Elliott reached Nashville in two days, being lucky enough to catch a
fast freight-train which carried him half the distance in a single
night. For the last twenty miles he travelled on a passenger-train,
paying his fare, to preclude the danger of arrest as he came into the
great railway yards, and the consciousness of safety in the face of
the police seemed to him almost an odd and unfamiliar sensation.
It was early in the forenoon when he walked up the incline of the
ill-paved street that reminded him of St. Joseph. He inquired for the
Arcadia saloon; he found it on Cherry Street, and within the
swing-doors it was cool and dusky, sparkling with glass and marble,
and vibrating with electric fans. Two or three prosperous-looking
Southerners were sipping through straws from glasses crowned with
green leaves and crushed fruit, but Elliott contented himself with a
glass of beer, and asked the bartender if he knew Mr. Henninger, or
where he was to be found.
“Sure,” said the mixer of drinks. “He’s been stoppin’ at the Hotel
Orleans, and I reckon you’ll find him there now. If he ain’t there no
more, ask for Mr. Hawke, and he’ll likely know something about him.”
Hawke was one of the names Bennett had mentioned, and this small
circumstance, or perhaps it was the beer, raised Elliott’s hopes. He
finished his glass, and went straight to the Hotel Orleans, which was
three blocks away.
The great lobby was full of leather-covered sofas and easy-chairs, and
floored with handsome mosaic, and perhaps a score of men were smoking
or reading newspapers. It was clearly a good hotel, and Bennett had
said that his friends would be at the best hotel in town. Elliott
looked over the register, and, not immediately finding the names he
sought, he spoke to the clerk, who did not take the trouble to conceal
his contempt of Elliott’s disreputable appearance.
“Yes,” he said, curtly. “That’s Mr. Henninger sitting by the window,
in the gray suit.”
Elliott walked over to the man indicated. He was young, probably not
over thirty-five, dark-faced, strong-featured, with a suspicion of
military severity and exactitude. His costume of hard gray tweed had
evidently come from the hands of a first-rate tailor, and he was
smoking a cigar which he never removed from his teeth, and looking
through the great window with an air of reserved boredom. Elliott, as
he approached, felt himself suddenly covered with a glance that was
like the muzzle of a revolver.
“Mr. Henninger?” he inquired, pausing.
The man in gray looked him over for another instant, and then replied,
frigidly:
“Yes.”
Elliott, who did not particularly care for this reception, handed him
Bennett’s note without another word. Henninger took it, and as he
opened it leisurely Elliott was struck by the shape of the hand that
held it. It was the hand of a pianist, a hand that had never worked,
white, long-fingered, thin, but looking all nerves and muscles, as if
strung with steel wires.
Henninger read the note, and examined it very closely. Then he glanced
up at Elliott again with a slight smile, and held out his hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Elliott,” he said. “Sit down. What’s the
matter with Bennett, and where is he?”
“He’s in the hospital in St. Louis. He got rather badly hurt—by a
train.” There were half a dozen men within earshot, and Elliott
thought it best to avoid details. “He was coming here to see you when
it happened. It seems there’s something doing.”
He looked at Henninger, who returned the glance impenetrably.
“I’ve a message from him, but it’ll take some time to tell it. He also
wished Mr. Hawke and Mr. Sullivan to hear it.”
Henninger turned to a man sitting close to him, who had been listening
with all his ears, much to Elliott’s annoyance.
“This is Mr. Hawke.”
Hawke was a younger man than the Englishman, shorter, lighter, with a
pleasant face and a light boyish moustache, like Elliott’s own. But
there were the same hard lines about the mouth and nostrils, and the
same level, aggressive gaze that Henninger possessed, so that at
moments the unlike faces took on a curious similarity.
“Sullivan isn’t in the city,” said Henninger, “but we know where he
is. It’s all the same thing. But if we’re going to talk we’d better go
up to my room.”
It was a good room, at the front on the second floor, and as Elliott
surveyed its luxurious appointments he felt sure that the party must
be in funds, after all. A bell-boy presently came in with a tray, a
bottle, a siphon of seltzer, and a box of cigars.
In the midst of this unexpected luxury, and feeling conscious of his
own shabbiness, Elliott told the story of the wreck of the _Clara
McClay_, making reference to his notes, and at the end producing the
little prism of gold that Bennett had cut from the brick. At the first
mention of the treasure Elliott caught an involuntary glance flashed
between Henninger and Hawke that was like the discharge of an electric
spark, but neither made any comment till the tale was finished.
Then Henninger poured out a spoonful of whiskey, brimmed up the
tumbler from the fizzing siphon, and sipped it slowly, meditatively.
“Confound it, what do you think?” burst out Hawke, who was wriggling
with excitement.
