Death at the Inn E-Book

R. Austin Freeman

• Herausgeber: Jovian Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 442

Beschreibung

John Gillum arrives in London from Australia apparently a wealthy man and then proceeds to cheerfully gamble his entire fortune away. During this period he cultivates the friendship of Mortimer, the bank official after meeting him at the scene of a murder near the bank. He mentions in conversation that he felt suicide was a very understandable option to someone who had lost everything...

Leseprobe

DEATH AT THE INN

R. Austin Freeman

JOVIAN PRESS

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Copyright © 2016 by R. Austin Freeman

Published by Jovian Press

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

ISBN: 9781537800288

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART I. — THE GAMBLER: NARRATED BY ROBERT MORTIMER

I. — THE MAN IN THE PORCH

II. — JOHN GILLUM

III. — THE GAMING HOUSE

IV. — ABEL WEBB, DECEASED

V. — CLIFFORD’S INN

VI. — THE PASSING OF JOHN GILLUM

VII. — THE CORONER’S INQUEST

PART II. — THE CASE OF JOHN GILLUM, DECEASED: NARRATED BY CHRISTOPHER JERVIS, M.D.

VIII. — IS THERE A CASE?

IX. — THE EMPTY NEST

X. — MR. WEECH DISAPPROVES

XI. — A FRESH PUZZLE

XII. — THE PURSUIT OF DR. PECK

XIII. — DR. AUGUSTUS PECK

XIV. — FURTHER EXPLORATIONS

XV. — SERMONS IN DUST

XVI. — THE DISCLOSURE

XVII. — A SYMPOSIUM

XVIII. — CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

XIX. — RE-ENTER MR. SNUPER

XX. — EPILOGUE

PART I. — THE GAMBLER:NARRATED BY ROBERT MORTIMER

~

I. — THE MAN IN THE PORCH

~

THERE IS SOMETHING ALMOST UNCANNY in the transformation which falls upon the City of London when all the offices are closed and their denizens have departed to their suburban homes. Throughout the working hours of the working days, the streets resound with the roar of traffic and the pavements are packed with a seething, hurrying multitude. But when the evening closes in, a strange quiet descends upon the streets, and the silent, deserted by-ways take on the semblance of thoroughfares in some city of the dead.

The mention of by-ways reminds me of another characteristic of this part of London. Modern, commonplace, and dull as is the aspect of the main streets, in the areas behind and between them are hidden innumerable quaint and curious survivals from the past; antique taverns lurking in queer, crooked alleys and little scraps of ancient churchyards, green with the grass that sprang up afresh amidst the ashes of the Great Fire.

With one of these curious “hinterlands"—an area bounded by Cornhill, Gracechurch Street, Lombard Street, and Birchin Lane, and intersected by a maze of courts and alleys—I became intimately acquainted, since I usually crossed it at least twice a day going to and from the branch of Perkins’s Bank at which I was employed as a cashier. For the sake of change and interest, I varied my route from day to day—all the alleys communicated and one served as well as another—but the one that I favoured most was the very unfrequented passage which took me through the tiny churchyard of St. Michael’s. I think the place appealed to me specially because somewhere under the turf reposes old Thomas Stow, grandfather of the famous John, laid here in the year 1527 according to his wish “to be buried in the litell Grene Churchyard of the Parysshe Church of Seynt Myghel in Cornehyll, betwene the Crosse and the Church Wall, nigh the wall as may be.” Many a time, as I passed along the paved walk, had I tried to locate his grave; but the Great Fire must have made an end of both Cross and wall.

I have referred thus particularly to this “haunt of ancient peace” because it was there, on an autumn even in the year 1929, that there befell the adventure that has set me to the writing of this narrative; an adventure which, for me, changed the scene in a mom from a haunt of peace to a place of gruesome and tragic memories.

It was close upon eight o’clock when I emerged from the bank and started rather wearily on my way homeward. It had been a long day, for there had been various arrears to dispose of which had kept us hard at work hours after the bank had closed its doors; and it had been a dull, depressing day, for the sky had been so densely overcast that no single gleam of sunlight had been able to break through, and we had perforce kept the lamps alight all day. Even now, as I came out and shut the door behind me, twilight seemed to have descended on the City, though the sun had barely set and it was not yet time for the street lamps to be lit.

I stood for a moment looking up the gloomy, twilit street, hesitating as to which way to go. Our branch was in Gracechurch Street close to the corner of Lombard Street, and both thoroughfares were equally convenient. Eventually, I chose Gracechurch Street, and, crossing to the west side, walked up it until I came to the little opening of Bell Yard. Turning into the dark entry, I trudged up the narrow passage, cogitating rather vaguely and wishing that I had provided some thing better than the scanty cold supper that I knew awaited me at my lodgings. But I was tired and chilly and empty; I had not had enough food during the day, owing to the pressure of work; so that the needs of the body tended to assert themselves to the exclusion of more elevated thoughts.

