught me near busted me in two with the trick of it,’ said Doone. ‘S’pose I let you up. Is it to be a handshaking or fighting?’

“‘My wind is gone for half an hour,’ says Jerry, ‘and my head is pretty near jarred loose from my spinal column. I guess it’ll have to be hand-shaking today. But I warn you, Doone,’ he says, ‘someday I’ll have it all out with you over again.’

“‘Any time you mention,’ says Doone, ‘but, if you’d landed that left when you rushed in, I would have been on the carpet, instead of you.’

“And Jerry chuckles, feeling a pile better to think how near he’d come to winning the fight.

“‘Wait till I jump under the shower,’ says Jerry, ‘and I’ll be with you again. Have you had breakfast? And what brought you to me? And who the devil are you, Doone? Are you out of the West?’

“He piles all these questions thick and fast at Doone, and then I seen right off that him and Doone had made up to be pretty thick with each other. So I went away from the door and didn’t listen any more, and in about half an hour out they walk, arm in arm, like old pals.”

It was perfectly clear to John Mark that Ronicky had come there purposely to break the link between him and young Jerry Smith. It was perfectly plain why he wanted to do it.

“How much does Jerry owe me?” he asked suddenly.

The other drew out a pad and calculated for a moment: “Seven thousand eight hundred and forty-two,” he announced with a grin, as he put back the pad. “That’s what he’s sold himself for, up to this time.”

“Too much in a way and not enough in another way,” replied John Mark. “Listen, if he comes back, which I doubt, keep him here. Get him away from Ronicky—dope him—dope them both. In any case, if he comes back here, don’t let him get away. You understand?”

“Nope, but I don’t need to understand. I’ll do it.”

John Mark nodded and turned toward the door.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Spider’s Web

Only the select attended the meetings at Fernand’s. It was doubly hard to choose them. They had to have enough money to afford high play, and they also had to lose without a murmur. It made it extremely difficult to build up a clientele, but Fernand was equal to the task. He seemed to smell out the character of a man or woman, to know at once how much iron was in their souls. And, following the course of an evening’s play, Fernand knew the exact moment at which a man had had enough. It was never twice the same for the same man. A rich fellow, who lost twenty thousand one day and laughed at it, might groan and curse if he lost twenty hundred a week later.

It was Fernand’s desire to keep those groans and curses from being heard in his gaming house. He extracted wallets painlessly, so to speak.

He was never crooked; and yet he would not have a dealer in his employ unless the fellow knew every good trick of running up the deck. The reason was that, while Fernand never cheated in order to take money away from his customers, he very, very frequently had his men cheat in order to give money away.

This sounds like a mad procedure for the proprietor of a gaming house, but there were profound reasons beneath it. For one of the maxims of Fernand—and, like every gambler, he had many of them—was that the best way to make a man lose money is first of all to make him win it.

Such was Monsieur Frederic Fernand. And, if many compared him to Falstaff, and many pitied the merry, fat old man for having fallen into so hard a profession, yet there were a few who called him a bloated spider, holding his victims, with invisible cords, and bleeding them slowly to death.

To help him he had selected two men, both young, both shrewd, both iron in will and nerve and courage, both apparently equally expert with the cards, and both just as equally capable of pleasing his clients. One was a Scotchman, McKeever; the other was a Jew, Simonds. But in looks they were as much alike as two peas out of one pod. They hated each other with silent, smiling hatred, because they knew that they were on trial for their fortunes.

Tonight the Jew, Simonds, was dealing at one of the tables, and the Scotchman, McKeever, stood at the side of the master of the house, ready to execute his commissions. Now and again his dark eyes wandered toward the table where the Jew sat, with the cards flashing through his fingers. McKeever hungered to be there on the firing line! How he wished he could feel that sifting of the polished cardboard under his finger tips. They were playing Black Jack. He noted the smooth skill with which Simonds buried a card. And yet the trick was not perfectly done. Had he, McKeever, been there—

At this point he was interrupted by the easy, oily voice of M. Fernand. “This is an infernal nuisance!”

