_COLLUSION AND CONSPIRACY_
The words which head this chapter are hard words. One cannot deny it.
They are intended to be so. Being so, they belong to the class of
utterances which, according to the sages, 'break no bones.' This may be
true enough even of collusion and conspiracy. But in all conscience, or
the lack of it, these have broken hearts and fortunes enough to
compensate for any amount of merely physical incapacity.
There cannot be the slightest doubt that a large proportion of the
cheating which goes on, in what is called polite society, is
accomplished by these means. The high position of the players is,
unfortunately, no guarantee of fidelity. One may be cheated anywhere,
even in exclusive clubs of the most _recherché_ character, as many know
to their cost. Practically, there is no high and dry rock upon which the
gambler can perch, and say to the tide of cheating--'Thus far shalt thou
come, and no farther.' He is not safe anywhere, for he can never tell
who may not be tempted, at some time or other, to resort to dishonest
practices. The sharp is not always a professional; he may, now and then,
be an amateur. Where the stakes are heavy, the temptation to take an
unfair advantage of an opponent is occasionally too great for some to
resist; especially where no risk of detection is run in so doing.
Accidental circumstances will sometimes give a player overwhelming
advantages in the play, of which none but he are aware; and who shall
say that he will not avail himself of the opportunity which chance has
thrown in his way? Against this sort of thing, however, there is no
other safeguard than the watchfulness of the players. Where, then, is
the 'game,' the amusement, if one has to play, armed at all points, as
it were, and living in dread of pickpockets?
It is not with this sporadic kind of cheating, however, that we now have
to deal, but with the systematic banding together of individuals to
swindle at play. As a notable example of this kind of thing, the reader
will do well to peruse the recital of the following incident, which
occurred a few winters ago at one of the leading clubs in the West End
of London.
At this club a very favourite game was écarté, played generally 'à la
galerie.' That is to say, the bystanders were allowed to bet among
themselves, or with the players, as to the result of the game. In this
case, the lookers-on form themselves into two parties, one behind each
player, and lay wagers upon the chances of their respective champions.
The doings of this club, then, afforded an opportunity for cheating
which was too good to be missed. Certain unprincipled members therefore
proposed, and managed to get elected, two clever French card-sharpers.
The method of procedure adopted was to place these two men opposed to
each other at a card-table, and let them play écarté. As large a
'gallery' as possible was assembled, and then the fun began. There was
nothing of refinement or delicacy of operation in the method employed.
All that took place was simply that one or the other of the players lost
to order. According to how the betting ran, that is to say, according to
the player whose winning would put the most money into the pockets of
the conspirators, so would the result of the game be. Certain signs were
made to the players, unobserved of the outsiders, and in response to
these signs the game was made to go in one direction or the other.
The favourite plan appeared to be for all the conspirators to station
themselves behind one of the men, and, of course, other members of the
club who wished to join in had to take up their position behind the
other. The secret brotherhood then made as many bets with those across
the table as they could. When this had been effected, their player was
sure to win. If the cards were not running favourably to him, he would
put up hands for himself, make the bridge, and give the cards to be cut.
No doubt, out of pure courtesy, his opponent would obligingly cut at the
required place. At the end of the evening the proceeds were divided
among the conspirators.
Well, this little game had gone on for some time, and had doubtless been
the means of putting in circulation a good deal of capital which
otherwise would have remained locked up, when a most unforeseen and
regrettable incident occurred. Among the newly-elected members of the
club was one who had some little knowledge of sleight-of-hand. Chancing
to be a spectator of the proceedings one evening, he at once 'tumbled to
the bridge.' He might well do so, for, as one of the fraternity
remarked, the players had latterly become so secure in the ignorance of
the members that, owing to their carelessness, the structure referred to
had become not so much a bridge as a veritable 'Arc de Triomphe.'