At the top of the yard I turned into the little tunnel-like covered passage that led through into Castle Court and brought me out by the railings of the churchyard. Skirting them, I went on to the entrance to the paved walk and passed in up a couple of steps and through the open gateway, noting that even “the litell Grene Churchyard” looked dull and drab under the lowering sky and that lights were twinkling in the office windows beyond the grass plot and in those of the tavern at the side.

At the end of the paved walk is a long flower-bed against the wall of St. Michael’s Church, and, just short of this, the arched entrance to another tunnel-like covered passage into which, near its middle, the deep south porch of the church opens. I was about to step down into the passage—which is below the level of the churchyard—when I noticed a hatlying on the flower-bed close up in the corner. It lay crown downwards with its silk lining exposed, and, as it appeared to be in perfectly good condition, I picked it up to examine it. It was quite a good hat; a grey soft felt, nearly new, and the initials A. W., legibly written on the white lining, suggested that the owner had set some value on it. But where was the owner? And how on earth came this hat to belying abandoned by the wayside? A man may drop a glove or a handkerchief or a tobacco pouch and be unaware of his loss; but surely the most absent-minded of men could hardly lose his hat without noticing the fact. And then the further question arose: what does one do with a derelict hat? Of course, I could have dropped it where I had found it; but from this my natural thriftiness and responsibility revolted. It was too good a hat to have been casually flung away by its owner, and, since Fate had appointed me its custodian, the duty seemed to devolve on me to restore it.

I stood for a few moments holding the hat and looking through the dark passage at the shape of light at the farther end, but no one was in sight; and I now recalled that I had not met a soul since I entered Bell Yard from Gracechurch Street. Still wondering how I should set about discovering the owner of the hat, I stepped down into the passage and began to walk along it; but when I reached the middle and came opposite the church porch, my problem seemed to solve itself in a rather startling fashion; for, glancing into the porch, I saw, dimly but quite distinctly in its shadowy depths, a man sitting on the lowest of the three steps that lead up to the church door. He was leaning back against the jamb limply and helplessly as if he were asleep or, more probably, drunk, the latter probability being rather confirmed by a stout walking-stick with a large ivory knob, which had fallen beside him, and what looked like a rimless eyeglass which lay on the stone floor between his feet. But what was more to my present purpose was the fact that not only was he bare-headed, but that no hat was visible. This, then, was doubtless the owner of the derelict.

Holding the latter conspicuously, I stepped into the cavern-like porch, and, addressing the man in a rather loud tone, enquired whether he had lost a hat. As he made no reply or any sign of having heard me, I was disposed to lay the hat down by his side and retire, when it occurred to me that he might possibly have had some kind of fit or seizure. On this I approached closer, and, stooping over him, listened for the sound of his breathing. But I could hear nothing nor could I make out any movement of his chest.

As he was sitting, or sprawling, with his legs spread out, his shoulders supported by the jamb of the door and his head drooping forward on his chest, his face was almost hidden from me. But I now knelt down beside him, and, taking my petrol lighter from my pocket, held it close to his face. And then, as the gleam of the flame fell on him, I sprang up with a gasp of horror. The man’s eyes were wide open, staring before him with an intensity that was in hideous contrast to his limp and passive posture. And the face was unmistakably the face of a dead man.

Dropping the hat by his side, I ran through the passage into St. Michael’s Alley and down this to Cornhill. At the entrance to the alley I stood for a moment looking up and down the street. In the distance, near the Royal Exchange, I could see a white-sleeved policeman directing the traffic, and I was about to start off towards him when, glancing eastward, I saw a constable approaching along the pavement. At once I hurried away in his direction and we met nearly opposite St. Peter’s Church. A few words conveyed my information and secured his very complete attention. “A dead man, you say. Whereabouts did you see him?”

“He islying in the south porch of St. Michael’s Church, just up the alley.”

“Well,” said he, “you had better come along and show me”; and without further parley he started forward with long, swinging strides that gave me some trouble to keep up with him. Back along Cornhill we went and up the alley until we came to the arched entrance to the passage, and here the constable produced his lantern and switched on the light. As we came opposite the porch and my companion threw a beam of light into it, the cave-like interior was rendered clearly visible with the dead man sitting, or reclining, just as I had left him.

“Yes,” said the constable, “there don’t seem to be much doubt about his being dead.” Nevertheless, he put his ear close to the man’s face, raising the head gently, and felt for the pulse at the wrist. Then he stood up and looked at me.

“I’d better get on the phone,” said he, “and report to the station. They’ll have to send an ambulance to take him to the mortuary. Will you stay here until I come back? I shan’t be more than a minute or two.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the passage and disappeared down the alley, leaving me to pace up and down in the gathering gloom or to stand and gaze out on the darkening churchyard. It was a dismal business, and very disturbing to the nerves I found it; for I am rather sensitive to horrors of any kind, and, being now tired and physically exhausted, I was more than ordinarily susceptible. I had suffered a severe shock, and its effect was still with me as I kept my vigil, now glancing with horrid fascination at the shadowy figure in the dark porch, and now stealing away to the entrance to be out of sight of it. Once, a man came in from the offices across the churchyard, but he hurried through into the alley, brushing past me and all unaware of that dim and ghostly presence.

