VIII
WHEELS OF CHANCE
Turning the affair over in his mind, and considering it from everyimaginable angle, P. Sybarite decided (fairly enough) that it was, onthe whole, mysterious; lending at least some colour of likelihood toGeorge's gratuitous guess-work.
Certainly it would seem that one had now every right to assume MissMolly Lessing to be other than as she chose to seem; nowadays thevillain in shining evening dress doesn't pursue the shrinkingshop-girl save through the action of the obsolescent mellerdrammer orof the ubiquitous moving-picture reel. So much must at least be saidfor these great educators: they have broken the villain of hisopen-face attire; to-day he knows better, and when prowling to devour,disguises himself in the guileless if nobby "sack suit" of the widelyadvertised Kollege Kut brand....
In short, Molly Lessing might very well be Marian Blessington, afterall!
In which case the man with the twisted mouth was, more probably thannot, none other than that same Bayard Shaynon whom the young lady wasreported to have jilted so arbitrarily.
Turning the topper over in his hands, it occurred to P. Sybarite towonder if he did not, in it, hold a valuable clue to this riddle ofidentity. Promptly he took the hat indoors to find out, investigatingit most thoroughly by the flickering, bluish glare of the lonelygas-jet that burned in the hallway.
It was a handsome and heavy hat of English manufacture, as witness thename of a Bond Street hatter in its crown; by the slightdiscolouration of its leather, had seen service without, however,depreciating in utility, needing only brushing and ironing to restoreits pristine brilliance; carried neither name nor initials on itslining; and lacked every least hint as to its ownership--or so itseemed until the prying fingers of P. Sybarite turned down the leatherand permitted a visiting card concealed therein to flutter to thefloor.
The hall rack was convenient; hanging up the hat, P. Sybarite pickedup the card. It displayed in conventional script the name, _BaileyPenfield_, with the address, _97 West 45th Street_; one corner,moreover, bore a pencilled hieroglyphic which seemed to read:"_O.K.--B.P._"
"Whatever," P. Sybarite mused, "_that_ may mean."
He turned the card over and examined its unmarked and taciturnreverse.
Stealthy footsteps on the stairs distracted his studious attentionfrom the card. He looked up, blinking and frowning thoughtfully, tosee George descending with the wash-pitcher wrapped in, but by nomeans disguised by, brown paper. Once at the bottom of the stairs,this one expressed amazement in a whisper, to avoid rousing theirlandlady, who held, unreasonably, that it detracted from the tone ofher establishment for gentlemen boarders to rush the growler....
"Hel-lo! We thought you must've got lost in the shuffle."
"Did you?" said P. Sybarite absently.
"Where's Molly?"
"Miss Lessing?" P. Sybarite looked surprised. "Isn't sheupstairs--with Violet?"
"No!"
"That's funny...."
"Why, when'd she leave you?"
"Oh, ten minutes ago, or so."
"She must have stopped in her room for somethin'."
"Perhaps."
"But why didn't you come on up?"
"Well, you see, I met a man outside I wanted to talk to for a moment.So I left her at the door."
"Well, Vi's waitin'. Run on up. I won't be five minutes. And knock onMolly's door and see what's the matter."
"All right," returned P. Sybarite serenely.
His constructive mendacity light upon his conscience, he permittedGeorge time enough to leave the house and gain Clancey's, then quietlyfollowed as far as the gate, from which point he cut across thesouthern sidewalk, turned west to Ninth Avenue, and there north toForty-second Street, where he boarded a cross-town car.
This was quite the most insane freak in which he had indulged himselfthese many years; and frankly admitting this much, he was ratherpleased than otherwise. He was bound to call on Mr. Bailey Penfieldand inform that gentleman where he might find his hat. Incidentally hehoped to surprise something or other informing with regard to thefortunes of Miss Lessing subsequent to her impulsive flight bytaxicab.
All of which, he calmly admitted, constituted an inexcusableimpertinence: he deserved a thoroughgoing snubbing, and ratheranticipated one, especially if destined to find Mr. Penfield at homeor, by some vagary of chance, to encounter Miss Lessing again.
But he smiled cheerfully in contemplation of this prospect, buoyed upwith a belief that his unconsciously idiotic behaviour wasintrinsically more or less Quixotic, and further excited by the hopethat he might possibly be permitted to serve his lady of mystery.