Through the enlightenment which was thus brought about, the matter came
to be laid before the committee. The result was that Écarté à la Galerie
was prohibited. Those who are familiar with club matters will doubtless
remember the circumstance, and know the club to which allusion is made.
A very necessary adjunct to collusion of almost any kind is some system
of secret telegraphy. With such a system in operation between two or
more players who are in secret partnership, there are many games in
which winning can be made a certainty. The telegraphy, of course, is
seldom of a character which would permit those acquainted with it to
indulge in secret gossip, but for the most part consists of signs which
indicate the names of the cards. Generally speaking there will be two
classes of indications, one for suit, and one for value. For instance,
if the player who is signalling is seen to lay his right hand open upon
the table, that may serve to indicate hearts; if the hand, instead of
lying flat, is resting upon its side, that may mean spades; if clenched
flat on the table, clubs may be signified; and finally, if clenched and
thumb upwards, that may denote diamonds. The values of the cards are no
less easy to indicate. If the telegraphist looks upwards, that may mean
an ace; if downwards, a king; if to the left, a queen; if straight in
front of him, a knave; if to the right, a ten; with head on one side,
and looking upward, a nine; ditto, and looking to the right, an eight;
ditto, and to the left a seven, and so on through the whole number.
There is no difficulty in arranging a system of this kind, to be worked
either by word or sign, and such systems if carefully thought out are
very difficult to detect.
Suppose two partners at whist are in collusion and one of them is about
to lead. The other may desire him to lead clubs. He may, therefore,
address to anyone in the room a sentence beginning, 'Can you tell
me----' The initial letter of the sentence indicates the suit which he
desires his partner to lead. If he wanted diamonds he would say 'Do you
know----' &c. If it was necessary to call for hearts he would observe,
'Have you seen----' &c. Lastly, if spades were in requisition he would
ask some question beginning, 'Shall you have----' These things are all
very simple, but they mean a great deal, sometimes, in a game of cards.
Another system of signalling sometimes adopted is to indicate the fact
of certain cards being held by the position in which the cards are laid
upon the table. The person signalling, having looked at his hand, wishes
to let his accomplice know that he holds a certain card of importance in
the game. Therefore, whilst waiting till the other players have sorted
their hands, he closes up his cards for the moment, and lays them before
him on the table. The manner of their disposition will give the required
cue, or, as it is called, 'office.' The end of the cards farthest from
the operator may be taken to represent a kind of pointer, which is set
opposite to some particular figure upon an imaginary dial, supposed to
be drawn upon the table. Several cards can be indicated in this way, and
for others additional factors can be introduced. For instance, the cards
may be spread a little, the top card may project a little to one side or
over one end, or the operator may keep his fingers resting upon the
cards. In fact, the variety of signals is infinite. From the laying down
of a cigar to the taking up of a glass of wine, from the opening of the
mouth to the stroking of the chin, every movement, however simple and
unsuspicious, can be made the means of cheating at almost any game. A
code of signals to indicate every card in the pack, and no more
difficult to decipher than the Morse code in telegraphy, can be arranged
by anyone in five minutes. Indeed, the Morse code itself can be used in
connection with what the French sharps call 'La dusse invisible,' a
system of signalling to an accomplice by pressure of the foot under the
table. In using this system care must, of course, be taken not to tread
on the wrong person's toes.
An instance of card-sharping, involving the use of secret telegraphy,
once came under the author's notice, in connection with the projected
exposure of a noted card-sharp. The circumstances of the case arose in
the following manner.
It is well known that one of the most able and uncompromising among
exposers of fraud at the present day is Mr. Henry Labouchere, M.P., the
Editor and Proprietor of 'Truth.' In the columns of that widely read and
influential publication, the trenchant criticisms and fearless
utterances of 'Scrutator' have done yeoman's service in the cause of
truth and justice.