After the lapse of two or three incredibly long minutes the constable reappeared, and, almost at the moment of his arrival, the lights were switched on and a lamp in the vault of the passage exactly opposite the porch threw a bright light on the dead man.

“Ah!” the officer commented cheerfully, “that’s better. Now we can see what we are about.” He stepped up to the body, and, stooping over it, cast the light from his lantern on the step behind it.

“There’s something there on the stone step,” he remarked; “some broken glass and some metal things. I can’t quite see what they are, but we’d better not meddle with them until the people from the station arrive. But while we are waiting for the ambulance I’ll just jot down a few particulars.” He produced a large note-book, and, taking an attentive look at me, added: “We’ll begin with your name, address and occupation.”

I gave him these, and he then enquired how I came to discover the body. I had not much to tell, but, such as my story was, he wrote it down verbatim in his note book and made me show him the exact spot where I had found the hat; of which spot he entered a description in his book. When he had completed his notes, he read out to me what he had written; and on my confirming its correctness, he handed me his pencil and asked me to add my signature.

He had just returned the note-book to his pocket when an inspector appeared at the alley entrance of the passage, closely followed by two constables carrying a stretcher and one or two idlers who had probably been attracted by the ambulance. The inspector walked briskly up to the porch, and, having cast a quick glance at the dead man, turned to the constable.

“I suppose,” said he, “you have got all the particulars. Which is the man who discovered the body?”

“This is the gentlemen, sir,” the constable replied, introducing me; “Mr. Robert Mortimer; and this is his statement.”

He produced his note-book and presented it, open, to his superior; who stood under the lamp and ran his eye over the statement.

“Yes,” he when he had finished reading and returned the book to its owner, “that’s all right. Not much in it except the hat. Just show me where you found it.”

I conducted him up into the churchyard and pointed out the corner of the flower-bed where the hat had beenlying. He looked at it attentively and then glanced down the passage, remarking that the dead man had apparently come down from Castle Court. “By the way,” he added, “I suppose you don’t recognise him?”

“No,” I replied, “he is a total stranger to me.”

“Ah, well,” said he, “I expect we shall be able to find out who he is in time for the inquest.”

His reference to the inquest prompted mc to ask if I should be wanted to give evidence.

“Certainly,” he replied. “You haven’t much to tell, but the little that you have may be important.”

We were now back at the porch, on the floor of which the stretcher had been placed. At a word from the inspector the two bearers lifted the corpse on to it, and, having laid the hat on the body and covered it with a waterproof sheet, grasped the handles of the stretcher, stood up, and marched away with their burden, followed by the spectators.

The raising of the body had brought into view the objects which the constable had observed and which now appeared to be the fragments of a broken hypodermic syringe. These the inspector collected with scrupulous care, spreading his handkerchief on the upper step to receive them and picking up even the minute splinters of glass that had scattered when the syringe was dropped. When he had gathered up every particle that was visible, and taken up some drops of moisture with a piece of blotting-paper, he made his collection into a neat parcel and put it in his pocket. Then he cast a rapid but searching glance over the floor and walls of the porch, and, apparently observing nothing worth noting, began to walk towards the alley.

“I wonder,” he said as we turned into it and came in sight of the waiting ambulance, “how long that poor fellow had beenlying there when you first saw him. Not very long, I should say. Couldn’t have been. Somebody must have noticed him. However, I expect the doctor will be able to tell us how long he has been dead. And you had better note down all that you can remember of the circumstances so that you can be clear about it at the inquest.”

Here we came out into Cornhill, where the ambulance had been drawn up opposite the church, and the inspector, having wished me “good night,” pushed his way through the considerable crowd that had collected and took his place in the ambulance beside the driver. Just as the vehicle was moving away and I was about to do the same, a voice from behind me enquired:

“What’s the excitement? Motor accident?”

I seemed to recognise the voice, which had a slight Scottish intonation, and when I turned to answer I recognised the speaker. He was a Mr. Gillum, one of the bank’s customers with whom I had often done business.

“No,” I replied, “I don’t know what it was, but the dead man looked perfectly horrible. I can’t get his face out of my mind.”

“Oh, but that won’t do,” said Gillum. “It has given you a bad shake up, but you’ve got to try to forget it.”

“I know,” said I, “but just now I’m rather upset. This affair caught me at the wrong time, after a long, tiring day.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “you do look a bit pale and shaky. Better come along with me and have a drink. That will steady your nerves.”

“I am rather afraid of drinks at the moment,” said I. “You see, I have had a long day and not very much in the way of food.”

“Ah!” said he, “there you are. Horrors on an empty stomach. That’s all wrong, you know. Now I’m going to prescribe for you. You will just come and have a bit of dinner and a bottle of wine with me. That will set you up and will give me the great pleasure of your society.”

