Red aces Being three cases of Mr. Reeder
the sight of him a pallid Kingfether had whipped out his handkerchief
and covered the lower part of his face as though he were suffering
from a bad cold.
Stealthily he rose from his seat and melted into the fringe of people
standing behind the players.
“Don’t let me drive you away, Mr. Kingfether,” said Reeder’s voice,
and everybody heard him.
The manager dropped back till he stood against the wall, a limp
helpless figure, and there he remained through the scene that
followed.
Mr. Reeder had produced a bundle of Treasury notes which he counted
with great care. It was not a big bundle. Mr. Machfield, watching,
guessed he was in the ten-pound line of business, and certainly there
was no more than that on the table.
One by one those little notes of Reeder’s disappeared, until there was
nothing left, and then a surprising thing happened. Mr. Reeder put his
hand in his pocket, groped painfully and produced something which he
covered with his hand. The croupier had raised his cards ready to
deal--the game was _trente-et-quarante_--when the interruption came.
“Excuse me.” J.G. Reeder’s voice was gentle but everybody at the table
heard it. “You can’t play with that pack: there are two cards
missing.”
The croupier raised his head. The green shade strapped to his glossy
head threw a shadow which hid the top half of his face.
He stared blandly at the interrupter--the dispassionate and detached
stare which only a professional croupier can give.
“_Pardon?_” he said, puzzled. “I do not understand m’sieur. The pack
is complete. It is never questioned----”
“There are two cards without which I understand you cannot play your
game,” said Mr. Reeder, and suddenly lifted his hand.
On the table before him were two playing cards, the ace of diamonds
and the ace of hearts. The croupier looked down at them, and then,
with an oath, pushed back his chair and dropped his hand to his hip.
“Don’t move--I beg of you!”
There was an automatic pistol in Mr. Reeder’s hand, and its muzzle was
directed towards the croupier’s white waistcoat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to be alarmed about. Stand
back from the table against the wall, and do not come between me and
Monsieur Lamontaine!”
He himself stepped backward.
“Over there!” he signalled to Machfield.
“Look here, Reeder----”
“Over there!” snarled J.G. Reeder. “Stand up by your friend. Ladies
and gentlemen”--he addressed the company again without taking his eyes
from the croupier--“there will be a few moments of acute
unpleasantness. Your names and addresses will be taken, but I will use
my best endeavours to avoid police court proceedings, because we are
after something much more important than naughty people who play cards
for money.”
And then the guests saw strange men standing in the doorway. They came
from all directions--from Mr. Machfield’s study, from the hall below,
from the roof above. They handcuffed Lamontaine and took away the two
guns he carried, one in each hip pocket--Machfield was unarmed.
“What will the charge be?”
“Mr. Gaylor will tell you that at the police station. But I think the
question is unnecessary. Honestly, don’t you, Mr. Machfield?”
Machfield said nothing.
CHAPTER XI
Mr. Reeder kept what he called a case-book, in which he inscribed a
passionless account of all the cases in which he was engaged. Some of
these cases had no value except to the technician, and would not
interest anyone except perhaps the psycho-pathologist. Under the
heading “Two Aces” appeared this account, written in his own
handwriting.
In the year 1919 (wrote Mr. Reeder) there arrived at the Hotel
Majestic in Nice a man who described himself in the hotel register as
Rufus Machfield. He had a number of other names, but it is only
necessary that Machfield should be used to identify this particular
character. The man had a reputation as a cardsharp, and, in the
pursuit of his nefarious calling, had “worked” the ships plying
between England and New York. He had also been convicted on two
occasions as a professional gambler in Germany.
He was of Danish origin, but at the time was a naturalized Englishman,
with a permanent address in Colvin Gardens, Bayswater. At the Majestic
Hotel he had met with Charles or Walter Lynn, an adventurer who had
also “operated” the ships on the North Atlantic. On one of these trips
Lynn had become acquainted with Mr. George McKay, a prosperous woollen
merchant of Bradford. There is no evidence that they ever played cards
together, and Mr. McKay does not recall that they did. But the
friendship was of value to Lynn because Mr. McKay was in the habit of
coming to Nice every year, and was in residence at the time Lynn and
Machfield met. McKay was known as a resolute and successful gambler,
and before now had figured in sensational play.
The two men, Lynn and Machfield, conferred together and decided upon a
scheme to rob McKay at the tables. Gambling in Nice is not confined to
the recognized establishments. There was at the time a number of
_Cercles Privés_ where play was even higher than at the public rooms,
and the most reputable of these was “Le Signe” which, if it was not
recognized, was winked at by the French authorities.
In order to swindle McKay, a patron of this club, it was necessary to
secure the co-operation and help of an official. Lynn’s choice fell
upon a young croupier named Lamontaine, and he in turn was to suborn
two other croupiers, both of whom it was intended should receive a
very generous share of the money.