The author has had the privilege upon several occasions of being
associated with Mr. Labouchere in the running to earth of impostors of
various kinds, and one of those occasions was in connection with the
case of the sharp above referred to. Some of the details will doubtless
occur to the minds of those who recollect the name of the man known as
Lambri Pasha. It is advisable to say 'known as,' for whether his real
name was anything resembling that there is nothing to show. If there is
one thing which one may be inclined to believe more than another, it is
that although Lambri the man may have been, Pasha he certainly was not.
This man Lambri, then, an Italian by birth and a sharp by profession,
had carried on his operations upon so large a scale as to bring himself
prominently before the notice of 'Scrutator.' As usual in such cases,
'Scrutator' proceeded to make short work of him.
At the time referred to, this Lambri happened to have a quarrel with one
of his accomplices, and in revenge this man revealed to Mr. Labouchere
the entire _modus operandi_ of the means used by his employer to cheat
the gamblers in those high circles to which he had obtained access.
This being the case, the author was approached by Mr. Labouchere with a
view to arranging a plan of action whereby the arch swindler might be
caught red-handed, and the exposure made complete. The following scheme
was accordingly devised. The author, in the guise of a country squire
supposed to be of great wealth, was to be presented to Lambri, and
invited to join in the game of baccarat, specially arranged for the
'staging' of the little drama which was to follow.
Needless to say it was not proposed that the author, although armed,
should be alone in a venture which promised to result in violence of a
more or less pronounced type. Among the other guests it was arranged to
have some whose daily avocations were not altogether unconnected with
Scotland Yard.
Lambri's system was an exceedingly simple one. It was worked with the
assistance of a confederate, and baccarat was the game principally
favoured. In this game three packs of cards are used in combination,
forming one large pack of 156 cards. It is obviously impossible to hold
this bulky pack in the hands with any degree of convenience whilst the
cards are being shuffled; therefore the shuffle is accomplished by
standing the cards on edge upon the table with their faces turned away
from the dealer, and in this position they are mixed together. Lambri,
having taken the 'bank,' would proceed to shuffle the cards in the
manner described. During this operation, and as the various cards were
brought to the front, the confederate, who had taken up a convenient
position, would indicate to his principal their value by means of a code
of signals arranged for that purpose. From the explanations already
given the reader will have no difficulty in deducing the manner in
which the cards were put up for the advantage of the 'bank.'
In order to detect this manoeuvre, then, it would be necessary to
watch the proceedings from the commencement, note the arrangement
adopted, and at the right moment give the signal for seizing both cards
and dealer.
Preparations having been made for carrying this plan into effect, and
all due precautions having been taken, it was hoped that Lambri would
quietly walk into the snare which had been set for him. 'The best laid
schemes,' however, 'gang aft agley.' Whether the confederate had played
fast and loose with both sides, which is more than probable, or whether
information had leaked out through some other channel, it is impossible
to say. Certain it is, however, that Lambri obtained an inkling of what
was in progress, and took steps--or rather, 'made tracks'--accordingly.
The day previous to that decided upon for the exposure the accomplice
received a telegram from Paris informing him that the object of our kind
attentions, owing to pressure of important business, would be detained
there for some weeks.
There can be no doubt that the affairs which so suddenly called him to
Paris were both pressing and important; for, to all appearance, they
have occupied his attention ever since. That appointment has never been
kept, and, so far as can be ascertained, he has never from that date to
this put in an appearance in England. To all his former friends and
acquaintances he is 'lost to sight,' though, to a great many of them, he
undoubtedly is 'to memory dear,' and _very_ dear.
A sharp may generally be trusted to arrive at a sound decision in all
matters affecting his own interests; and it certainly cannot be said
that 'Lambri Pasha' has proved himself to be an exception to the rule.
At baccarat collusion and conspiracy are generally used for the purpose
of 'rooking' some particular individual of the pronounced 'Juggins'
type, and the plan of operation is somewhat as follows.
We will suppose that the field of action is the card-room of some small
club, where baccarat is played clandestinely, and for heavy stakes.