McKeever raised his eyebrows and waited for an explanation. Two young men, very young, very straight, had just come into the rooms. One he knew to be Jerry Smith.

“Another table and dealer wasted,” declared M. Fernand. “Smith—and, by heavens, he’s brought some friend of his with him!”

“Shall I see if I can turn them away without playing?” asked McKeever.

“No, not yet. Smith is a friend of John Mark. Don’t forget that. Never forget, McKeever, that the friends of John Mark must be treated with gloves—always!”

“Very good,” replied McKeever, like a pupil memorizing in class.

“I’ll see how far I can go with them,” went on M. Fernand. He went straight to the telephone and rang John Mark.

“How far should I go with them?” he asked, after he had explained that Smith had just come in.

“Is there someone with him?” asked John Mark eagerly.

“A young chap about the same age—very brown.”

“That’s the man I want!”

“The man you want?”

“Fernand,” said Mark, without explaining, “those youngsters have gone out there to make some money at your expense.”

M. Fernand growled. “I wish you’d stop using me as a bank, Mark,” he complained. “Besides, it costs a good deal.”

“I pay you a tolerable interest, I believe,” said John Mark coldly.

“Of course, of course! Well”—this in a manner of great resignation—“how much shall I let them take away?”

“Bleed them both to death if you want. Let them play on credit. Go as far as you like.”

“Very well,” said Fernand, “but—”

“I may be out there later, myself. Good-by.”

The face of Frederic Fernand was dark when he went back to McKeever. “What do you think of the fellow with Jerry Smith?” he asked.

“Of him?” asked McKeever, fencing desperately for another moment, as he stared at Ronicky Doone.

The latter was idling at a table close to the wall, running his hands through a litter of magazines. After a moment he raised his head suddenly and glanced across the room at McKeever. The shock of meeting glances is almost a physical thing. And the bold, calm eyes of Ronicky Doone lingered on McKeever and seemed to judge him and file that judgment away.

McKeever threw himself upon the wings of his imagination. There was something about this fellow, or his opinion would not have been asked. What was it?

“Well?” asked Frederic Fernand peevishly. “What do you think of him?”

“I think,” said the other casually, “that he’s probably a Western gunman, with a record as long as my arm.”

“You think that?” asked the fat man. “Well, I’ve an idea that you think right. There’s something about him that suggests action. The way he looks about, so slowly—that is the way a fearless man is apt to look, you know. Do you think you can sit at the table with Ronicky Doone, as they call him, and Jerry Smith and win from them this evening?”

“With any sort of luck—”

“Leave the luck out of it. John Mark has made a special request. Tonight, McKeever, it’s going to be your work to make the luck come to you. Do you think you can?”

A faint smile began to dawn on the face of McKeever. Never in his life had he heard news so sweet to his ear. It meant, in brief, that he was to be trusted for the first time at real manipulation of the cards. His trust in himself was complete. This would be a crushing blow for Simonds.

“Mind you,” the master of the house went on, “if you are caught at working—”

“Nonsense!” said McKeever happily. “They can’t follow my hands.”

“This fellow Doone—I don’t know.”

“I’ll take the chance.”

“If you’re caught I turn you out. You hear? Are you willing to take the risk?”

“Yes,” said McKeever, very pale, but determined.

At the right moment McKeever approached Jerry and Ronicky, dark, handsome, smoothly amiable. He was clever enough to make no indirect effort to introduce his topic. “I see that you gentlemen are looking about,” he said. “Yonder is a clear table for us. Do you agree, Mr. Smith?”

Jerry Smith nodded, and, having introduced Ronicky Doone, the three started for the table which had been indicated.

It was in an alcove, apart from the sweep of big rooms which were given over to the players. It lay, too, conveniently in range of the beat of Frederic Fernand, as he moved slowly back and forth, over a limited territory and stopped, here and there for a word, here and there for a smile. He was smoothing the way for dollars to slide out of wallets. Now he deliberately stopped the party in their progress to the alcove.