Now I must admit that a bit of dinner and a bottle of wine sounded gratefully in my ears, but I was reluct ant to accept hospitality which my means did not admit conveniently of my returning. A somewhat extravagant taste in books absorbed the surplus of my modest income and left me rather short of pocket-money. However, Gillum would take no denial. Probably he grasped the position completely. At any rate, he brushed aside my half-hearted refusal without ceremony and, even while I was protesting, he hailed a prowling taxi, opened the door and bundled me in. I heard him give the address of a restaurant in Old Compton Street. Then he got in beside me and slammed the door.

“Now,” said he, as the taxi trundled off, “for ‘the gay and festive scenes and halls of dazzling light’; and oblivion to the demmed unpleasant body.”

II. — JOHN GILLUM

~

AS THE TAXI PURSUED ITS unimpeded way westward through the half-populated streets, I reflected on the curious circumstances that had made me the guest of a man who was virtually a stranger to me, and I was disposed to consider what I knew of him. I use the word “disposed” advisedly, for, in fact, my mind was principally occupied by my late experiences, and the considerations which I here set down for the reader’s information are those that might have occurred to me rather than those that actually did.

I had now been acquainted with John Gillum for some six months; ever since, in fact, I had been transferred to the Gracechurch Street branch of the bank. But our acquaintance was of the slightest. He was one of the bank’s customers and I was a cashier. His visits to the bank were rather more frequent than those of most of our customers and on slack days he would linger to exchange a few words or even to chat for a while. Nevertheless, our relations hardly tended to grow in intimacy; for though he was a bright, gay, and rather humorous man, quite amusing to talk to, his conversation persistently concerned itself with racing matters and the odds on, or against, particular horses, a subject in which I was profoundly uninterested. In truth, despite our rather frequent meetings, his personality made so little impression on me that, if I had been asked to describe him, I could have said no more than that he was a tallish, rather good-looking man with black hair and beard which contrasted rather noticeably with his blue eyes, that he spoke with a slight Scotch accent and that two of his upper front teeth had been rather extensively filled with gold. This latter characteristic did, indeed, attract my notice rather unduly; for, though gold is a beautiful material (and one that a banker might be expected to regard with respectful appreciation), these golden teeth rather jarred on me and I found it difficult to avoid looking at them as we talked.

Yet even in those days I felt a certain interest in our customer; but it was a purely professional interest. As cashier, I naturally knew all about his account and his ways of dealing with his money, and on both, and especially his financial habits, I occasionally speculated with mild curiosity. For his habits were not quite normal, or at least were not like those of most other private customers. The latter usually make most of their payments by cheque. But Gillum seemed to make most of his in cash. It is true that he appeared to pay most of his tradespeople by cheque, but from time to time, and at pretty frequent intervals, he would present a “self” cheque for a really considerable sum—one, or even two or three hundred pounds, and occasionally a bigger sum still—and take the whole of it away in pound notes.

It was rather remarkable, in fact very much so when I came to look over the ledger and note the fluctuations of his account. For at fairly regular intervals he paid in really large cheques—up to a thousand pounds—mostly drawn upon an Australian bank, which for a time swelled his account to very substantial proportions. But, by degrees, and not very small degrees, his balance dwindled until he seemed on the verge of an overdraft, and then another big cheque would be paid in and give him a fresh start.

Now there is nothing remarkable in the fluctuation of an account when the customer receives payment periodically in large sums and pays out steadily in the small amounts which represent the ordinary expenses of living. But when I came to cast up Gillum’s account, it was evident that the great bulk of his expenditure was in the form of cash. And it seemed additional to the ordinary domestic payments, as I have said; and I found myself wondering what on earth he could be doing with his money. He could not be making investments, or even “operating” on the Stock Exchange, for those transactions would have been settled by cheque. Apparently he was making some sort of payments which had to be made in cash.

Of course it was no business of mine. Still, it was a curious and interesting problem. What sort of payments were these that he was making? Now when a man pays away at pretty regular intervals considerable sums in cash, the inference is that he is having some sort of dealings with someone who either will not accept a cheque or is not a safe person to be trusted with one. But a person who will not accept payment by an undoubtedly sound cheque is a person who is anxious to avoid evidence that a payment has been made. Such anxiety suggests a secret and probably unlawful transaction; and in practice, such a transaction is usually connected with the offence known as “demanding money with menaces.” So, as I cast up the very large amounts that Gillum had drawn out in cash, I asked myself, “Is he a gambler, or has he fallen into the clutches of a blackmailer?” The probability of the latter explanation was suggested by certain large withdrawals at approximately quarterly periods, and also by the fact that Gillum not only took payment almost exclusively in pound notes, but also showed a marked preference for notes that had been in circulation as compared with new notes, of the serial numbers of which the bank would have a record. Still, the two possibilities were not mutually exclusive. A gambler is by no means an unlikely person to be the subject of blackmail.