Among the members who are addicted to this pastime there is one
youngster with more money than brains, and several of the reverse
characteristics. Half a dozen of these latter habitués of the club will
sit around a table prepared for the game in an upper chamber, waiting
the advent of their victim. Upon the table in front of the dealer is the
shoe containing the proper number of packs: the cards being arranged, we
will say, to give six winning coups to the bank, and then to lose right
out to the end. They are not playing--far from it, although the table
may be strewn with money. Theirs is a waiting game for the present, and
they are passing the time as best they can.
When the dupe arrives at the club it is whispered to him that there is a
little game in progress upstairs. His arrival is signalled to the
conspirators, and by the time the innocent fledgling reaches the room,
there is a game apparently in full blast. The new-comer sees that the
bank is winning every time. At the end of the six winning coups the
dealer says he has won enough, or makes some other excuse for retiring
from the game. A new dealer is therefore required, and it does not need
much persuasion to induce the 'mug' to take the bank. There is a
superstition to the effect that banks which commence luckily for the
dealer will continue so to the end, and the unfortunate youth never
suspects that it is a 'put-up job' for him. Consequently he sits down to
play, and naturally he loses everything to the end of the deal. The
'Juggins,' however jubilant he may have been, soon finds that he has no
cause for rejoicing. You see, when a man takes the bank in the middle of
a game he cannot have the cards shuffled, but must take them just as
they lie on the table, and continue the game from the point at which the
last dealer left it. If proceedings of this kind are not to be
stigmatised as wholesale robbery, it is difficult to see how they are to
be described.
The most common method of cheating at poker in clubs and private houses
alike, but particularly in good society, is one which is accomplished by
means of collusion, and in connection with that process of the game
known as 'raising out.'
In poker, the bets of the players are raised in rotation around the
table, and the players who wish to remain 'in'--that is to say, those
who do not wish to forfeit what they have already staked--must all have
equal stakes in the pool. Now, unless a man has a particularly good hand
he is not disposed to risk too much upon its chance of winning;
consequently, when the stakes have risen to a certain amount, he will
stand out rather than go beyond what he has already risked.
Two men, then, in secret partnership, upon sitting down to play, will
contrive to get the man with most money, or the best player (their
greatest antagonist) between them. Therefore, if these two men
systematically raise their bets, whether they have good hands or not,
they must eventually reach the point at which the other players will 'go
out.' If the man between them wishes to remain in, he must make good,
or, in other words, bring his stakes up to an amount equal to those of
the conspirators. This he may do for some time, but sooner or later the
game will become 'too hot' for him and he will go out. He is between two
fires, and stands no chance whatever. Then, everyone else having gone
out, the game is in the hands of the two sharps, and they can finish it
in any way they think best. They may keep on raising each other for a
time, until at last one of them refuses to stake another 'chip,' and
throws away his hand, and then the other simply takes the pool. Or one
of them may 'call' the other, and upon seeing the hand may throw his own
away without showing it, the inference being that it is not so good as
that of his supposed antagonist. There is really no need for the other
players to see either of the hands. They cannot be called, because one
or the other of them is always raising his stakes, and until the stakes
are made good without anyone raising, the call is not complete and no
hands are shown. Then, when all the other players are 'raised out,'
there is nobody left to call upon them to show their hands. At the end
of the evening, of course, they divide the spoil.
These things may all appear to be very simple, but they are extremely
difficult of detection by outsiders. Indeed, it is the very simplicity
of collusion that constitutes the great charm of its employment, and the
great safeguard against its detection. Unlike manipulation, it can be
accomplished by anyone and gives far less indication of its existence.
The only drawback to it is that where there is a conspiracy there is
always a chance of rogues falling out, and honest men being put in
possession of the truth.
