When the Winner Lost/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
THE CRY IN THE TUNNEL.
ODDLY enough, as I looked about me, blinking my eyes in the flood of light which blinded after the absolute darkness of my hoods, the thought of the man who disappeared, whom Elise had mentioned, came strongly to mind. Scattered over the huge low-ceiled room in which I found myself, were little groups of players huddled beside or over tables. A few were walking about, while others stood behind the players at some of the tables, merely watching. All who were seated at the tables wore the same black domino hood and cape as myself, while most of those who walked about had hoods of scarlet. These were the attendants, and I calculated mentally that there were perhaps fifteen in sight.
The room itself was a beauty. Roofed with heavy rafters that hung only eight feet from the floor, it gave the appearance of a huge, squat bungalow. The lighting was superb; though no direct glare came from any point—the lamps themselves all being Tiffany finish, and placed about the wall and in niches in the rafters overhead. Three immense rugs of London smoke chenille covered the floor, while in the center of the room a group of davenports, easy-chairs, and chaise longues, all in the same shade, stood ready for any players who desired a rest or a quiet cigar between games.
The tables, mostly glass-topped affairs supported by single gray steel pillars two inches in thickness—built into place, I took for granted—were arranged about the sides. A faro set and two roulette wheels occupied three corners, while in the fourth a bay showed two doors, opening where I could not guess.
“You may join any table you choose, change from one to another at your pleasure, or drop out for a time when you are tired,” said the attendant at my elbow.
I nodded and walked to the first group. Five of the silent figures here were absorbed at cards. Through the whole of two hands, which I watched, not a single word was spoken! The attendant, who had followed, now touched my arm again. “The chips speak for themselves,” he whispered, motioning at one of the players, who just was equalling a stack of blues shoved forward by another. As I saw plainly, this was a call.
“How do I get chips?” I asked.
“Sit down, draw out the money you wish to invest, and place it in the center. The banker will give you chips When you want more, do the same. When you want to drop out, cash in with him.”
I saw, with something akin to pleasure, that so far as appearances went, at least, there was nothing of the “house percentage” intruding all of the time. It really seemed like a private game, with all of the players masked.
I watched one more hand, as much to see how the details were carried on silently, as for any other reason, for I knew the game. It was what is colloquially known as “seven-card pique,” though it bears no relation whatever to piquet, being a corruption of ordinary stud poker. Two cards were dealt around first, face down. Then the next card was turned face up for each player. The highest card had the privilege of betting or checking the bet. The next man to the left then could bet, drop, raise or simply check. Thus it went on with the first card until all were satisfied.
Then another card was dealt, and the process repeated. In all, four cards were turned face up for each player, and the seventh and last card dealt face down. Opportunity thus was given for five bets on each hand. All of this money went into the center of the table, and when the final call came, the best five-card poker hand that could be made out of any of the seven-card aggregations won the money.
“Chips at this table are worth five, ten, twenty-five,” assured my monitor. At the end table of this row they sell for twice this amount, while across there,” and he waved his black-draped arm, “is a cheaper game. Beside it, under that cluster of lights, is what we call the 'King's table.' Any time a member gets tired of this sort of betting he can go there and make any wager he desires. If no other member wishes to cover the money, the house will oblige him. One of the attendants will play against him.”
I bowed complete understanding and though I was rather short of money—having only about seven hundred dollars left of the amount I had drawn for the first expedition with Hoffman—I took the empty chair at the table and bought five hundred dollars' worth of chips.
The first three hands I played for all they were worth. On one I stayed until the last card, dropping when a flush was no longer a possibility. This cost me ninety-five dollars. The second deal gave me a pair of eights and a queen up. The next card was a five-spot. I stayed, though the second man filled two queens on the board. My reward was another five, giving me two small pair with two cards to go. The man next to me on the right raised fifty dollars with a possible straight showing, the man with queens up reraised a hundred. I stayed along, figuring I might as well drop what I had in my pocket on a good chance as fritter it away by trying to be prudent. My next card was an ace, which did me no good whatever. The bets and raises this time cut out all but the two players I have mentioned and myself. I stayed, knowing that any one of four cards in the deck—neither an eight nor a five had been dealt to any one else as far as I could tell—would give me e winning hand.
The last card a third eight. Looking over the possibilities gave me some assurance. I could be beaten by the man with a pair of queens only if he had drawn the case queen and another pair or three of a kind in his blind, or a pair to match one of his off cards on the board. The man with the supposed straight was out of it, unless, of course, he had three of a kind in the blind to match one of his exposed cards. My full house looked like a winner.
The queens checked. The man with the straight bet one hundred dollars. I counted the chips I had left, finding just one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Immediately I bought two hundred dollars' worth of blues and pushed the whole stack into the center. The man with queens dropped, as I expected, and the straight called. I won, raking in eleven hundred and sixty dollars.
Because I knew the amount would not last long if I chose to lose, I played the third hand to win, also. I was a little self-conscious about starting in right away to lose to those strangers; if I showed them first that I could win they would take my losing more for granted.
From the first I knew I had an excellent chance. My two blind cards were the ace and jack of hearts, while the first card exposed was the ten of the same suit. Discounting as negligible the possibility of a royal straight flush, I still had an excellent chance for either a straight or flush. All the way I bet, with my ace as highest card showing and no pairs exposed. At the end I was raised, as my opponents had me figured for three tens, because of my early enthusiasm. As it happened I caught the six and nine of hearts, making a flush. This won, and I cleaned up a large sum which I did not attempt to count.