Such, then, were the reflections that might have occupied my mind had it not been fully engaged with my recent adventure. As it was, the short journey was beguiled by brief spells of scrappy and disjointed conversation which lasted until the taxi drew up opposite the brilliantly lighted entrance of the restaurant and a majestic person in the uniform of a Liberian admiral hurried forward to open the door. We both stepped out, and when Gillum had paid the taxi-driver—extravagantly, as I gathered from the man’s demeanour—we followed the admiral into a wide hail where we were transferred to the custody of other and less gorgeous myrmidons.

Giamborini’s Restaurant was an establishment of a kind that was beyond my experience, as it was certainly beyond my means. It oozed luxury and splendour at every pore. The basin of precious marble in which I purged myself of the by-products of the London atmosphere was of a magnificence that almost called for an apology for washing in it; the floor of delicate Florentine mosaic seemed too precious to stand upon in common boots; while as to the dining-saloon, I can recall it only as a bewildering vision of marble and gilding, of vast mirrors, fretted ceilings and stately columns—apparently composed of gold and polished gorgonzola—and multitudinous chandeliers of a brilliancy that justified Dick Swiveller’s description, lately quoted by Gillum. I found it a little oppressive and was disposed to compare it (not entirely to its advantage) with the homely Soho restaurants that I remembered in the far-off pre-war days.

A good many of the tables were unoccupied, though the company was larger than I should have expected, for the hour was rather late for dinner but not late enough for theatre suppers. Of the guests present, the men were mostly in evening dress, and so, I suppose, were the women, judging by the considerable areas of their persons that were uncovered by clothing. As to their social status I could form no definite opinion, but the general impression conveyed by their appearance was that they hardly represented the cream of the British aristocracy. But perhaps I was prejudiced by the prevailing magnificence.

“What are you going to have, Mortimer?” my host asked as we took our seats at the table to which we had been conducted. “Gin and It, cocktail, or sherry? You prefer sherry. Good. So do I. It is wine that maketh glad the heart of man, not these chemical concoctions.”

He selected from the wine list the particular brand of sherry that commended itself to him and then gave a few general directions which were duly noted. As the waiter was turning away, he added: “I suppose you haven’t got such a thing as an evening paper about you?”

The waiter had not. But there was no difficulty. He would get one immediately. Was there any particular paper that would be preferred?

“No,” replied Gillum, “any evening paper will do.” Thereupon the waiter bustled away with the peculiar quick, mincing gait characteristic of his craft; a gait specially and admirably adapted to the rapid conveyance of loaded trays. In a minute or two he came skating back with a newspaper under his arm and a tray of hors-d’oeuvres and two brimming glasses of sherry miraculously balanced on his free hand. Gillum at once opened the paper, while I fixed a ravenous eye on the various and lurid contents of the tray. As I had expected, he turned immediately to the racing news. But he did not read the column. After a single brief glance, he folded up the paper and laid it aside with the remark, uttered quite impassively: “No luck.”

“I hope you haven’t dropped any money,” said I, searching for the least inedible contents of the tray.

“Nothing to write home about,” he replied. “Fifty.”

“Fifty!” I repeated. “You don’t mean fifty pounds?”

“Yes,” he replied calmly. “Why not? You can’t expect to bring it off every time.”

“But fifty pounds!” I exclaimed, appalled by this horrid waste of money. “Why, it would furnish a small library.”

He laughed indulgently. “That’s the bookworm’s view of the case but it isn’t mine. I’ve had my little flutter and I’m not complaining; and let me tell you, Mortimer, that I have just barely missed winning a thousand pounds.”

I was on the point of remarking that a miss is as good as a mile, but, as that truth has been propounded on some previous occasions, I refrained and asked: “When you say that you have just barely missed winning a thousand pounds, what exactly do you mean? How do you know that you nearly won that amount?”

“It is perfectly simple, my dear fellow,” said he. “I laid fifty pounds on the double event at twenty to one against. That is to say, I backed two particular horses to win two particular races. Now, one of my horses won his race all right. The other ought to have done the same. But he didn’t. He came in second. So I lost. But you see how near a thing it was.”

“Then,” said I, “if you had backed the two horses separately, I suppose you would have won on the whole transaction?”

“I suppose I should,” he admitted, “but there would have been nothing in it. The horse that won was the favourite. But the double event was a real sporting chance. Twenty to one against. And you see how near I was to bringing it off.”

“Nevertheless,” I objected, “you lost. And you went into the business with the knowledge, not only that you might lose, but that the chances that you would lose were estimated at twenty to one. I should have supposed that no sane man would have taken such a chance as that.”

He looked at me with a broad smile that displayed his golden teeth to great disadvantage.

“Thus saith the banker,” he commented. “But you are taking a perverted view of the transaction. You are considering it as an investor might; as a means of realising the greatest profit with the smallest risk. That is the purely commercial standpoint. But I am not engaged in commerce; I am engaged in sport—in gambling, if you prefer the expression. Now the essence of the sport of gambling is the possibility that you may lose. If you were certain to win every time, it might be highly profitable but it would be uncommonly poor fun. Believe me, Mortimer, the heart and soul of the game is the chance of losing.”

