CHAPTER VI.
BARON TAKU.
THE Carlton Chess Club, as the hall name plate called it, was a very different sort of organization. As Hoffman and I passed through the hall and reception room we were met by a company of gentlemen in evening clothes. Hoffman offered me my introduction, and without the least semblance of formality or stricture, such as ordinarily obtains in a club devoted mainly to gambling, we chatted. I alluded briefly to “my impressions of America.” One of the party, Michelson by name, had been in New Zealand many years before, but his reminiscences were sufficiently hazy so I had no difficulty in keeping in character.
The rooms occupied the entire floor, and while in the first chamber from the corridor a very discreet game of auction bridge was in progress, most of the five or six other assemblages were playing poker of one kind or another. I was told later in the evening that the auction game represented the only really heavy gambling in the house. Some ten or twelve rich men of the city who enjoyed bridge kept it up, cutting in by turn whenever more than the “quorum” of four attended. The house encouraged the assembly, for though it was said they played for a dollar a point, money never was mentioned. On the few occasions when the police had seen fit to interfere they had met these men first. While they lodged indignant protests at being disturbed the other occupants had time to hide all the telltale material. Special slots in the floor and walls were provided in the other rooms for chips, so these bits of evidence could be hustled out of sight in a very few seconds. Hoffman told me that while the auction players won and lost large sums, the money itself mattered little to them, and that they would take no newcomers. For that reason, although bridge always has been one of my best games, I was introduced to a group in the third room, where a game known as “blind opener” poker was in progress.
Only four were at the table, and they welcomed both Hoffman and myself. Because the particular form of the game was new to me, I watched three pots before taking cards. It really was not complicated, however. The dealer put in one white chip for his ante. This was worth fifty cents. The first man to the left opened the pot before seeing his hand, by dropping in one red chip, worth a dollar. The next man looked at his cards. He then had three choices. He might drop out if he did not care for the possibilities of his hand; this cost him nothing. He might elect to “stay,” in which case he covered the red-chip opener. If he held a fair starting hand—say a pair of queens, or better—he immediately raised. This raise might be any amount up to two dollars, in addition to the red chip he had to contribute in order to stay. The man following would stay on, nearly any pair, and would reraise the pot on a pair of aces or better, probably.
So it went. The chief difference between this form and ordinary poker, so far as I could judge, was that most of the betting occurred before the draw. By the time all were satisfied there was a fair idea in the minds of all concerning the strength of hands “on the go,” excepting the possibility of a bluff, of course. Now and then a real tiff would occur after cards were dealt, but this was the exception. Usually there accumulated from five to thirty dollars before the draw, and this seemed to be sufficient to satisfy the players.
There was just one part that marred the sport, and to my mind it was a very grave drawback. Each time a pot amounted to five dollars or more—which was nearly every time—a white chip, costing fifty cents, had to be dropped through a slit in the center of the table provided for the purpose. This was the “house's percentage,” and in a long session at the table it could mean only one thing; that was that the house got almost all of the money of the table. Since I was there to lose, however, I could not cavil at this contrivance so much in my favor.
I bought thirty dollars' worth of chips, as did Hoffman. There was little excitement in the play at first; though I held nothing exceptional I stayed in the first eight pots. One of these I won with kings and treys, and one I lost after a strong session of raising and reraising before the draw. I had been dealt three ten-spots, while my opponent went in with a pat flush. On the rest I either dropped before the preliminary betting was finished, or was too palpably out of the running even to risk a call after the cards were dealt. Hoffman, playing “close to his chin,” as I expected, was five or six blue chips to the good, while I was out a similar number, and losing steadily.
I have purposely neglected calling attention to the other men at the table because I left them so shortly, and because none of them but Hoffman figured in my later adventures. They were just ordinary wealthy young chaps, none of whom I liked very much.
It was with something of relief to me that a diversion came. Part of the group in one of the next rooms broke up, leaving only three at the table. The house attendant, knocking at the door, inquired if one of us would care to fill in to keep both tables going.
“You're having hard luck, Trask,” said Hoffman, “why don't you try it?”
I rose, glad of the chance. Only six or seven remained of my second quota of chips, and these I passed over to Hoffman. “Maybe they'll bring you the fortune I couldn't get,” I said. “Will you introduce me?”
“I can see to that, sir” put in the attendant, eying with respect a man who could carelessly donate twelve dollars to another without a thought. I bowed to the men I was leaving and passed back to the next room.
Once when I was engaged in an air duel in the Tours salient I engaged a straggling boche whose Gotha seemed to be acting up. Though my “typewriter” riddled him from tip to tip, he did not fall. As sometimes happens when all calculations of both parties go amiss, we both had to swerve sharply to avoid a collision in midair. In that second, with wings almost scraping, I had a fair look at his face. He had thrown his goggles up in the emergency, and though he did not know me, I recognized him instantly! He was Peter Schleimann, a young blade with whom I had chummed during my two university years at Prague. For the first and last time during my military career a chill of horror paralyzed my fingers. I could no more train that gun on him, although he was my recognized opponent, than I could jump from my seat into the abyss below. I swerved away and he took advantage of my indecision to escape.