In every kind of game, and in every department of trickery, collusion
has been utilised as a ready means of arriving at the consummation of
the sharp's desires. It is seldom, indeed, that a scheme of any
magnitude is devised without more than one person concerned in it; and
the accomplices have assumed every kind of guise, tinkers, tailors,
soldiers, sailors, waiters, club-porters, card-canvassers, and even
officers of justice. There is no end to the disguises in which these
individuals have appeared, and apparently no limit to their ingenuity.
One of the most immense frauds ever perpetrated in connection with
sharping, and in which the fewest persons were concerned, was that
recorded by Houdin. At the outset it was entirely conceived and executed
by one sharp alone, although another took part in it at a later stage,
much to the disappointment of the original promoter of the scheme. As
this incident is of interest, and exhibits in a striking manner the
possibilities of cheating which exist at all times and in all places,
the reader shall have the benefit of its perusal. Although the events
happened many years ago, the story is not very well known, and is well
worthy of retelling.
At the date of the narrative, Havana, according to the historian, was
the place most addicted to gambling of any in the world. As he also
observed, that was not saying a little. And it was in that haven of
delight that the occurrences related took place.
A Spanish sharp, named Bianco, purchased in his own country a tremendous
stock of playing-cards; and, in view of the undertaking in which he was
about to embark, he opened every one of the packs, marked all the
cards, and sealed them up again in their wrappers. This he did so
skilfully that there was no evidence of the fact that the packages had
ever been tampered with. The stupendous feat involved in a proceeding of
this kind being successfully accomplished, the cards were shipped off to
Havana and there disposed of to the card-dealers at a ruinous sacrifice.
So good indeed were these cards, and so cheap, that in a very little
while the dealers could not be induced to purchase those of any other
make. Thus after a time there were hardly any cards circulating in the
place other than those which had been falsified by Bianco.
The sharp, it may be imagined, was not long in following upon the track
of his cards; and being a man of good address, he contrived to obtain
introductions into the best society. He played everywhere, of course,
and where he played he won. Hardly ever being called upon to use any
cards but his own, it is not surprising that he should rapidly acquire
wealth among people whose chief recreation appeared to be gambling. To
avert suspicion, however, he was careful to complain constantly of the
losses he had sustained.
Among the various clubs in Havana was one which was of the most
exclusive kind. The committee was so vigilant, and such great
precautions were taken to prevent the admission of doubtful characters,
that hitherto it had been kept free from the contamination of cheating.
Into this club, however, Bianco contrived to effect an entrance, and
carried on his operations therein with much success. He was destined,
notwithstanding the zeal of the committee, to remain alone in the field
but a very short time. Another sharp, a Frenchman this time, contrived
also to obtain admission to the club; and he, too, set to work to
prospect the country, thinking that he had possessed himself of a
gold-mine as yet unexploited.
Accordingly, this second adventurer, Laforcade by name, seized a
favourable opportunity of appropriating a quantity of the club cards.
These he took home with him for the purpose of marking them, intending
to return them when marked to the stock from which they had been taken.
One may imagine the man's surprise upon opening the packs to find that
every card had already been marked.
Evidently, then, somebody had been before him, and Laforcade determined
to find out who it could be. He made inquiries as to where the cards
were obtained, and, purchasing some at the same place, found that these
also were marked. In fact, every pack that he could procure had been
tampered with in like manner. Here then was a gigantic swindle, and he
determined to profit by it. He would let the other man do all the work,
but _he_ would share in the profits. If the other man, whoever he might
be, would not listen to reason, he would threaten to hand him over to
the police.
Having arrived at this decision, he set to work to watch the play of the
various members of the club, and, naturally, the invariable good fortune
of Bianco could not fail to attract his attention. Keeping strict watch
upon that gentleman's proceedings, Laforcade soon arrived at the
conclusion that Bianco, and no other, was the man of whom he was in
search. He therefore took an early opportunity of engaging his
brother-swindler in a quiet game of écarté, whilst no other members of
the club were present.