“I have to meet you,” he said to Ronicky. “You remind me of a friend of my father, a young Westerner, those many years ago. Same brown skin, same clear eye. He was a card expert, the man I’m thinking about. I hope you’re not in the same class, my friend!”

Then he went on, laughing thunderously at his own poor jest. Particularly from the back, as he retreated, he seemed a harmless fat man, very simple, very naive. But Ronicky Doone regarded him with an interest both cold and keen. And, with much the same regard, after Fernand had passed out of view, the Westerner regarded the table at which they were to sit.

In the alcove were three wall lights, giving an ample illumination—too ample to suit Ronicky Doone. For McKeever had taken the chair with the back to the light. He made no comment, but, taking the chair which was facing the lights, the chair which had been pointed out to him by McKeever, he drew it around on the far side and sat down next to the professional gambler.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Stacked Cards

The game opened slowly. The first, second, and third hands were won by Jerry Smith. He tucked away his chips with a smile of satisfaction, as if the three hands were significant of the whole progress of the game. But Ronicky Doone pocketed his losses without either smile or sneer. He had played too often in games in the West which ran to huge prices. Miners had come in with their belts loaded with dust, eager to bet the entire sum of their winnings at once. Ranchers, fat with the profits of a good sale of cattle, had wagered the whole amount of it in a single evening. As far as large losses and large gains were concerned, Ronicky Doone was ready to handle the bets of anyone, other than millionaires, without a smile or a wince.

The trouble with McKeever was that he was playing the game too closely. Long before, it had been a maxim with the chief that a good gambler should only lose by a small margin. That maxim McKeever, playing for the first time for what he felt were important stakes in the eyes of Fernand, followed too closely. Stacking the cards, with the adeptness which years of practice had given to him, he never raised the amount of his opponent’s hand beyond its own order. A pair was beaten by a pair, three of a kind was simply beaten by three of a kind of a higher order; and, when a full house was permitted by his expert dealing to appear to excite the other gamblers, he himself indulged in no more than a superior grade of three of a kind.

Half a dozen times these coincidences happened without calling for any distrust on the part of Ronicky Doone, but eventually he began to think. Steady training enabled his eyes to do what the eyes of the ordinary man could not achieve, and, while to Jerry Smith all that happened in the deals of McKeever was the height of correctness, Ronicky Doone, at the seventh deal, awakened to the fact that something was wrong.

He hardly dared to allow himself to think of anything for a time, but waited and watched, hoping against hope that Jerry Smith himself would discover the fraud which was being perpetrated on them. But Jerry Smith maintained a bland interest in the game. He had won between two and three hundred, and these winnings had been allowed by McKeever to accumulate in little runs, here and there. For nothing encourages a gambler toward reckless betting so much as a few series of high hands. He then begins to believe that he can tell, by some mysterious feeling inside, that one good hand presages another. Jerry Smith had not been brought to the point where he was willing to plunge, but he was very close to it.

McKeever was gathering the youngster in the hollow of his hand, and Ronicky Doone, fully awake and aware of all that was happening, felt a gathering rage accumulate in him. There was something doubly horrible in this cheating in this place. Ronicky set his teeth and watched. Plainly he was the chosen victim. The winnings of Jerry Smith were carefully balanced against the losses of Ronicky Doone. Hatred for this smooth-faced McKeever was waxing in him, and hatred in Ronicky Doone meant battle.

An interruption came to him from the side. It came in the form of a brief rustling of silk, like the stir of wind, and then Ruth Tolliver’s coppery hair and green-blue eyes were before him—Ruth Tolliver in an evening gown and wonderful to look at. Ronicky Doone indulged himself with staring eyes, as he rose to greet her. This, then, was her chosen work under the régime of John Mark. It was as a gambler that she was great. The uneasy fire was in her eyes, the same fire that he had seen in Western gold camps, in Western gaming houses. And the delicate, nervous fingers now took on a new meaning to him.