The Smiler With the Knife

by Nicholas Blake

  “Alison and I think we’ve pottered about long enough. I’ll be playing cricket soon, so it’s time I got a move on. We’re going to take the offensive, start bumping them a bit.”

  “Bumping who?” asked Georgia, rather mystified.

  “Peter’s mixing his metaphors,” said Alison. “The point is, he’s at last found out the room at the Thameford Club where these goings-on take place, and he believes some funny stuff is due next Thursday. We’re going to gate-crash.”

  “We? But surely——”

  “You’ve got to be there, Georgia,” Peter said earnestly.” To take note of the assembled faces, don’t you see? There may be some there that aren’t frequenters of the club.”

  “But—it’ll give me away completely. The E.B.’d not let me within a mile of them after that. Not that I’ve got any nearer myself so far. But still——”

  “You’ll be all right. Just listen to me. This is the way we’re going to do it . . .”

  That Thursday evening was not the first occasion when the habitués of the Thameford County Club had seen young Braithwaite a little the worse for drink. Moreover, they were people for the most part who could maintain their well-bred air of indifference against anything short of mass-murder in their midst. It was bad enough letting a professional cricketer into the place at all—of course, Braithwaite wasn’t quite an ordinary pro—but he might at least behave himself when he came here. There would be a dreadful scandal, too, if Señor Alvarez realised what was happening between his wife and the young cricketer. Still, in the interests of decorum and their digestions, the habitués were willing to ignore a great deal.

  To-night, however, Peter Braithwaite tried them very hard. Madame Alvarez had not put in an appearance yet, it was true; it might be better if she did, for Braithwaite was becoming positively obstreperous, and no one in his party seemed able to control him.

  The party consisted of Alison Grove, Georgia and her cousin, Rudolph Cavendish—an eminently respectable young Conservative M.P., whom Georgia, partly from policy and partly in sheer impishness, had invited to make a fourth. Rudolph had been glad enough of the opportunity to meet the celebrated cricketer, but now he was beginning to regret it. For the celebrated cricketer was leaning across the table, fixing him with a slightly unfocused eye, and remarking in resonant tones:

  “Cavendish. You are Cavendish, aren’t you? Yes, I thought so; I’ve a wonderful memory for faces. Well, Cavendish, I’m going to tell you something. ’S more about this club than meets the eye. Things go on which you’d scarcely believe. Oh, yes, they do. Don’t dare to contradict me, Cavendish. The sticket here is wicky. Pardon. I should say, the wicket here is sticky. Distinctly stickly.”

  Rudolph glanced a little desperately at Georgia. “Why, that’s news to me,” he said.

  “I dare say, Cavendish, if all were known, you’d find out a great number of things were news to you. Pray allow me continue. I don’t mind people having a little flutter—live and let live is what I say—but I resent, I bitterly resent this hole-and-corner business. If I want to gamble, my money’s as good as any one else’s—you agree?”

  “Well, of course it is, old man.”

  “Don’t interrupt, Cavendish. Now’z a well-known fact that roulette is played in this establishment——”

  “Pipe down, Peter. Pull yourself together,” said Alison sharply.

  “Aha, you’re jealous.” Peter wagged a finger at her. “My good friend, Madame Alvarez, charming woman, above approach—reproach, she told me so.”

  “Told you what?” asked Rudolph inadvisedly.

  “Come, come, come, come, come, Cavendish. Get a grip on yourself. You may be an M.P.—I’ve only Georgia’s word for it—but you’re a rotten bad listener. She told me they played roulette here. Perhaps you’re suggesting my good friend, Madame Alvarez, is a liar?”

  “No. Well, no. But——”

  “Exactly, Cavendish. You’ve hit the nail on the head. He may not be an oil-painting, but he has it up here all right.” Peter tapped his forehead, beaming fulsomely upon the embarrassed Rudolph. “As you were about to say, why is any Tom, Dick and Harry allowed to play roulette here, and me not allowed? It’s pure snobbery. Well, I’ll show ’em. I don’t want to play roulette especially, but I’ll not stand for snobbery. I shall sacrifice myself,” Peter concluded with some grandeur, “in the interests of the democracy of sport.”

  Peter had waited till most of the diners were at the coffee and brandy stage before commencing his performance. There was less come and go of waiters now, and Peter timed his most audible sallies for moments when none were within earshot. Georgia was apprehensive, though, lest he should overdo things and queer their pitch. He was far too good an actor to over-play the tipsy part; but Georgia recognised in him a latent recklessness which might lead him to over-play his hand in other ways. If she had been a cricket fan, she would have known that Peter Braithwaite’s consummate skill as a batsman was slightly flawed by a tendency to “take a dip at it.” The mercurial temperament which raised cricketing talent to the point of genius, also resulted in bad lapses. This apprehension of hers, together with a perfectly genuine embarrassment at the scene he was creating, gave her exactly the right air of fluster, humiliation and irritability when the moment came to make the next move.

  “What’s more,” Peter said, “I’m going to do it now.” He rose a little unsteadily to his feet. Rudolph Cavendish seized his coat and tried to pull him down to his seat, but Peter brushed his hand away.

  “Leave me alone, or I’ll knock you for six,” he exclaimed dangerously. Every one in the room was staring at them now.