At all events, he meant to know more about Mr. Bailey Penfield beforehe slept.
Alighting at Sixth Avenue, he walked to Forty-fifth Street, turned offto the right, and in another moment was at a standstill, in theextremest perplexity, before Number 97.
By every normal indication, the house was closed and tenantless. Fromroof to basement its every window was blind with shades close-drawn.The front doors were closed, the basement grating likewise. Anatmospheric accumulation of street debris littered the areaflagstones, together with one or two empty and battered ash-cans, inwhose shadows an emaciated cat skulked apprehensively. The one thinglacking to signify that the Penfield menage had moved bodily to thecountry, was the shield of a burglar protective association in one ofthe parlour windows. P. Sybarite looked for that in vain.
Disappointed in the conviction that he had drawn a false lead, thelittle man strolled on eastward a little distance, then on sheerimpulse, gave up his project and, swinging about, started to go home.But now, as he approached Number 97 the second time, a taxicab turnedin from Sixth Avenue, slid to the curb before that dwelling, and setdown a smallish young man dressed in the extreme of fashion--a personof physical characteristics by no means to be confused with those ofthe man with the twisted mouth--who, negligently handing a bill to thechauffeur, ran nimbly up the steps, rang the door-bell, and promptlyletting himself into the vestibule, closed the door behind him.
The taxicab swung round and made off. Not so P. Sybarite. Profoundlyintrigued, he waited hopefully for this second midnight caller toreappear, as baffled as himself. But though he dawdled away a patientfive minutes, nothing of the sort occurred. The front doors remainedclosed and undisturbed, as little communicative as the darkenedwindows.
Here was mystery within mystery, indeed! The circumstances annoyed P.Sybarite intensely. And why (he asked himself, with impatience) needhe remain outside when another entered without let or hindrance?
Upon this thought he turned boldly up the steps, pressed thebell-button; laid hold of the door-knob, and entered into a vestibuleas dark as his bewilderment and as empty as the palm of his hand;proving that the young gentleman of fashion had experienced nodifficulty in penetrating farther into fastnesses of this singularestablishment. And reflecting that where one had gone, another mightfollow, P. Sybarite pulled the door to behind him.
Instantly the bare and narrow vestibule was flooded with the mercilessglare of half a dozen electric bulbs; and at the same time he foundhimself sustaining the intent scrutiny of a pair of inhospitable darkeyes set in an impassive dark face--this last abruptly disclosed inthe frame of a small grille in one of the inner doors.
Though far too dumfounded for speech, he contrived to return the starewith aggressive interest, and to such effect that he presently worethrough the patience of the other.
"Well?" he was gruffly asked.
"The Saints be praised!" returned P. Sybarite. "I find myself so. Andyourself?" he added civilly: not to be outdone, as the saying is.
"What do you want?"
Irritating discourtesy inhered in the speaker's tone. P. Sybaritestiffened his neck.
"To see Mr. Penfield," he returned firmly--"of course!"
"What Mr. Penfield?" asked the other, after a pause so transient thatit was little more than distinguishable, but which to P. Sybariteindicated beyond question that at least one Mr. Penfield w
as known tohis cautious interlocutor.
"Mr. Bailey Penfield," he replied. "Who else?"
During a pause slightly longer than the first, the hostile andsuspicious eyes summed him up a second time.
"No such party here," was the verdict. The man drew back and made asif to shut the grille.
"Nonsense!" P. Sybarite insisted sharply. "I have his card with thisnumber--got it from him only to-night."
"Card?" The face returned to the grille.
P. Sybarite made no bones about displaying his alleged credential.
"I believe you'll find that authentic," he observed with asperity.
By way of answer, the grille closed with a snap; but his inclinationto kick the door was nullified when, without further delay, it openedto admit him. Nose in air, he strutted in, and the door clanged behindhim.
"Gimme another slant at that card," the guardian insisted.
Surrendering it with elaborate indifference, P. Sybarite treatedhimself to a comprehensive survey of the place.
He stood in the main hall of an old-fashioned residence. To his right,a double doorway revealed a drawing-room luxuriously furnished but, asfar as he could determine, quite untenanted. On the left, a longstaircase hugged the wall, with a glow of warm light at its head. Tothe rear, the hall ended in a single doorway through which he couldsee a handsome mahogany buffet elaborately arranged with shimmeringdamask, silver, and crystal.