On entering that second poker group in the Chess Club rooms I had a second when that same chill—which is, I suspect a revulsion of the nervous consciousness at some dreaded thing unknown, suspected, or put out of mind temporarily, that forces itself to be reckoned with again—stopped me at the door. Though I was not in the least frightened, I found it an effort to walk forward for the round of introductions.
Fortunately, after mentioning my name, the attendant presented me first to an elderly man called Bakewell, who beamed genially at me as he clutched my hand. Next in order was a short, slim chap with black eyes that snapped continually. He was called Latisse, and looked as French as his name. I remembered a New York firm of wine importers by that name, and wondered vaguely if he might be connected.
Then came the ordeal. The third member of the group was probably the last man on earth I expected to find in this company—my valet, Mitsui! After once glancing at me he had turned to the window, awaiting the introduction. As he wheeled about slowly, a huge dandy in perfect attire, I thought I detected one of his slant eyes narrow a trifle more, which puzzled rather than reassured me. He could rely on the fact that I would say nothing, but what was his position? On which side was he now? In the tangle of events so far I could be pardoned for being suspicious of him.
“Baron Taku, Mr. Selwyn Trask!” I bowed to Mitsui, and the attendant added jocosely: “The baron knows little English, but is a most excellent poker player.” I could guess that this must be the case, for from his courtly manner of acknowledging the introduction to his supposed master I could credit him with being an artist in any game embodying bluff.
Poker itself, though usually interesting while it is played, is merely repetition of inanimate detail when retold. Suffice it to say of that game that I followed instructions to the letter. In three hours of play I squandered nearly two hundred dollars, some of which I could have saved by taming my recklessness. Since I was supposed to do just this, however, I affected a total disregard for all minor transactions involving as little as a five-dollar bill. When it was my turn to furnish the drinks I bought the best champagne, though no one else had thought this necessary.
I was rewarded in this by a flicker of interest in Latisse, who sat at my left elbow. “In order to liven things up a bit” on several occasions I “high-spaded” him for ten dollars, and lost each time but one with what I flattered myself was extraordinary nonchalance. Even before I had become Selwyn Trask I would have watched my gambling more carefully than this.
When he was dealing the last time I pulled a bill from my pocket as usual, pretending I thought it a ten-spot, though in reality it was a fifty. When he exclaimed in surprise I waved away his objection in lordly fashion and asked him if he cared to cover it. He smiled, with what seemed to be delight, and did so. Looking at his hand, he asked me immediately if I had found a spade. Since the only card of that suit which I held was a five-spot, I felt perfectly safe in telling him so. To my surprise, he admitted that he had no spades at all, so I won the fifty.
This was not at all as I had intended, but in the course of the evening I managed to lose sufficient, anyway. The “baron” was way ahead, cashing in more chips than I lost, while Latisse won perhaps one hundred dollars. Bakewell was nearly as heavy a loser as I, but in spite of the genial manner in which he had begun the game, he ended with a savage scowl, damning his luck with every deal.
Because both in my “character” and in reality I hate to mix with this sort of a sport I was a trifle relieved when the game broke up. Latisse and the baron shook me warmly by the hand as I went to join Hoffman, and the former expressed a hope that he would see me often at the club, in “order to keep things going with a bit of zip.”
I promised to return, but did so rather condescendingly. “Of course you know,” I concluded, “the stakes are so low that it is really very mild amusement after all!”
Latisse's black eyes flashed instantly, with what I saw to be cupidity. “Come again!” he urged. “Sometimes it is possible for monsieur to find a little more excitement than to-night.”
On leaving Hoffman congratulated me on the manner in which I had conducted myself. We dropped in for a sandwich and cup of coffee at an all-night restaurant, and then he bade me good night.
“Just keep up the program you have started,” he concluded in answer to a question concerning Mitsui's presence. “It was not intended that you be placed at the same table with him, but perhaps it worked out just as well, from what you say.” This was all the satisfaction I could get out of him.
When I got back to my hotel apartment, Mitsui was there waiting to care for me as assiduously as before. During my bath and preparations for sleep he made not the slightest mention of his incomprehensible action, and though I ached to find out how and why he had escaped from his handcuffs, only to make his appearance at the gambling club, I knew it would take more persistence than I could summon at four in the morning.
Just as he was turning out the lights in my room I rose on my elbow to speak to him. “Do you think I am earning my salary?” I queried.
He nodded ponderously. “Ye-ah!” he answered.
“But I fail to see where my share of the danger, if any, is coming in.”
He wheeled, the trace of a sinister grin on the corners of his wide mouth. “You keep track this one Latisse, and not worry!” he said and snapped out the light.