Lamontaine proved to be a singularly pliable tool. He had married a
young wife and had got into debt, and was fearful that this should
come to the ears of the club authorities. An interview was arranged in
Lyons; the scheme was put before the croupier by Lynn, and he agreed
to come in, taking a half share for himself and his two fellow
croupiers, the other half being equally divided between Lynn and
Machfield. Lynn apparently demurred at the division, but Machfield was
satisfied with his quarter share; the more so as he knew Mr. McKay had
been winning very heavily, and providing he had the right kind of
betting, there would be a big killing.
The game to be played was baccarat, for McKay could never resist the
temptation of taking a bank, especially a big bank. It was very
necessary that arrangements should be hurried on before the merchant
left the South of France, and a fortnight after the preliminaries,
Lamontaine reported that everything was in trim, that he had secured
the co-operation of his comrades, and it was decided that the coup
should be brought off on the Friday night.
It was arranged that Lynn should be the player, that after play was
finished the conspirators should meet again at Lyons, when the loot
was to be divided.
The cards were to be stacked so that the bank won every third coup. It
was arranged that the signal for the conspirators to begin their
betting was to be the dealing of two aces, the ace of diamonds and the
ace of hearts. Somebody would draw a six to these, and the banker
would have a “natural”--which means, I understand, that he would win.
Thereafter the betting was to be done by Lynn, and the first was a
banco call--which meant, as the cards lay, that the bank would be
swept into their pockets. They knew Mr. McKay would bid for the bank,
but they would bid higher, and Lynn then took the bank with a capital
of a million francs. Fourteen times the bank won, and had now reached
enormous proportions, so much so that every other table in the room
was deserted, and the table where this high play was going on was
surrounded by curious watchers.
There were fourteen winning coups for the bank, and the amount
gathered up at the finish by Lynn was something in the neighbourhood
of £400,000. Lamontaine states that it was more, but Machfield is
satisfied that it was in that region. The money was taken to the
hotel, and the following night Lynn left for Lyons. He was to be
joined the next day by Machfield, and on the Sunday they were to meet
the croupier in Paris and pay him his share.
The night that Lynn left, however, one of the officials of the rooms
made a statement to his _chef_. He had lost his nerve and he betrayed
his comrades. Lamontaine, with the other croupier, was arrested on a
charge of conspiracy, and Machfield only got away from the South of
France by the skin of his teeth. He journeyed on to Lyons and arrived
there in the early hours of the following afternoon. He hoped that no
news of the arrests would have got into the papers and scared his
partner, and certainly he did not wire warning Lynn. When he got to
the hotel he asked for his friend, but was told that he had not
arrived, nor had he made reservation of the rooms which had been
agreed upon.
From that moment he disappeared from human ken, and neither Machfield
nor any of his friends were able to trace him. It was no accident: it
was a deliberate double-cross. Machfield played the game as far as he
was able, and when Lamontaine was released from prison and came to
Paris, a broken man, for his young wife had died while he was in gaol,
he helped the croupier as well as he could, and together they came to
England to establish gaming-houses, but primarily to find Lynn and
force him to disgorge.
There was another person on the track of Lynn. McKay, who had been
robbed, as he knew after the French court proceedings, employed me to
trace him, but for certain reasons I was unable to justify his
confidence.
I do not know in what year or month Lamontaine and Machfield located
their man. It is certain that “Mr. Wentford,” as he called himself,
lived in increasing fear of their vengeance. When they did locate him
he proved to be an impossible man to reach. I have no doubt that the
house was carefully reconnoitred, his habits studied, and that
attempts were made to get at him. But those attempts failed. It is
highly probable, though no proof of this exists, that he was well
informed as to his enemy’s movements, for so far as can be gathered
from the statement of his niece and checked by the admissions of
Machfield, Lynn never left his house except on the days when Machfield
and Lamontaine were in Paris--they frequently went to that city over
the week-end.
It was Lamontaine who formed the diabolical plan which was eventually
to lead to Wentford’s death. He knew that the only man admitted to the
house was the mounted policeman who patrolled that part of the
country, so he studied police methods, even got information as to the
times on which the beat was patrolled, and on the night of the murder,
soon after it was dark, he travelled down to Beaconsfield by car
through the storm, accompanied by Machfield.
Lamontaine at some time or other had been on the French stage (he
spoke perfect English) and I have no doubt was in a position to make
himself up sufficiently well to deceive Wentford into opening the
door. At seven o’clock Constable Verity left the station and proceeded
on his patrol. At seven-thirty he was ruthlessly murdered by a man who
stepped out of his concealment and shot him point-blank through the
heart.
The body was taken into a field and laid out, the two murderers hoping
that the snow would cover it. Lamontaine was already wearing the
uniform of a police constable, and, mounting the horse, he rode on to
Wentford’s house. The old man saw him through the window, and,
suspecting nothing, got down and opened the door.
He may not have realized that anything was wrong until he was back in
his parlour, for it was there that he was struck down. The two men