"It's all right," announced the warden of the grille, his suspicionsto all seeming completely allayed. "Mr. Penfield ain't in just atpresent, but"--here he grinned shrewdly--"I reckon you ain't so deadset on seein' him as you made out."
"On the contrary," P. Sybarite retorted stiffly, "my business isimmediate and personal with Mr. Penfield. I will wait."
"Sure." Into the accents of the other there crept magically a trace ofgeniality. "Will you go right on up, or would you like a bite ofsomethin' to eat first?"
At the mere hint of food, a frightful pang of hunger transfixed P.Sybarite. He winked furtively, afraid to trust Iris tongue to speech.
"What d'ya say?" insinuated the doorkeeper. "Just a bit of a snack,eh? Say a caviare sandwich and a thimbleful of the grape?"
Abandoning false pride, P. Sybarite yielded:
"I don't mind if I do, thank you."
"Straight on back; Pete'll take care of you, all right."
A thumb indicated the door in the rear of the hall. Thither P.Sybarite betook himself on the instant, spurred by the demands of anappetite insatiable once it had won recognition.
He found the back room one of good proportions: whatever thearchitect's original intention, now serving as a combined lounge andgrill, richly and comfortably furnished in sober, masculine fashion,boasting in all three buffets set forth with a lavish display of foodand drink. In one of many deeply upholstered club chairs a gentlemanof mature years and heavy body, with a scarlet face and a crumpled,wine-stained shirt-bosom, was slumbering serenely, two-thirds of anextravagant cigar cold between his fingers. In others two young menwere confabulating quietly but with a most dissipated air, headstogether over a brace of glasses. At a corner service table a negro ina white jacket was busy with a silver chafing-dish which exhaled atantalising aroma. This last, at the entrance of P. Sybarite, glancedquickly over his shoulder, and seeing a strange face, clapped thecover on the steaming chafing-dish and discovered a round blackcountenance bisected by a complete mouthful of the most brilliantteeth imaginable.
"Yas-suh--comin'!" he gabbled cheerfully. "It's sho' a pleasure to seeyo' again."
"At least," suggested P. Sybarite, dropping into a chair, "it will be,next time."
"Tha's right, suh--that's the troof!" The negro placed a small tableadjacent to his elbow. "Tha's what Ah allus says to strange gemmun,fust time they comes hyeh, suh; makes 'em feel more at home like. Jus'lemme know what Ah kin do for yo' to-night. That 'ere lobstuhNewburg's jus' about prime fo' eatin' this very minute, ef yo' feel abit peckish."
"I do," P. Sybarite admitted. "Just a spoonful--"
"An' uh lil drink, suh? Jus' one lil innercent cocktail to fix yo'mouf right?"
"If you insist, Pete--if you insist."
"Yas-suh; and wif the lobstuh, suh, Ah venture to sug-gest a nice coldlil ha'f-pint of Cliquot, Yallah Label? How that strike yo' fancy,suh? Er mebbe yo'd perfuh--"
"Enough!" said P. Sybarite firmly. "A mere bite and a glass are enoughto sustain life."
"Ain't that the troof?"
Chuckling, the negro waddled away, returned, and offered the guest aglass brimming with amber-tinted liquid.
Poising the vessel delicately between thumb and forefinger, P.Sybarite treated himself to one small sip--an instant of lingeringdelectation--another sip. So only, it is asserted, must the victim ofthe desert begin to allay his burning thirst; with discretion--a sipat a time--gingerly.
It was years since P. Sybarite had tasted a cocktail artfullyconcocted.
Dreamily he closed his eyes halfway. From a point in his anatomy adegree or two south of his diaphragm, a sensation of the most warmcongratulation began to pervade his famished system: as if (hethought) his domestic economy were organising a torchlight processionby way of appropriate celebration.
Tender morsels of lobster smothered in cream and sherry (piping hot)daintiest possible wafers of bread-and-butter embracing leaves of palelettuce, a hollow-stemmed glass effervescent with liquid sunlight of amost excellent bouquet, and then another: these served not in theleast to subdue his occult jubilation.
Finally "the house," through the medium of its servitor, insisted thathe top off with a cigar.