“I think we’d better telegraph to Sullivan,” replied Henninger,
putting down the glass. “And I’ll wire Bennett, too—without any
reflection upon your veracity, Elliott. Now, look here,” he went on,
with increasing animation, “as it looks now, there may be a good thing
in this, but first of all we don’t know anything. We don’t know where
that wreck is. Seems to me that Bennett might have taken some kind of
bearings. Now some one who knows more than we do may get there first.”
“It looks to me as if that mate was up to something,” said Hawke.
“Very much so. The question is, whether he got away. Bennett said he
was hurt. If he did escape, you can bet he’ll come back, and there’s
been a lot of time lost already.”
“Well, now,” Elliott interrupted, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave
you. I’m afraid I’m embarrassing your councils, and I’ve got a long
road to Baltimore.”
“But, hold on!” ejaculated Hawke. “You’re in this. Ain’t he,
Henninger?”
Henninger looked at Elliott again, with the same acutely penetrative
scrutiny as at first, a manner not unfriendly, but coldly analytical.
“Yes, he’s in it, if he cares to come in,” he answered, finally. “But
you must understand, Elliott, what sort of a game this is. Everything
may be all right, or not. It looks to me now as if those meat-cases
didn’t belong much to anybody, but that much gold never goes
unclaimed, and somebody is liable to turn up and want them. We may
have to fight for it; they may bring in international law, though
we’ve a right to salvage, anyway. There’s a risk of imprisonment;
there’s risk of sudden death. We’re not men that deal in the crooked;
straight work, with big profits and big chances, is our line, but
we’re not men to stick at little things either, when there’s a heavy
stake up.”
“It seems to me that you are trying to frighten me,” said Elliott.
“I am trying to frighten you. If I can do it, we don’t want you in
this at all, or you’ll queer the whole thing. But if you’re game, if
you understand what it is, and still want to come in—why, come along,
and we’ll be glad to have you.”
“Thanks,” replied Elliott. “I was just waiting to be formally invited.
I’ve figured up all the risks already, and in my present financial
state I’d take bigger risks for less money. And that reminds me that I
must tell you that I can’t put any capital in this scheme. I’m down to
my last dollar, and I’ve broken that.”
Hawke began to laugh. “We’re all in the same boat, then. There’s my
pile,” pulling out two or three bills, and a little silver. “I’ll bet
it all that Henninger can’t match it.”
“But,” Elliott exclaimed, “this room!—and those cigars were perfectos!
Do you find Southern hospitality go that length?”
“Not at all; it’s pure business. Universal credit is what has made the
prosperity of this great country. We came; we looked respectable, and
we stayed; and as long as we keep up appearances, and spend a little
over the bar, they’re shy about presenting any bills too forcibly. It
cuts both ways, though, for we’d have been glad to get away from here
a long time ago, if we could. But we can’t take away our baggage, and
without our trunks we couldn’t keep up appearances anywhere; without
our appearances, we might as well be hoboes, or honest workmen. A man
is no better than his coat. I’m not hitting at you,” he added,
quickly.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Elliott assured him. “I’ve got a trunk full of
respectable raiment in Baltimore. I’ll send for it.” He laughed too,
as the piquancy of the situation struck him. “I don’t know how I’ll
get them out of the express office, though. What dazes me is how you
fellows expect to chase this million with the capital we have. We
need, goodness knows how many hundreds, or thousands. How will you
raise it—borrow it? Work for it?”
“Hardly. Play for it,” replied Hawke, without hesitation.
It was consistent. As Elliott looked at him, he was struck by the fact
that these men never did anything but gamble, staking their fortunes
or their lives with equal alacrity, generally with the odds against
them, and generally with the dice loaded against them also. He had
done the same thing himself, and he had promised Margaret to do it no
more. But—
“We’d been thinking of something of the sort before you came,” Hawke
was saying, “so as to finish things one way or the other, and this
decides it. We’ll need a lot of money—oh, a devil of a lot. We’ll have
to fit out a regular expedition, hire a small ship of some sort, get
diving apparatus, and all sorts of things. Five thousand dollars is
the very minimum. Let’s see how much we can raise.”
He emptied his pockets on the table; there was a little more than
fifteen dollars. Henninger, after much rummaging, produced eleven.
“I’ve got ninety-five cents,” said Elliott. “Let it go into the pot,
too.”
“Good,” said Hawke. “Total, twenty-seven dollars. Now, that’s a sum
that’s of no use to any man, much less to three men. Just on general
principles we might as well get rid of it, and get the agony over. But
see what we can do with it; we’ll just go over to Nolan’s place, at
the Crackerjack, and put up our little twenty-seven on the wheel, till
we make or break. Why, I knew a man in Louisville who started with a
dollar and broke the game. I didn’t see it myself.”
“None of us ever saw those things done,” remarked Henninger, who was
listening with a dry smile. “But you’re right, I believe. It’s the
only chance I see, for Sullivan can’t possibly do anything for us in
time. Who’s to do the playing? Who’s got the luck?”
