THE TIGER’S CLAWS.
“Last turn! Four for one if you call it right!”
The monotonous voice of the cuekeeper, announcing with hackneyed phrase
the alluring possibility, broke the strained silence of an elaborately
furnished room.
It was a room on the second floor of the famous gambling resort owned
and conducted by Moses Flood. It was that particular room in the house
in which King Faro held sole sway.
The house was in a fashionable street, and had an attractive exterior.
No layman would have dreamed that it masked a lair of vice. It was a
wolf in sheep’s clothing.
It was one of a superb block of brown sandstone residences within a
stone’s throw of Fifth Avenue, with a broad flight of carved steps
leading to the front door. The elegant stained windows of this front
door, as well as those of the lower rooms, were protected with strong,
iron gratings, that thieves might not break through and steal.
Incidentally, the police also were thus excluded—unless they came with a
warrant. In that case, even, which a wardman was liberally paid to
prevent, they would have “found nothing.” It takes time to read a
search-warrant—all the time that would be required to effect a
transformation scene within. Such are the precautions taken by vice.
Entrance could be had only with the sanction of a burly attendant
constantly at the front door, and by means of the magic talisman of
previous acquaintance, or the voucher of a known and reliable friend.
One entering from the street would have seen only a superbly furnished
hall, with sumptuous parlors adjoining, and a library and smoking-room
beyond.
To see more, one must go higher.
The tiger lurks on the floors above.
To one only of the upper rooms is attention here invited—the room
already mentioned.
It was large and richly furnished. A heavy Wilton carpet covered the
floor. Massive walnut chairs stood a little away from the beautifully
frescoed walls, and the ceiling, done in exquisite colors, and so as to
produce the effect of height, revealed a lavish expenditure of money. It
might have been a room in a king’s palace.
Rare paintings adorned the walls. A large sideboard, rich with silver
and cut glass, stood at the back of the room. Costly ornaments occupied
shelves and niches here and there.
The door leading to the main hall of the house was closed and heavily
barred. It had in one panel a “peek,” so called, with a moving slide,
through which an attendant could look into the hall. This was another
precaution taken by vice.
At the front of the room was a long, baize-covered table, on which was a
faro layout, the various suits painted in natural colors on enameled
cloth. It was the tiger, courted while feared. It should have been
called the snake, for it fascinated before it killed, rendering
powerless the victims it lured to destruction.
Back of the table sat the dealer, who played his luck against all
opponents. His duties were arduous. He sold the stacks of ivory chips,
handled all the money, shuffled and dealt the cards from the silver deal
box before him, and took or paid all bets. He seldom spoke unless
addressed. His brain was active, his eyes alert, his hands busy; but his
face, whether he won or lost, evinced no emotion.
In a chair to his right, and somewhat above the table, sat the lookout.
His duty was to see that the dealer made no mistakes. The lookout thus
protects the house. The players have no protection. They who “buck the
tiger” must look out for themselves.
At one end of the table sat the cuekeeper. In front of him on the table
lay the cue-rack, a small wooden frame, pierced with wires, on which
movable buttons indicate the cards already dealt and those still
remaining in the deal box.
The cuekeeper in a faro-bank is every man’s menial. The losers curse
him; the winners sometimes tip him. The cuekeeper in this place was a
humpback, named John Green. He more frequently was called Humpty. All
cuekeepers are malformations; the longer they live, the worse they
become.
On a couch at one side of the room a young man lay sleeping. It was the
deep, dead sleep of intoxication. Yet he was well clad, and his boyish
features indicated culture and refinement. His name was—Harry Royal.
The companion with whom he had entered this place some hours earlier was
seated at the gaming-table, in a chair directly opposite the dealer and
amid several other players. He was a tall, fair man, and his knit brows,
his pressed lips, his glowing eyes, and tremulous hands, indicated his
intense interest in the game then in progress.