Ten years since his teeth had gripped a Fancy Tales of Smoke!...
Now it mustn't be understood that P. Sybarite entertained anymisapprehensions as to the nature of the institution into which he hadstumbled. He had not needed the sound, sometimes in quieter momentsaudible from upstairs, of a prolonged whirr ending in several staccatoclicks, to make him shrewdly cognisant of its questionable character.
So at length, satiate and a little weary--drawn by curiositybesides--he rose, endowed Pete lavishly with a handful of small change(something over fifty cents; all he had in the world aside from hischerished five dollars), and with an impressive air of the mostthorough-paced sophistication (nodding genially to the doorkeeper _enpassant_) slowly ascended to the second floor.
Here, in remodelling the house for its present purposes, partitionshad arbitrarily been dispensed with, aside from that enclosing thewell of the stairway; the floor was one large room, wholly devoted tosome half a dozen games of chance. With but few of these was P.Sybarite familiar; but on information and belief he marked down a farolayout, the device with which his reading had made him acquaintedunder the designation of _les petits chevaux_, and at either end ofthe saloon, immense roulette tables.
Upon all the gaming tables massive electric domes concentrated theirlight. The walls, otherwise severely unadorned, were covered withlustrous golden fabric; the windows were invisible, cloaked insplendid golden hangings; the carpet, golden brown in tone, was of avelvet pile so heavy that it completely muffled the sound offootsteps. The room, indeed, was singularly quiet for one thatharboured some two-score players in addition to a full corps ofdealers, croupiers, watchers, and waiters. The almost incessant whineof racing ivory balls with their clattering over the metalcompartments of the roulette wheels, clicking of chips, dispassionatevoices of croupiers, and an occasional low-pitched comment on the partof one or another of the patrons, seemed only to lend emphasis to thehush.
The warmth of the room was noticeable....
A brief survey of the gathering convinced P. Sybarite that, barringthe servants, he was a lonely exception to the rule of evening dress.But this discovery discomfited him not at all. The wine buzzing in hishead, his demeanour, not to mince matters, rakehelly, with an eyealert for the man with the twisted mouth, negligent hands in histrouser pockets, teeth tight upon that admirable cigar, he struttedhither and yon, ostensibly as much in his nati
ve element as a pressagent in a theatre lobby.
A few minutes sufficed to demonstrate that the owner of the abandonedhat was not among those present; which fact, coupled with thedoorkeeper's averment that Mr. Bailey Penfield was out, persuaded P.Sybarite that this last was neither more nor less than the proprietorof the premises. But this conclusion perturbed, completely unsettlinghis conviction regarding the _soi-disant_ Miss Lessing; he couldn'timagine either her or Miss Marian Blessington in any way involved witha common (or even a proper) gambler.
To feel obliged constantly to revise his hasty inferences, heconsidered tremendously tiresome. It left one all up in the air!
His tour ended at last in a pause by the roulette table at the rear ofthe room. Curious to watch the game in being, he lingered there, headcocked shrewdly on one shoulder, a speculative pensiveness informinghis eyes, his interest plainly aloof and impersonal. This despite thefact that his emotions of intestinal felicity were momentarilybecoming more intense: the torchlight procession was in full swing,leaving an enduring refulgence wherever it passed.
There were perhaps half a dozen players round the board--four on onewing, two on the other. Of the latter, one was that very young man whohad been responsible for P. Sybarite's change of mind with regard togoing home. With a bored air this prodigal was frittering awayfive-dollar notes on the colours, the columns, and the dozens: his illsuccess stupendous, his apparent indifference positively magnificent.But in the course of the little while that P. Sybarite watched, heeither grew weary or succeeded in emptying his pockets, and ceasing toplay, sat back with a grunt of impatience more than of disgust.
The ball ran its course thrice before he moved. Then abruptly liftinghis finger to the croupier: "Five on the red, Andy," said he.
"Five on the red," repeated the croupier; and set aside achocolate-coloured chip in memorandum of the wager.
When the ball settled again to rest, the announcement was monotonouslyrecited: "Nine, red, odd, first dozen." And the blase prodigal waspresented with the chocolate-coloured token.