He spoke quite gravely and earnestly and the statement put me, for the moment, rather at a loss for a reply. For, in its mad way, it was true, and yet, from a practical point of view, it was nonsense. Meanwhile, the waiter brought and placed before us a strangely sophisticated dish, based, I believe, on fish, and then proceeded to fill our glasses with champagne. It was, I think, quite good champagne, though I am no authority, my extreme dissipation, in the ordinary way, not going beyond the traditional “chop and a pint of claret.” At any rate, it was highly stimulating, and when Gillum had raised his glass and, with a toast “to the next double event,” emptied it and insisted on my doing likewise, the last traces of my depression vanished.

“I admit, Gillum,” said I, resuming the discussion, “that there is a certain amount of truth in what you say. But we must try to keep some sense of proportion. Fifty pounds is a devil of a price for the fun of a little flutter. Surely you could have got your sport at a cheaper rate than that.”

“But that is just what you can’t do,” said he. “What you don’t seem to realise is that the intensity of the thrill is strictly proportionate to the amount of the possible loss, and, of course, of the possible gain. I could have laid five shillings on the double event and been secure from appreciable loss. But then I should have stood to gain a mere flyer. No, my young friend, you can’t get a respectable thrill for five bob. And there is another thing that you are over-looking. You speak as if I lost every time. But I don’t. Sometimes I win. If I never won, it would be a dull game and I expect I shouldn’t go on.”

“I think you would,” said I. “You would always be hoping that at last you would get your money back.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he conceded. “It is certainly the fact that a genuine gambler is not put off by a succession of losses. The oftener he loses the more dogged he becomes.”

“So I have always understood,” said I. “But to come to your own case, you say that sometimes you win. How often do you win? Taking your betting transactions as a whole, how does the balance stand? Are you in pocket or out?”

“Out, of course,” he replied promptly. “Every body is, excepting the bookies. And they don’t do it for sport, but just as a cold-blooded matter of business. They don’t lose, in ordinary circumstances, and they don’t win to a considerable extent. They just balance their books and make a comfortable living. But, of course, the fact that the bookies are in pocket by the transaction is clear proof that the backers, as a whole, must be out.”

There seemed to me something very odd and rather abnormal in the reasonable and lucid way in which he discussed this absurdity. I had the sort of feeling that one might have had in discussing insane delusions with a lunatic. But I returned to the charge, futile as I knew the discussion to be.

“Very well,” said I, “you agree that the balance of profit and loss is against you. How much, you know better than I do, but I suspect that your losses, from month to month, are pretty heavy.” (Of course, I did not “suspect.” I knew. The bank’s books told the story.) “You must be paying very considerable sums for your little flutters and I put it to you, isn’t it a most monstrous waste of money?”

He laughed cheerfully and refilled our glasses.

“I see,” he replied, “that you are an incorrigible financier. You are taking a completely perverted view of the matter. You speak of waste of money. But what, after all, is money?”

“If you are asking me that as a banker,” I replied, “I can only say that I don’t know. I know what money was before the war, but now that the politicians and financial theorists have taken it over, it has become something quite different and I don’t profess to understand it.”

“That isn’t quite what I meant,” said he. “I was referring to money in general terms. What is it? It is simply a means of obtaining certain satisfactions or pleasures. No one wants money for itself excepting a miser.”

“You can rule out misers,” said I. “They are an extinct race. A miser doesn’t hoard paper vouchers which have only a conventional and temporary value.”

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed. “At any rate, I am not a miser,” (which was most unquestionably true), “and I have no use for money excepting as a means of obtaining satisfactions. And that is the rational use of money. I put it to you, Mortimer, if a man has money and there are certain things that he desires and that money will buy, is it not obviously reasonable that he should exchange the thing that he doesn’t want for the things that he does? You speak of waste of money. But is it wasted when it is being used for the very purpose for which it exists? Take, for instance, this bottle of champagne—which, by the way, is getting low and needs replacing. Now, I think we like champagne.”

“I do, certainly,” I admitted.

“I am glad you do. So do I. And we can get it in exchange for your despised paper vouchers. Accordingly, like sensible men, we make the exchange; and I submit that it is a reasonable and profitable transaction. For if, as you suggest, the money is a mere fleeting convention, the champagne for which we have exchanged it isn’t. It is real champagne.”

Seeing that we had already emptied one bottle, the cogency of this argument did not impress me. Probably I should have proceeded to rebut it, but at this paint an interruption occurred and the discussion broke off.

When we had entered the room, I had noticed a party of three persons, two men and a woman, at a table in a corner. They had caught my attention because we had evidently caught theirs. But I don’t think that Gillum observed them; and when we had seated ourselves, as his back was towards them, they were outside his range of vision whereas I was nearly facing them; and throughout our meal I found myself from time to time looking in their direction, attracted as before by the occasional glances that they cast in ours. It seemed to me that they must be acquainted with Gillum, for there was otherwise nothing noticeable in our appearance. At any rate, they were obviously interested in us and I received the impression that we were being discussed.