The game was played, and Bianco won, as a matter of course. Then, as
usual, the winner asked his opponent if he was satisfied, or whether he
would prefer to have his revenge in another game. Much to his surprise,
however, instead of saying simply whether he preferred to play again or
not, the loser coolly rested his elbows on the table, and regarding his
adversary composedly, gave him to understand that the entire secret of
the cheerful little deception which was being practised was in his
possession. This, of course, came rather as a bomb-shell into Bianco's
camp, and reduced him at once to a condition in which any terms of
compromise would be acceptable, in preference to exposure and
imprisonment.
Matters having arrived at this point, Laforcade proposed terms upon
which he was willing to come to an understanding with the Spaniard.
These were, briefly, that Bianco should continue his system of plunder,
on condition that he handed over to his fellow-cheat one-half of the
proceeds. These terms were agreed to, and upon that basis of settlement
the agreement was entered into.
For some time after this all went well with the two swindlers. Laforcade
established himself in luxury, and gave his days to pleasure. Bianco ran
all the risk; the other had nothing to do but sit at home and receive
his share of the profits. It is true he could keep no check upon his
associate, to see that he divided the spoil equitably; but, holding the
sword of Damocles over him, he could always threaten him with exposure
if the profits were not sufficiently great.
At length, however, Bianco began to tire of the arrangement, which
perhaps was only natural. Besides, the supply of marked cards was
beginning to run short, and could not be depended upon much longer. This
being so, the prime mover of the plot having won as much as he possibly
could, promptly vacated the scene of his exploits.
The unfortunate Laforcade thus found himself, as the Americans say,
'left.' The prospect was not altogether a pleasant one for him. He had
acquired expensive tastes which he might no longer be enabled to
indulge; he had accustomed himself to luxuries he could no longer hope
to enjoy. He had not the skill of the departed Bianco; yet,
nevertheless, he was compelled to (metaphorically) roll up his sleeves
and work for his living. Things were not so bad as they might have been.
There was still a good number of falsified cards in use; so he
determined to make the best possible use of his opportunities while they
remained.
He therefore set to work with ardour, and success largely attended his
efforts. At last, however, the crash came. He was detected in cheating,
and the whole secret of the marked cards was brought to light.
Even in this unfortunate predicament Laforcade's good-fortune, strange
to say, did not desert him. He was taken before the Tribunal, tried, and
_acquitted_. Absolutely nothing could be proved against him. It is true
the cards were marked, but then, so were nearly all the others in
Havana. Laforcade did not mark them, as was proved in the evidence. He
did not import them. To all intents and purposes he had nothing to do
with them whatever. It could not even be proved that he knew of the
cards being marked at all. Thus the case against him broke down utterly,
and he got off scot free. It is, nevertheless, presumable that he did
not long remain in that part of the world. As to what became of Bianco,
nothing is known. Possibly his record concluded with the familiar words
'lived happily ever after'; but most probably not. The end of such men
is seldom a happy one.
The recital of the above-mentioned circumstances will serve to
accentuate the contention that it is impossible wholly to guard against
cheating. Here was a case in which the utmost caution was observed, in
order to exclude cheats and impostors from a club; and yet it is seen
that, within a very short time, two men of the sharp persuasion
contrived to effect an entrance. If this is possible in the case of a
club, where there is not only a committee to investigate the _bona
fides_ of every applicant for membership, but also a large body of
members presumably alive to their own interests who have to be satisfied
of the fitness of the candidates for election, what chance has a mere
private individual of protecting himself against the sharp and his
insidious ways? Those two men, Bianco and Laforcade, must have had
friends among the inhabitants of Havana, friends who would have been
horrified to know the real character of those whose intimacy they found
so agreeable. Among the dupes of those two adventurers there must have
been some who would have resented bitterly any aspersion of the honesty
of their associates. We have seen the return they gained for their
friendship, and what has happened once may happen again.