“I haven’t,” said Elliott, with conviction. “I tried it in St. Joe.”
Henninger opened a small grip and took out an elaborate morocco case.
There were rows of ivory poker chips in it, and a dainty, gilt-edged
pack of playing-cards.
“A few poker hands will show who’s in the vein,” he remarked, and
began to deal the cards.
From the first Hawke was by far the most fortunate, and when, upon the
last deal, he held a spade flush without drawing it was apparent to
all three that he was unconsciously in the enjoyment of a special vein
of luck. With a pleasing degree of confidence in this act of
divination, they handed over to him the entire capital of the
syndicate. Hawke looked a little overwhelmed at the responsibility.
“We’ll go up with you, but we’ll leave you absolutely to yourself,”
said Henninger. “Play just as the fancy takes you, but play high and
fast. Hit the luck before it turns; that’s the only chance of making
anything.”
The Crackerjack’s first floor was occupied by a marble and silver
saloon, and above this was the gambling establishment,—an immense,
cool, heavily curtained room, with shaded electric lamps above the
tables that glittered with their devices in red and black and green
and nickel. Overhead a dozen electric fans vibrated noiselessly.
Eight or ten players were standing in a semicircle at the big “crap”
table. Each man, as he rolled the dice, snapped his fingers violently
in the air and emitted an explosive “Hah!” which is supposed to aid in
turning the winning number. Behind the table stood the suave employees
of the game. They did not snap their fingers; they made no
ejaculations—but they won.
The roulette-table was deserted; it is not a favourite game in the
South, and the croupier was lazily spinning the ball to keep up an
appearance of activity. Hawke bought twenty-seven dollars’ worth of
white checks and settled himself on a stool, while Henninger and
Elliott walked over to the crap-table and stood looking on, to leave
him entirely open to the promptings of his “vein.”
They heard the sharp, diminuendo whirr of the ball begin, but they did
not look around. “Whirr-rr! click!”
“That’s the four of hearts and the second twelve,” said the croupier.
Elliott was astonished to hear a card thus called instead of a number,
but Henninger explained in an undertone that, to evade the laws of
Tennessee, all the roulette-wheels in the State are marked with the
spots of the four suits of cards, up to the nines, instead of the
usual thirty-six numbers. This naïve accommodation is supposed to
satisfy at once the demands of justice and of sport, though it does
not always save a gaming-house from being raided by the police.
They did not know whether Hawke had lost or won, and they did not
look, but they heard the rattle of checks, and the whirr recommence.
For a time that seemed endless—perhaps it was half an hour—this went
on. Henninger and Elliott tried to interest themselves in the fortunes
of the crap game. They glanced over the newspapers. They walked
restlessly about, smoked, peeped through the curtains at the street,
tried to talk, and fell silent at every sound from the table where
destiny was being spun out for them at the gay roulette.
Evidently Hawke was not yet wiped out. Was he winning? They did not
know; they dared not look, listening to the whiz and click of the
wheel, and dreading to see the player return suddenly empty-handed.
Finally the strain became unendurable, and Henninger turned and walked
straight to the roulette-table. Elliott followed him, and bit off a
half-uttered ejaculation as he caught sight of the board.
Hawke was sitting behind a rampart of stacked checks. He had trebled
and quadrupled his capital already; his stakes were scattered all over
the board, and just as they came up he won again with a heavy play on
the second dozen numbers. There was a high flush on his cheeks; he had
laid down his cigar and forgotten it, but his face was full of the
bright certainty of the gambler who is playing in luck and knows it;
and he placed his stakes about the layout as unhesitatingly as a
system-player.
Henninger and Elliott carefully avoided meeting his eye, and watched
the spinning wheel. Click.
“The five of spades,” announced the croupier.
The number had been “hit all round.” There were checks on it full, and
more on its corners, and Hawke built another tier of his rampart with
the proceeds of the coup.
The atmosphere of the gaming-room is telepathic. The “crap-shooters”
becoming aware that a “killing” was in progress, abandoned their game
and came to look on in silence, some of them following Hawke’s
ventures with small stakes.
And still the player won. He cleared the rack of white checks and
bought blue ones. With the change he was met by a reverse, and lost
heavily for some minutes, but the luck returned, and he seemed in a
fair way to empty the rack again.
Again and again the numbers were squarely hit. When he lost he boldly
doubled his stake; he plunged recklessly on the most improbable
combinations, and the ivory ball, as if he had magnetized it, spun
unerringly to the chosen number. Round the table no one spoke but the
croupier; no one looked at anything but the board and the gaudy wheel.
Even those spectators who had no stake in the game were as breathless
as the rest. It was the sort of luck by which games are broken, and
presently the proprietor, Nolan himself, came up and watched the
struggle, silent and grave, with a slightly worried expression.