Carelessly he tossed it upon the red diamond. Black won. Unperturbed,he made a second oral bet, this time on black, and lost; increased hiswager to ten dollars on black--and lost; made it twenty, shifted tored, and lost; dropped back to five-dollar bets for three turns of thewheel, and lost them all. Fifty dollars in debt to the house, he rose,nodded casually to the croupier, left the room.
In mingled envy and amazement P. Sybarite watched him go. Fancy losingthree weeks' wages and a third of another week's without turning ahair! Fancy losing fifty dollars without being required to pay up!
"Looks easy," meditated P. Sybarite with a thrill of dreadfulyearning....
At precisely that instant the torchlight procession penetrated aterritory theretofore unaffected, which received it with open arms andtumultuous rejoicings and even went so far as to start up a couple ofbonfires of its own and hang out several strings of Japanese lanterns.In the midst of a confusion of soaring skyrockets and Roman candlesvomiting showers of scintillant golden sparks, P. Sybarite was shockedto hear his own voice.
"Five on the red," it said distinctly, with an effect of extravagantapathy.
A thought later he caught the croupier's eye and drove the wager homewith a nod. His heart stopped beating.
Five dollars! All he had in the world!
The _whirr_ of the deadly little ball in its ebony runway was likenothing less than the exultant shriek of a banshee. Instantaneously(as if an accident had happened in the power house) every light in hisbody went out and left it cold and dark and altogether dismayed.
The croupier began his chant: "Three, red--!"
P. Sybarite failed to hear the rest. All the lights were on again,full blast. The croupier tossed him a chocolate token. He wasconscious that he touched it with numb and witless fingers,mechanically pushing it upon the red diamond.
Ensued another awful, soul-sickening minute of suspense....
"Twenty-five, red--!"
A second brown chip appeared magically on top of the first. P.Sybarite regarded both stupidly; afraid to touch them, his braincommunicated to his hand the impulse to remove the chips ere it wastoo late, but the hand hung moveless in listless mutiny.
"_Thirty-four red_--!"
Two more chips were added to his stack.
And this time his brain sulked. If his body wouldn't heed its plainand sagacious admonition--very well!--it just wouldn't bother tosignal any further advice.
But quite instinctively his hand moved out, tenderly embraced the fourbrown chips, and transferred them to the green area dominated by theblack diamond.
"_Twelve, black_--!"
Forty dollars were represented in that stunted pillar of brown wafers!P. Sybarite experienced an effect of coming to his senses after anabbreviated and, to tell the truth, somewhat nightmarish nap. Apingthe manner of one or two other players whom he had observed beforethis madness possessed him, he thrust the chips out of the charmedcircle of chance, and nodded again (with what a seasoned air!) to thecroupier.
"Cash or chips?" enquired that functionary.
"Oh--cash, thank you."
The chips gathered into the company of their brethren, twotwenty-dollar bills replaced them.
Stuffing these into his pocket, P. Sybarite turned and strolledindifferently toward the door.
"Better leave while your luck holds," Intelligence counselled.
"Right you are," he admitted fairly. "I'll go home now before anybodygets this away from me."
"Sensible of you," Intelligence approved.
"Still," suggested the small but clear voice of Greed, "you've gotyour original five dollars yet to lose. Be a sport. Don't go withoutturning in a cent to the house. It wouldn't look pretty."
"There's something in that," admitted P. Sybarite again.
Nevertheless, he never quite understood how it was that his feetcarried him to the other roulette table, at the end of the salonopposite that at which he had been playing; or how it was that hisfingers produced and coolly handed over the board, one of thetwenty-dollar notes rather than the modest five he had meant to risk.
"How many?" the new croupier asked pleasantly.
P. Sybarite pulled a doubtful mouth. Five dollars' worth was all hereally wanted. What on earth would he do with all the chips twentydollars would buy? He'd need a bushel measure!
Before he could make up his mind, however, exactly twenty whitecounters were meted out to him.
"What are these worth?" he demanded incredulously, dropping into achair.
"One dollar each," he was informed.
"Indeed?" he replied, politely smothering a slight yawn.
But he conceived a new respect for those infatuated men who sorecklessly peppered the lay-out with chips--singly and in little pilesof five and ten--worth one-hundred cents each!
However, to save his face, he'd have to go through his twenty. Butafter that--exit!
He made this promise to himself.