They did not prepossess me favourably. I cannot say exactly why, but there was an indefinable some thing about them that jarred on me. The men did not look like gentlemen, and the woman, dressed in the extreme of an unbecoming fashion, was so heavily and coarsely made up as to extinguish any good looks that she might have had. Everything about her seemed to be artificial. Her hair was of an unnatural colour, her cheeks were visibly painted, and her lips were plastered with crude vermilion like the lips of a circus clown.

That these people were acquaintances of Gillum’s became evident when they rose to depart, for they steered a course across the room which brought them opposite our table. And here they halted; and, for the first time, Gillum became aware of their presence. His expression did not convey to me that he was over joyed, but as the lady bestowed on him the kind of leer that is known as “giving the glad eye,” he made shift to produce a responsive smile.

“Now, don’t let us interrupt your dinner,” said she, as he rose to shake hands. “But, as you cut us dead when you came in, we have just come across to say ‘howdy’ and let you know that we saw you. We are now off to the club. Shall you be coming along presently?”

Gillum was inclined to be evasive.

“I don’t quite know what the programme is,” he replied. “It depends on what my guest would like to do.”

“Bring him along with you,” said she, “and let him see the ball roll. I’m sure he’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you?”

As she asked the question, she turned to me with the peculiar cat-like grin that one sees in newspaper portraits of young women, with a distinct tendency to the “glad eye”; and I noticed that it seemed a rather tired eye and slightly puffy about the lower lids.

“I am not really an enthusiast in regard to billiards,” I replied, “and I am no player. But it is interesting enough to look on at a good game.”

Apparently I had said something funny, for the lady greeted my answer with a gay—and rather strident—laugh, and the two men, who had been looking on in silence, broke into sour grins. But Gillum, also smiling, evidently wished to get rid of his acquaintances for he interposed with the air of closing the conversation.

“Well, we shall see what we feel like when we have dined. I won’t make any engagement now.”

The lady took the hint graciously enough. “Very well, Jack,” said she. “We will leave you in peace and hope to see you later;” and with this and another smile which embraced us both, she moved off with her two companions, neither of whom seemed to take any notice of Gillum.

“What was the joke?” I asked when they had gone. “And what club was she referring to?”

“It isn’t really a club,” replied Gillum. “It is what, I suppose, you would call a gambling hell; a place where you can stake your money at trente et quarante, rouge et noir, chemin de fer, or any of the regular gambling games. The joke was that the ball she meant was not a billiard ball but the little ball that rolls round the roulette wheel. It is not a particularly amusing joke.”

“No,” I agreed. “And are these people connected with the club?”

“Very much so,” he replied. “That tall chappie—the one with the squint—runs the place, and I should think he does fairly well out of it. He is a Frenchman of the name of Foucault.”

“He doesn’t look a particularly amiable person,” I remarked, recalling the rather sulky way in which he had looked on at the interview.

Gillum laughed. “He is a silly ass,” said he, “as jealous as the devil; and as Madame’s manners are, as you saw, of the distinctly coquettish, slap and tickle order, there is pretty constant trouble. But he needn’t worry. There is no harm in the fair Marie. Her engaging wiles are all in the way of business.”

“Do you spend much time at the club?” I asked.

“I drop in there pretty frequently,” he replied.

“And I suppose you drop a fair amount of money.”

“I suppose I do. But not so much as you would think. You orthodox financiers seem to imagine that a gambler always loses, but that is quite a mistake. The luck isn’t always on the one side. Sometimes I pick up a little windfall that pays my expenses for quite a long time.”

“Still,” said I, “the balance must be against you in the long run.”

“I have already admitted,” he replied, “that I lose on my gambling transactions as a whole, and probably I lose, in the long run, at the club, though it isn’t so easy to keep accounts of what I do there. But supposing that the balance is against me. What about it? Foucault runs the club to make a profit. But he can only make a profit if the players make a loss. What they lose to the bank is, in effect, their payment to him for the entertainment that he supplies. Hang it all, Mortimer, you can’t expect to get your fun for nothing.”

“Some people do,” said I, “the people, I mean, who have infallible systems. I gather that you don’t use a system.”

“Well,” he replied cautiously, “I haven’t managed yet to devise a system that really works, but I have given some thought to the matter. There ought to be some way of ascertaining how the laws of chance operate, and if one could discover that, one would have the means of circumventing them.”

“You haven’t tried the plan of doubling the stakes when you lose?”

“Yes, I have; and I must admit that, for sheer excitement there is nothing like it. Your real, rabid gambler loves it—and usually cleans himself out. But for a sane and sober gambler it is not practicable. There are too many snags. To begin with, at the best you only get your money back plus the amount of the lowest stake. Consequently, the first stake must be a fairly large one or there is nothing in it. But if you start with a substantial stake and the luck is against you, you are up in enormous figures before you know where you are. For instance, supposing you are playing roulette and you lay a hundred pounds on manque or impair or any of the even chances. If you lose four times in succession, which would not be extraordinary, you have dropped fifteen hundred pounds; and the danger is that you may empty your pocket before the winning coup comes round. Then you have lost the lot. But there is another snag. The bank won’t let you go on doubling as long as you like. There is a limit set to each kind of bet, and when you reach that limit you are not allowed to double any more. If you go on playing you have got to go back to a flat stake, in which case it is impossible for you to win back what you have lost. So, regarded as a serious method of play, the doubling racket is no go.”