There was another ten minutes of ill-fortune which sadly reduced
Hawke’s store. Henninger, anxiously following the play, wondered if
the run of luck were not exhausted—whether it would not be better to
leave off. But as yet scarcely four hundred dollars had been won. Win
or lose, the game must go on.
Whiz—whirr-r-r—click! “It’s the ace of diamonds,” said the croupier,
leaning over the wheel. There was a dollar check upon the winning
square, and the croupier paid out the due thirty-five upon it. These
Hawke nonchalantly allowed to remain upon the number that had just
come up.
Round spun the ball for endless seconds. Click!
“The ace of diamonds repeats,” declared the croupier. The big stake
had won. The croupier was working for a salary, and the result made no
difference to him, but even he was affected by the pervading
excitement, and he showed it as he set himself to count out the stacks
of red checks necessary to pay the heavy winning—a little less than
thirteen hundred dollars.
With hands that trembled a little Hawke raked the checks together into
a solid mass upon the same number once more, and the ball recommenced
its swift circling. It was the highest play that the Crackerjack had
ever seen. Nolan put out his hand as if to refuse the stake, and then
withdrew it again, but his eyes puckered under his hat-brim. The
spectators gathered closer round; a third appearance of the ace of
diamonds would win almost fifty thousand dollars, and would
undoubtedly break the bank, if not bankrupt the proprietor.
“Great heavens! he’s pyramiding on the ace of diamonds again!” gasped
Elliott, in a fright, as soon as he understood; and Henninger turned a
savage face upon him for silence. But Hawke had caught the whisper. He
glanced up irresolutely, and, before the ball had slackened speed, he
swept three-fourths of the checks across the table and upon the simple
red. The rest, about three hundred dollars’ worth, remained upon the
lucky ace of diamonds.
But he had changed his play, and every gambler at the table mentally
predicted disaster from the ill-omened act. A man who had been about
to follow his stake with a five-dollar bill, thrust it back into his
pocket.
Round spun the ball, circling the slow-moving wheel. Every eye was
fixed upon the little ivory sphere that rolled and rolled as if it
would never stop—then gradually lost momentum, gravitated toward the
bottom, and tripped on a barrier. The iron-nerved Henninger bit his
cigar in two, and it dropped unnoticed from his lips. The ball jumped,
rolled across an arc of the wheel, and dropped into a compartment with
a click.
“By God, he hits it!” ejaculated a looker-on, irrepressibly.
“You win, sir. It’s the ace of diamonds for the third time!” said the
croupier, with a nervous smile, glancing at Nolan. “I’m afraid you’ll
have to cash in some of those checks. I haven’t enough left to pay the
bet.”
Hawke nodded, but Henninger leaned forward.
“No more,” he said, in an undertone to Hawke. “We’re through. We’ve
got what we needed, and more. We’re a syndicate, Charley,” he
explained to the croupier, “and Mr. Hawke was playing for us all.”
“Shut up!” said Hawke, in a feverish whisper. “This is the chance of
our lives. It’s the chance of our lives, I tell you. I’m going to
wreck this game before I get up.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to stop right now,” responded Henninger.
“Pull yourself together, man; you’re drunk. Tell him you want to cash
in.”
The two men glared at each other for a moment, the one flushed, the
other deadly pale, and Hawke slowly came to himself.
“I guess you’re right, old man,” with a nervous giggle. “How much have
I won? Charley, I reckon I’ll cash in.”
On this last and greatest coup a thousand dollars had been won on the
colour, and a trifle over ten thousand on the number, and besides
this, Hawke had several hundred dollars’ worth of checks from his
previous winnings. Nolan himself counted the checks, stacking them
back in place. The total amount was eleven thousand, seven hundred and
thirty-eight dollars.
Nolan took the loss like a veteran book-maker. “I’ll have to send out
to the bank, gentlemen,” he said. “While you’re waiting, give the boy
your orders.”
“No, this is on us,” said Henninger. “Everybody take something on our
luck. Nothing but Pommery’ll moisten it.”
Nolan submitted gracefully. “I won’t deny that you do owe me a drink.
I’ve been in this business, here and on the turf, about all my life,
but I never did see anything like that run. I was glad when Mr. Hawke
cashed in—and that’s no lie.”
Hawke was growing as pale as he had been red, and the champagne glass
trembled in his fingers. The two who had not played, suffering no
reaction, were scarcely able to subdue their spirits to a
sportsmanlike decorum. The money came, and Nolan counted it out in a
thick green package—the weapon that was to win the drowned million as
the twenty-seven dollars had won this. And yet, as Elliott looked at
the hundred-dollar bills he felt a sudden shock of belated terror. It
was only then that he realized what loss would have meant,—and it had
been such a near thing!