About This Book
Paul Viotti tapped with the tips of his finger nails the five cardswhich lay face downwards before him upon the green baize table. His fourcompanions took the hint and prepared to listen. This was no ordinarycard room in which the five men had met. It was the Holy of Holies inthe most famous gambling club of New York. He would be a brave man whosought entrance there while a séance was being held.To-night, he said, we are to speak of serious things. Perhaps I ammore careful of my health than you others. Anyway, I know when the goingis good. One gang against us was dangerous enough. We had all we couldtake care of when Tim Rooney brought his boys out. Now there are two. Iam for fighting when I think that we'll win. Now I am sure that we shalllose if we go on, I say let us get away.His four companions listened in absorbed interest. The game wasmomentarily forgotten. The cards lay untouched, the chips uncounted.Each seemed to have adopted a different attitude. Marcus Constantine--hewas known under a different name in Paris and on the French Riviera--along, graceful-looking youth, pale of complexion, with dark eyes and acuriously sensitive mouth, slouched across the table, his head supportedbetween his hands, his eyes fixed upon his chief as though afraid ofmissing a single word. Matthew Drane, a good-looking, elaboratelydressed man with smoothly brushed brown hair, pink-complexioned, with ahumorous mouth and a right hand which was reputed to be the quickest inthe world at drawing a lethal weapon from the obscurity of a hiddenpocket, listened with equal interest but more geniality. Tom Meredith,his neighbour, the flamboyant beau of the party, a pudgy-faced,narrow-eyed man of early middle age, dressed in imitation Savile Row cuttweeds, a shirt of violent design and a shameless tie, grunted hisimpartial approval of the scheme, whilst Edward Staines opposite, atired-looking man who had the appearance of a successful buthard-working lawyer, listened with the slightly cynical air of onepredisposed towards pessimism.That's all very well for you, Paul, the latter remarked. You've got acountry to go to where you can buy a mountain or two and an old castleand live like a lord for a few dollars a year. What the hell are wegoing to do, fussing about Europe? I'll admit we're up against a toughproposition here with this gang of Tim Rooney's hanging about after ourterritory, but what about lying low for a few months?No damn' good that, Tom Meredith objected. While we are lying low,Tim would be organising and we should never get our feet in again. Seemsto me we're about through with this racket. We've got to either split upor find some place where the Star Spangled Banner doesn't flutter.We've had the cream. Let's leave the slops for Tim.Paul Viotti, a swarthy, black-haired Corsican, expensively dressed,clean-shaven and perfumed, shook a fat forefinger at them all, aforefinger upon which flashed a wickedly assertive diamond.I've got a hunch for you, he announced. There's only one place for usin the world. Money there for the picking up and a clear field.Marcus Constantine looked swiftly across the table.Where's that? he demanded.The South of France, was the prompt and triumphant reply. Listen, Igot a brother there and I know something. Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo--whyat the baccarat there there's millions, millions you can handle, mind,in good _mille_ notes, changes hands every night. Suckers there by thethousands and not a nursemaid to look after them. Hauling liquor roundhere has been a good-enough job while it lasted, but the shooting'sgetting a bit too free and easy for me.