Prying a single chip apart from its fellows, he tossed it heedlesslyupon the numbered squares. It landed upon its rim, rolled toward thewheel, and fainted gracefully upon the green compartment numbered 00.
The croupier cocked an eyebrow at him, as if questioning hisintention, at the instant the ivory ball began to sing its song of asingle note. Abruptly it was chattering; in another instant it wasstill.
"Double O!" announced a voice.
A player next P. Sybarite swore soulfully.
Thirty-five white chips were stacked alongside the winning stake. Withunbecoming haste P. Sybarite removed them.
"Well," he sighed privately, "there's one thing certain: this won'tlast. But I don't like to seem a piker. I'll just make sure of thisone: it can't win. And at that, I'll be another fifteen dollars in."
Deliberately he shifted the nineteen remaining of his original stackto keep company with his winning chip on the Double O....
A minute or so later the man at his elbow said excitedly: "I'll bedamned if it
didn't repeat! Can you beat that--!"
P. Sybarite stared stupidly.
"How's that?" he said.
"Double O," the croupier answered: "the second time."
"This is becoming uncanny," P. Sybarite observed to himself;and--"Cash!" said he aloud with cold decision.
Seven new one-hundred dollar certificates were placed in his hand. Ina daze he counted, folded, and pocketed them. While thus engaged heheard the ball spin again. His original twenty dollars remained uponthe double naught. Ten turned up: his stake was gathered in.
"You've had enough," Intelligence advised.
"Perfectly true," P. Sybarite admitted.
This time his anatomy proved quite docile. He found himself at thefoot of the steps, fatuously smiling at the doorkeeper.
"He ain't come in yet," said the latter; "but he's liable to be hereany minute now."
"Oh, yes," said P. Sybarite brightly, after a brief pause--"Mr.Penfield, of course. Sorry I can't wait."
"Well, you'll want your hat before you go--won't you?"
Placing an incredulous hand upon the crown of his head, P. Sybariterealised that it was covered exclusively with hair.
"I must have put it down somewhere upstairs," he murmured in panic.
"Mebbe you left it with Pete before you went up."
"Perhaps I did."
Turning back to the lounge, he entered to find it deserted save forthe somnolent old gentleman and the hospitable Pete, but for whom P.Sybarite would probably never have known the delirious joy of thatinternal celebration or found the courage to risk his first bet.
And suddenly the fifty-cent tip previously bestowed upon the servitorseemed, to one unexpectedly fallen heir to the princely fortune thenin P. Sybarite's pockets, the very nadir of beggarliness.
"Pete," said he with owlish gravity, "I begin to see that I have doneyou an inexcusable injustice."
Giggling, the negro scratched his head.
"Well, suh," he admitted, "Ah finds that gemmun gen'ly does changethey min's erbout me, aftuh they done cut er melon, like."
With the air of an emperor, P. Sybarite gave the negro a twenty-dollarbill.
"And now," he cut short a storm of thanks, "if you'll be good enoughto give me just one more glass of champagne, I think I'll totterhome."
"Yas-_suh!_"
In a twinkling a glass was in his hand. As if it were so muchwater--in short, indifferently--P. Sybarite tossed it off.
"And my hat."
"Yo' hat?" Pete iterated in surprise. "Yo' didn't leaf yo' hat wif me,suh; yo' done tek it wif yo' when yo' went upstahs."
"Oh," murmured P. Sybarite, dashed.
He turned to the door, hesitated, turned back, and solemnly sathimself down.
"Pete," said he, extending his right foot, "I wish you'd do somethingfor me."
"Yas-suh!"
"Take off my shoe."
Staring with naif incredulity until assured of the gentleman'scomplete seriousness, the negro plumped down upon his knees, unlaced,and removed the shoe.
"It's a shocking shoe," observed P. Sybarite dreamily.
Bending forward he tucked his original five-dollar note into the toeof the despised footgear.
"I am not going home broke," he explained laboriously to Pete; "as Icertainly shall if I dare go upstairs again to find my hat."
"Yo's sholly sens'ble," Pete approved. "But they ain't no reason whyyo' sho'd tek enny mo' chances ef yo' don't wantuh," he added,knotting the laces. "I'd just as leave's not go fetch yo' hat."
"You needn't bother," P. Sybarite returned with dignity.
The Day of Days: An Extravaganza Page 8