There is only one course to pursue of which it can be said that it is
absolutely safe. It is an extremely objectionable one, no doubt; but we
are speaking, just now, of absolute safety. There is nothing for it but
to _suspect your best friend, if he is a gambler_. The desire for gain
affects equally the high and the low. The instinct of theft is rife
alike in rich and poor. To use a colloquialism, all are tarred with the
same brush. The only difference is that what is called stealing in the
poor starving wretch who takes a loaf, to save the parish the expense of
a funeral, becomes, in the case of his more fortunate and richer
fellow-sinner, merely a little intellectual peculiarity, which is
dignified with the name of kleptomania. The poor man envies the rich man
his wealth; the rich man envies the poor man his solitary ewe lamb.
Instances of this kind have never been wanting at any time in the
world's history, and even in matters of everyday life; but once a man
becomes a gambler, there is every prospect that his desire for gain will
eventually overmaster all the finer feelings of his nature. You doubt
it? Well, search the columns of your newspaper, and every day you shall
find at least one case where some foolish fellow has stolen property, or
money, entrusted to his care, and has devoted the proceeds of his theft
to gambling purposes. There is every reason in the world for suspecting
anyone of dishonesty who is found to have taken to gambling. If it is
not so, then all history lies, and past experience counts for nothing.
Closely allied to the subject of conspiracy is that of the maintenance
of places in which gambling is systematically carried on, in defiance
of the law, and in spite of the utmost watchfulness of the police. It is
true that one of the most familiar head-lines upon the newspaper
placards is: 'Raid on a Club! The accused at Bow Street.' Every week our
attention is attracted by some announcement of that kind, made in
letters six inches high. But we hardly ever give the matter a second
thought; the whole thing is too common an occurrence. Yet not one tithe
of these gambling-dens is ferreted out. Crushed here to-day, they spring
up there to-morrow. They are perennial. Like the phoenix, they arise
from their own ashes--but under another name. And where the players are
to be found, there will the sharps be gathered together. That is a thing
which goes without saying, and is open to no manner of doubt.
In these cases, of course, both sharps and flats are drawn together by
one common bond of union--that of defeating the aim of the law for the
suppression of gaming-houses. The dupe merely sees in the efforts of the
Government to protect him from the consequences of his folly an
unwarrantable interference with the liberty of the subject. Therefore,
he conspires with the sharp to run counter to the law, and thus plays
right into the hands of his natural enemy. That he suffers in
consequence is no one's fault but his own; unfortunately, it is not he
alone who suffers. Those who are nearest, and should be dearest, to him
are those who suffer most.
The devices resorted to by the occupants of clandestine gaming-houses in
order to conceal all traces of the appliances used for the purpose of
gambling would fill many volumes in their description, but as they do
not form part and parcel of our subject we cannot enter into an account
of them. Probably one of the most ingenious ideas ever conceived for the
immediate removal of all signs of gaming apparatus in the event of a
police raid, was that which was actually utilised at a so-called club a
good many years ago. The plan was briefly this. Upon the fire in the
card-room a large kettle of water was kept constantly boiling,
ostensibly for the purpose of diluting the ardent liquors imbibed by the
members. The whole of the gaming utensils, dice-boxes and everything
else, were made of one of the alloys known as fusible metals, which melt
at a lower temperature than boiling water. An alloy of bismuth, tin,
lead and cadmium can be made to melt at a far lower temperature than
that of boiling water. In the event of a raid being made upon the club,
then, the whole of the appliances were put into the kettle, where they
at once melted, and even though any one looked in the kettle during the
search there was nothing to be seen.
It is in places of this kind where collusion and conspiracy are most
rampant. Those who have the ability to devise methods of cheating the
police may well be supposed to have sufficient ingenuity to cheat the
players. Those who _must_ gamble, therefore, should be very wary when
they entrust themselves and their money to the tender mercies of the
society encountered at such resorts. With this word of caution we will
bring the present chapter to a conclusion.