THREE HANDS AT POKER
"I remember seeing in a Club I visited last year in Buda, some framed
hands of cards--remarkable hands that had occurred in the play there.
It is a pretty custom. I have often since wished to start a similar
collection. Permit me."
And Senor Gabriel Dasso screwed a monocle into a cold and calculating
eye and crossed over to the card table.
"May I take them?--thanks. Most extraordinary. And how much did you
win, Lieutenant Mozara, on your four kings?"
The young officer addressed nicked the ash from his cigarette and
glanced carelessly over the pile of notes and gold before him.
"Oh, about four hundred crowns--thereabouts," he answered carelessly.
"Then the fair Julie of the _Casino_ has a rosy future before her
for--shall we say nearly a week?"
At this a laugh came from the Lieutenant's two opponents, and Dasso
continued, gathering up the cards as he spoke--
"You're sure, gentlemen, you don't mind. I'll have them framed with a
little brass plate with all the particulars. Let me see, Count, you,
was it not, who held the full house, aces high too--and you, Captain
Olalla, the flush--am I right?"
He went over to where a handsome inlaid writing table stood near the
window and returned with three envelopes. The players watched idly
whilst he put five cards into each; afterwards placing the three in a
larger envelope, which latter he stuck down. Then, taking a tiny
fountain pen from the pocket of his white vest, he wrote:--
_Three hands at Poker, held by Count Petola, Captain Olalla, and
Lieutenant Mozara--Friday the fifteenth of January_ 1908.
"Many thanks, gentlemen, and a thousand apologies for interrupting your
game."
Senor Dasso returned to his position by the fire, one arm resting on
the high mantleboard and letting his monocle fall with a little tinkle
against his shirt front. The men at the table tore open another pack
of cards and resumed their game.
But it was late, and the play became desultory. Following such an
exciting hand, the cards ran badly, and after the next "jackpot" the
Count and Captain Olalla took their leave.
Lieutenant Mozara carried his glass over and joined Dasso, who still
maintained his position by the fireplace. He made way for the younger
man, and--
"A good evening's play, eh, Mozara?"
"So so, but I say, Dasso, was it hardly playing the game to drag Julie
into it? I don't like being laughed at."
"Oh, a little chaff is the least one has to pay for one's gallantries."
"I expect you did the same, at my age."
Senor Dasso turned and contemplated his handsome face with its
iron-grey imperial in the pier-glass before replying.
"Worse, my dear boy, far worse. San Pietro was not then what it is
now, but Paris was--Paris--and so was Vienna."
There was silence for a moment, and it was Mozara who first broke it.
"Rather childish isn't it--to keep those cards? They weren't so
wonderful, after all; you'll see better at the Club almost any night."
"Possibly--but not so _interesting_."
Something in the elder man's voice made the other look up sharply. His
eyes narrowed in his head.
"What do you mean, Dasso--more interesting?"
For answer, Senor Dasso drew up a little table in front of the fire,
and taking the envelope from his pocket, handed his fountain pen to the
Lieutenant.
"I don't understand this, Senor."
"It means, my dear lieutenant, that the record I have written is not
yet complete. You will finish it to my dictation."
"If this is a joke, Senor----"
"Pardon me, it is no joke. You will write at my dictation."
"I'm damned if I will--you forget, Senor Dasso, that you----"
"I forget nothing. I know that I am a guest in your uncle's house.
Senor Luazo is the soul of honour, and his sister's child should--but
never mind. Again I say you will write at my dictation--or you will
blow out your brains here and now--Oh, no, you don't."
For with a snarling sound the young man had made a dash at the packet,
but before it could reach the flames a hand closed like steel over his
wrist.
"You understand me now--eh?"
"Yes, damn you, I understand that you, a guest of my uncle's, dares to
spy upon me. I understand that."
"Is there, then, so little difference between a spy and--a cheat?"
Lieutenant Mozara sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands
for a moment, then he reached out for the pen.
"What is it you want me to write?"
The other thought for a moment, drumming his fingers upon the polished
surface of the little table. "How does it end--yes--'_on the fifteenth
of January_ 1908,' now add--'_The hands were dealt by me, Gaspar
Mozara. The cards were provided by me--and I won four hundred crowns.
God be merciful to me a sinner_.'"
With an oath the young man rose, throwing over the table in his
agitation.
"I'll see you in he----"
He stopped and gave a little cry as he saw the shining barrel of a
small revolver pointed at him.
"You--you would murder me, then?"
"Morally, yes, but not physically unless you drive me to it. I would
say you shot yourself at being found out. This," and he tapped the
little package, "would prove everything; marked cards are the finest of
evidence."
Then the boy--he was hardly more--was on his knees. "Why are you doing
this, Senor Dasso?" he pleaded. "Before God it's the first time. You
knew my mother--I've never harmed you. I will return the money
to-morrow. I--I--wanted it for Julie."
"Yes, I know that, bless her. It isn't the first time that a woman has
played my game for me. There is no mercy in ambition, and _I want
you_. I can make use of you. Oh, your secret is safe with me,
provided you write as I say."
"And place my honour and my life in your hands for ever."
"Precisely, that is all I want."
Tremblingly the boy looked past the muzzle to the steady hand and up to
the cruel, thin face. Then he righted the table, and whilst Dasso held
the package he wrote.
"And your seal," said his tormentor, when the lieutenant had signed his
name, and he fetched a stick of black wax from the writing table. Then
after Mozara had sealed it with his signet ring, Dasso placed the
envelope in his pocket and leant back with a half smile.