At that moment my real work began. I had to lose, and as nearly as I could figure it I was something like two thousand to the good. I played conservatively, but dropped nearly every time before the final cards were dealt. Seven hands went by like this, and my stacks had diminished perceptibly. I was handed three sixes on the go. Much against my inclination I dropped them at the first bet, but when two hands later I got a pair of kings in the hole, the itch in my fingers grew too strong. I played them and won with kings over seven.
Because I was not employed to sit there at one table all night, I cashed in then, receiving a trifle over two thousand dollars in all. This, in four five-hundred-dollar bills and a few of small denomination, I thrust into my pocket as I rose from the table. Seeing an opening at the table which the attendant had designated as one at which a game twice the size of my first venture was being played, I moved over and sat down. Feeling that I might as well have the full benefit of the task in hand, I put in all my money in chips. This did not represent such a tremendous pile, with blues retailing at fifty dollars each, but I saw that I could have some fun with it. I never have gambled so seriously as this before in my life, but so long as my employer wished it, I was willing.
Twenty minutes passed, and the luck that had started with me at the first table held. I had amassed such a pile of assorted colors before me that the bank bought back five thousand dollars from me. With five of those yellow notes tossed to me, I began to come back to my senses. This never would do! From that point on I lost consistently.
A half hour later when I was nearly back to my original quota of chips, a startling interruption occurred. One of the doors in the bay of which I have spoken burst open suddenly, and a wild-eyed creature brandishing a butchers cleaver raced in, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“I'll see it through!” he shrieked, while every one jumped to get the width of a table between himself and the maniac.
It stopped suddenly. Before he had gone ten paces across the floor, one of the attendants calmly leveled an automatic. With the sharp report the intruder crumpled. A bullet had bored a clean hole in his forehead! Within five seconds three of the other attendants were at the body, covering it with a cloth, and when I turned again they had taken it out.
The attendant who had fired the shot looked about him, his scarlet mask now gleaming in a sinister manner to me. “Your pardon, gentlemen,” he remarked calmly. “We did not suspect that we had any such beast in our establishment.”
That was all. No one commented on the sudden tragedy, but from the way I felt I knew that most of the players were a trifle sickened by the sight. It is one thing to be told that death is the penalty for any transgression, and another to see the judgment made and carried out coldly on the spur of the moment as it had been. Two or three of the black figures departed shortly, and I felt like following.
My opportunity came a little later. Without thinking of the cards I had—my mind holding tenaciously to the picture of that madman's face as he fell—I had won several thousand dollars.
A huge figure rose from another table, where the “cheaper game” had been in progress. I saw the black-clad bulk of a man walk out to the “King's Table” and whisper to the attendant.
“Who wants to deal a cold hand for five thousand dollars?” queried the latter in the same unexcited tone he had used in apologizing for the madman.
I arose, cashed in my winnings, and went to the table. The attendant arranged the stakes, and dealt us our cards one at a time, face up. I got a jack, a deuce, a nine, an ace and a three. Until the fall of the last card I had my opponent beaten, but with it he filled a small pair, winning the money.
As he raked in the bills I happened to glance down at his hands. They were more than large. They were hands such as I had seen on only one other person before. They could belong to no one but Mitsui! I lifted my startled glance to the slits in his mask and fancied I could make out his slant eyes grinning at me.
“Any more?” queried the attendant.
"No,” I answered, inwardly perturbed. “I've had enough for to-night.” This valet of mine was showing entirely too much versatility for my peace of mind.
“So for I,” answered my opponent; and I was certain it was Mitsui. “This make twenty thousand I win to-night.”
I bowed to him and followed the attendant. “I wish to come back here to-morrow night,” I told him. “Shall I wait at the same place, same time?”
“No,” he answered curtly. “Never twice the same. Corner of Van Buren and Dearborn at eight-fifteen. Right?”
“Yes.” I followed him to the side wall through which we had entered, and submitted to the operation of being swathed in cloth and led into the narrow tunnel. The last glimpse I had of the gambling hall showed me Mitsui in the hands of his attendant, ready to follow me through the door.
My guide put me on the elevator, and it started to rise slowly. We had gone only five or six feet upward, however, when the guide's grip on my arm tightened convulsively. Back somewhere in the tunnel behind came a horrible cry in Mitsui's voice! It was somehow muted, as if an inverted glass tumbler had covered his mouth, but even with the hood and cloth over my ears I could not mistake real agony. Gooseflesh rose on my arms, though the temperature in the elevator shaft was stifling.
“Did you hear something?” queried the guide. “It sounded to me as if some one called.”
Startled into a sharpened consciousness by the dark and the queer happening, I detected a note in his voice that I did not like. Pretending not to hear him distinctly through the cloth, I had him repeat the question. Then I denied hearing anything other than the slight scrape of the elevator
“Probably I was wrong,” he muttered, but I did not feel in the least safe until I was in the taxi, being whirled back to the Loop. The feeling was strong “in my bones” that if I had exhibited too much curiosity concerning that wild cry in the tunnel I would not have come back at all.