“It seems astonishing,” said I, “that anyone should practise it. But perhaps they don’t.”

“Oh, don’t they?” said Gillum. “You must understand, Mortimer, that to the real, perfect gambler, the charm of the game is the risk of losing. The bigger the risk, the greater the thrill. Plenty of people at the club, particularly the roulette players, double the stakes when they lose; and there is a temptation, you know, when you have lost, to take another chance in the hope of getting your money back. But it is a bad plan, because you stand to lose so much more than you stand to gain.”

“Don’t some people double on their winnings?” I asked.

“Ah,” said he, “but that is quite a different kind of affair. There is some sense in that because it is quite the opposite of the other method. If you win you win, you don’t merely get your money back; and if you eventually lose, you have only lost your original stake—plus your winnings, of course. Supposing you take an even chance at roulette, say you put a hundred pounds on red and you win; and suppose that you leave the stake and the winnings—two hundred pounds—on the table as a fresh stake. If the red turns up again you take up four hundred, of which one hundred is your original stake. You have won three hundred. But if you lose, you have only lost a hundred, plus the three that you had won. From a gambler’s point of view it is quite a sound method.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “I see that, at least, you start with the knowledge of the amount that you stand to lose. But the whole thing is beyond my comprehension. I can’t begin to understand the state of mind of a man who is prepared to risk his money in a transaction over which he has no control and in respect to which no judgement, calculation or prevision is possible.”

He laughed gaily and refilled our glasses. “You are a banker to the finger-tips, Mortimer,” said he; “and, as you happen to be my banker, I am not disposed to quarrel with your eminently correct outlook. I suppose you have never seen a gambling den.’’

“Never,” I replied; “and I am an absolute ignorant on the subject of gambling. I hardly know how to play the common card games.”

“I think you ought to know what these shows are like,” said he. “I can assure you that, as a mere spectacle, a regular gaming house is worth seeing. What do you say to strolling round to the club with me when we have had our coffee? It’s too late to do anything else.”

It was really too late to do anything but go home and to bed. But I could hardly, in the circumstances, suggest that course. Nor, in fact, was I particularly disposed to; for the excellent dinner and the equally excellent wine had produced a state of exhilaration that made me not disinclined for adventure. In my normal state, nothing would have induced me to set loot in a gambling den. Now I fell in readily enough with Gillum’s suggestion.

“But shan’t I be expected to play?” I enquired. “Because I am not going to.”

“That will be all right,” he replied. “I shall explain to Madame, and she will see that you are left in peace. But you understand that this is an unregistered club and that you will keep your own counsel about your visit there. I shall have to guarantee your secrecy.”

I gave the necessary undertaking and Gillum then held the wine bottle up to the light.

“There’s half a bottle left,” said he, making as if to refill my glass. “Won’t you really? Not another half-glass? Well, I don’t think I will, either. We will just have our coffee and a cognac and then toddle round to the club and see the ball roll.”

III. — THE GAMING HOUSE

~

FROM GIAMBORINI’S WE STROLLED FORTH into Wardour Street, and, proceeding in a southerly direction, promptly turned into Gerrard Street. I knew the place slightly and on my occasional passage through it had found a certain bookish interest in contrasting its recent faded and shabby aspect with that which it must have presented in the days when Dryden was a resident, and, later, when the Literary Club with Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith and Gibbon, held its meetings here.

“Queer old street,” Gillum commented, looking about him disparagingly. “Quite fashionable, I believe, at one time, but it is down on its luck nowadays. Very mixed population, too. All sorts of odd clubs, British and foreign, and tradesmen who seem to have survived from the Stone Age. There is a fellow some where along here who makes spurs. Think of it. Spurs! In the twentieth century. This is our show.”

He halted at a doorway which, shabby and grimy as it was, yet preserved some vestiges of its former dignity, and having run his eye over an assortment of bell handles, put his finger on an electric button which surmounted them and pressed several times at irregular intervals.

“Are you ringing out a code message?” I asked.

“Well, yes, in a way,” he replied. “There is a particular kind of ring that the regular members give just to let the people upstairs know that it isn’t a stranger. There is always the possibility of a raid and our friends like to have time to make the necessary arrangements.”

The idea of a police raid was not a pleasant one and the suggestion tended rather to damp my enthusiasm. I expressed the hope that this would not happen to be the occasion of one.

“No, indeed,” said Gillum, “it would be unfortunate for you. Wouldn’t increase your prestige at the bank. But you needn’t worry. There has never been any trouble since I have known the place. I have sometimes suspected that Foucault has some sort of discreet understanding with the authorities, but in any case, I know there is a bolt hole through into the next house where an Italian club has its premises.”