"And now, my dear lieutenant, for my motive. Believe me I like you,
and I have no personal objection to your method of playing poker. I
can be frank with you now that I have this," and he tapped the pocket
over the cards.
"You know what they say here in Corbo, that it was I who engineered the
affair of fifteen years ago. They even hint that I took an active part
in the doings at the palace on that night. Well, they are not far
wrong. It was I who did the majority of the work, seeing that my
followers faltered at the last moment. I had too much at stake to risk
failure. I had worked hard, believing that the choice of the people
would fall on me, failing a direct heir. It did; I was made Dictator,
and for a few brief weeks I tasted the fruits of power.
"But Spain was stronger than I, and my crime--my political crime--went
for nothing. Enrico was placed where I would sit, and now he is at
last paying the penalty of his licentious and foolish mode of life.
The King is dying."
For a moment the lieutenant was interested in spite of himself.
"But his nephew will----"
Senor Dasso rose and snapped his fingers.
"That for him. What do the people think or even know of him, a man who
has hardly been seen by them, a man who hates San Pietro and all in
it--including his uncle? I understand he is in Africa shooting lions
at this present moment. When he hears of his uncle's death it will be
too late."
"But Spain?"
"Spain has her own troubles now, and I have information that a little
diplomacy is all that is needed. It is my hour and I will want help--I
will want dirty work done. To-night I saw my chance when I noticed
that your cards were marked. I took it, as I take all chances."
"What is it you want of me?"
"There will be many things. First I want you to watch and tell me all
about these English people, Miss Bax--Baxendale and her Mr. Sydney. I
want you to----"
"I will not play the spy in my uncle's house--he has been a father to
me--more than a father."
"But you _play_--in your uncle's house--how you play is known only to
you and me--so far. It's not much I'm asking of you, but much or
little you'll have to do it. They visit here a great deal, and your
task will be easy--and I'll help you with Julie. Half-past one; I'll
go now--you'll remember."
Gabriel Dasso descended the broad stairway of Senor Luazo's mansion,
and was helped into his sable overcoat by the sleepy man-servant at the
door. In the courtyard his motor was waiting, but instructing the
chauffeur to keep him in sight Dasso turned up the collar of his coat
and stepped out briskly.
It was a lovely night, and the Bay of Lucana gleamed silver beneath the
moon. The boulevard that terraced above the beach lay white under the
cold glare of the arc lamps which threw a delicate tracery of shadow
from the acacia trees.
The town of Corbo was built on a cliff, or rather a series of little
cliffs that rose in terraces, upon the highest of which stood the royal
palace. Under the gay reign of Enrico I, Corbo had prospered
exceedingly, and there was but little remaining of the old and quaint
town of a decade ago. Modern hotels, rivalling the palace in splendour
and far exceeding it in comfort, lined the lower boulevard, and the
Casino lying back in its palm gardens had been erected by a syndicate
of Russian Jews and had cost a fabulous amount of money.
The lights were still blazing from its myriad windows as Senor Dasso
made his way along the broad pavement, followed at a respectful
distance by his car. There was a slight wind off-shore and little
bursts of melody came to him at intervals, of a popular waltz played by
a string band.
For perhaps half-an-hour the man continued to walk up and down, his
chin sunk deep in his collar, then he raised his hand and the watching
chauffeur slid noiselessly up to him.
Leaving the lighted thoroughfare the car made its way to the eastern
end of the town, which lay in darkness. It was here, in a part that
still contained some of the buildings of the old town, that Dasso's
home lay. It was a large mediaeval-looking structure, more of a castle
than a house. When first it had been erected it stood alone, but with
the growth of the town it had been surrounded, and portions of its
grounds taken in till now it had the appearance of a giant being
elbowed and crowded out by pigmies.
Before the massive old gateway the car drew up, and at the sound of the
brakes the oak doors opened. Senor Dasso passed in between the two
footmen, one of whom relieved him of his coat and hat, whilst the other
shot home the great bolts behind him.
"I'll want nothing more," he said shortly, and crossing the hall
entered a room on the left. On the table stood a decanter and a
syphon. He mixed himself a drink, then selecting a key from the bunch
on his chain inserted it in the lock of a small but massive safe that
was let into the wall by the fireplace. He took from it a portfolio of
black leather, and, seating himself near the lights of a branch
candelabra, unfastened the little strap.
It contained a varied assortment of papers, and Dasso ran through them
hurriedly until he came to a card bearing a photograph. This he held
close to the light and scanned narrowly.
He saw an old silver print of a young and beautiful woman in royal
robes. Tall, and of a commanding carriage that savoured somewhat of
arrogance, the late Queen of San Pietro looked out from the faded
picture. For some minutes Senor Dasso gazed at the eyes, looking away
now and again as though conjuring up some picture to his mind. Then he
spoke murmuringly to himself, his eyes fixed on the portrait he held in
his hand.
"I who knew you better than the others--_I who saw you last of
all_--can perhaps see more than the others now. Yes, Queen Elene, your
eyes have looked at me again to-night--in the flesh"--he laughed
shortly--"but I did not flinch, Elene; the nerves of Gabriel Dasso are
as firm to-day as they were fifteen years ago."
For a little while longer he looked, a half smile curling his cruel
mouth, then he replaced the photograph in the portfolio, putting with
it the three poker hands of Lieutenant Mozara, and again locked it in
the safe.
Then taking the candelabra, he ascended the wide oak staircase to his
chamber.