He appeared quite collected, however, and placed his bets promptly, like
one playing a system. He was setting a rapid pace, too, if one might
judge from the stacks of chips in front of him. Yet he plainly was not a
winner. The ugly light in his frowning eyes was convincing evidence of
that.
Such was the place, and the employment of its several occupants, which
Moses Flood was at that hour approaching.
The May day was drawing to a close, and the dusk of early evening had
begun to fall.
The cuekeeper repeated his announcement:
“Last turn! Four for one if you call it!”
The man last described glanced at the cuekeeper:
“What’s in, Humpty?” he demanded.
“A cat-hop, Mr. Kendall—two kings and a seven. He’s got to show a king
first, hasn’t he?” replied the humpback, with a weird smile stealing
over his broad, unpleasant-looking face.
“It’s two to one he does,” growled Kendall, as the dealer briefly paused
before making the turn.
Kendall placed a hundred to win on the seven, coppered the king for a
like amount, and called the turn for fifty.
Several other players, most of whom were wealthy bloods about town, men
who would have given thousands rather than have been caught in Flood’s
gaming-house—these men also had placed their bets.
“All ready?” queried the dealer indifferently.
“Let her come, Mr. Bruce,” said one impatiently.
Tom Bruce, a dealer who had been in Flood’s employ for several years,
deftly pushed the cards from the box.
He showed a seven, and then two kings.
Cecil Kendall had lost two hundred and fifty dollars on the turn.
For the bare fraction of a second he shrank, shuddered visibly, and his
drawn features took on a deathly pallor and the haggard look of secret
despair.
“Curse the infernal luck!” he growled audibly. “Will it never change?”
The lookout, a man named Nathan Godard, also in Flood’s employ, smiled
faintly.
“What’s the trouble, Kendall?” he asked, in bantering fashion. “Can’t
you get ’em down right?”
“I didn’t get those bets down right, that’s evident,” snarled Kendall
bitterly.
“So I see.”
“What you don’t see, Godard, isn’t worth seeing.”
“Oh, is that so? You must be a loser, Kendall.”
“About eighteen hundred.”
“Ah, well, don’t let it bother you,” laughed Godard, a bit maliciously.
“You’re not playing for your life.”
Kendall evidently did not like the interference, nor the tone in which
the last remarks were made. He glanced sharply up at the rather
unprepossessing face of the speaker, and retorted curtly:
“No, not for my life, Nate Godard! But I’m playing for something as dear
to me as life.”
“A fortune, eh?” grinned Godard, not in the least disturbed.
“No, not a fortune,” snapped Kendall.
The dealer glanced across the table at him, still shuffling the cards
for the next deal, but he said nothing.
Godard, however, could not resist voicing the thought that arose in his
mind.
“Well, if you’re playing for something more dear than either life or
fortune, Kendall, you’re taking infernally long chances,” said he
pointedly. “Honor is something not wisely staked upon a faro layout, and
if——”
In an instant Kendall was upon his feet, ghastly with passion.
“Who spoke of honor?” he cried furiously. “Do you dare imply that I——”
Clang!
The bell on the hall door had rung sharply.
It rang an immediate knell to the brief disturbance.
It brought a moment of absolute silence, in which every eye was turned
swiftly toward the door.
Humpty Green, the malformation, leaped up from his chair and ran to the
peek. One glance was sufficient. He closed the slide, then threw both
hands above his head with a grotesque gesture of warning.
The eyes of all were upon him. His lips moved, but his voice, was
silent, yet all received the mute message he conveyed.
“Hush! It’s the boss! It’s Moses Flood!”
Then he removed the heavy bar and opened the door.
Moses Flood, with face as calm as a sea of ice, gravely entered the
room.
He was followed closely by two men, both of whom were in disguise.
One was the famous New York detective’s chief assistant, Chick Carter.
The other was Nick Carter, the great detective himself.
The humpback closed the heavy door and replaced the bar.