  Georgia made an apologetic gesture to the other two. “No. Leave him to me. I think I can manage him,” she whispered, and taking Peter’s arm, began to help him out of the room. “Come on,” she said more loudly, “I’m going to see the fun too.”

  “Good lass.”

  Even when they were outside, in the deserted hall, Peter did not let up by a fraction. Leering at her with stupid cordiality, he said:

  “Lot of pop-eyed stuffed-shirts in there. Don’t like ’em. Just follow me now. I know the way.”

  They went upstairs. Peter tapped at a door that had “Manager” written on it. Madame Alvarez half-opened it and he thrust past her, Georgia hanging back on his arm.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, with a flurried gesture. “I can’t—Mr. Braithwaite’s a bit above himself. Peter, do for heaven’s sake come away and stop being a nuisance. I’m sure Madame Alvarez is busy.”

  “Never too busy to see me, are you, ducky?” Peter leant against the panelled wall, his hands behind his back, grinning amiably at Madame Alverez. “I want to play roulette.”

  Fear flashed in the woman’s eyes. One corner of her mouth dragged down, shaking. She rushed at Peter, tried to pull him away from the wall, shook him feverishly. Peter would not budge. She sat down at her desk, hiding her quivering hands beneath it. “No, Peter. Please. You mustn’t.”

  “I want to play roulette. I want to play roulette. I want to play roulette.”

  “They’re not playing to-night. Peter, darling, I implore you to go away. Mrs. Strangeways, can’t you——?”

  Georgia had noticed the woman’s hands searching under the desk. After more altercation, Peter said:

  “If you’ve pressed that little button of yours, I’m going to press this little button.”

  He turned a knob, part of the moulding behind him, and pushed sideways. The panel slid aside. Only it was not a panel; it was a sliding door, six inches thick, sound-proof. Georgia was at his side, trying to drag him away. He pulled her through into the small ante-room that was revealed. Nothing there but furniture. He quietly opened a door on the far side.

  Georgia was never sure what she had expected to see. A long table, perhaps, covered with papers, people sitting round, weapons even. There was a long table certainly, and people sitting round, but no papers. With a sick qualm of disappointment she saw that
it was in fact nothing more nor less than a roulette table. The players’ faces were turned in their direction, puzzled, indignant or startled, as they entered. Their silence was accentuated by the click of the ivory ball as it spun, slower and slower, round the revolving disk.

  Not till the ball had come to rest did any one speak. Then, his head poking up like a tortoise’s from the plaid shawl that covered his shoulders, Señor Alvarez said:

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  In that quavering, scratchy, yet somehow dominant voice—it was the first time Georgia had heard him speak—the theatrical little phrase carried a certain menace. It was as if a dead man uttered an invocation in a dead language. Peter, however, whom she had sensed going limp with disappointment at her side now rose to the top of his form. He shook a waggish finger at Señor Alvarez, and remarked to the company in general:

  “Ah, naughty, naughty! An illicit gambling hell? T’ch, t’ch! Well, I’ll promise not to tell the police, if you’ll let me play.”

  “Throw this fellow out,” said Alvarez to the croupier standing at his elbow. “Perhaps some of you gentlemen will assist.”

  “Here, I say,” Peter exclaimed in an aggrieved voice. “What’s the idea? I’ve as much right to play as any one else. I’ve got plenty of money. It’s just damned snobbery, that’s all. Isn’t it, Georgia?” A look of bleary cunning came into his eye. “Of course, if you’re going to turn nasty—well, the police might be interested.”

  “This is a private party. They are friends of mine. Now, sir, are you going, or must we expel you by force?”

  Watching the heads of the roulette players turn, like spectators’ at a tennis match, to and fro between Señor Alvarez and Peter Braithwaite, Georgia suddenly remembered something. She hoped her face gave away nothing of the revelation that had flared up behind it. To cover her excitement, she walked over to Señor Alvarez and said quietly:

  “I very much regret this. Please forgive Mr. Braithwaite. He got a little drunk downstairs, I’m afraid. He’s very young. I tried to restrain him, but he insisted on coming in here.”

  “Pray do not apologise, madam. It is I who should do so, for my seeming inhospitality. But you realise that my guests——” His old voice, slurring and rustling like silk, faded out into a courteous gesture.

  “Come along, Peter,” she said. “I’m sure Señor Alvarez will let you play some other night.”

  “I want to play to-night. With that lovely little ball. Whizz, whirr, clickety-click.” Peter was thinking, she knew, that he must at all costs keep the foothold he had obtained here. He was thinking that he must watch them playing roulette, to make certain the game was not a blind. It was his last hope. How could she convey to him that there was no longer any need for it?

  Señor Alvarez motioned away the croupier and the grey-moustached, military-looking gentleman who were now standing at Peter’s elbow.

  “One moment,” he said, “Mr. Braithwaite, may I ask how you discovered our harmless little secret?”

  “An open secret, old boy. Every one knows roulette is played here.”

  “I do not make myself quite clear.” Señor Alvarez’ voice was still silkily courteous, but there was an undertone of harshness behind it, like the sound of a roughened finger rubbing against silk. “I must ask you how you found your way in here.”

  Georgia saw the trap instantly. It was only through Madame Alvarez that Peter could have learnt the secret of the sliding panel, but if he admitted this too readily the genuineness of his infatuation for the woman would at once become suspect. She dared not look at Peter. His intoxication was so convincing, it was impossible to feel that he had all his wits about him. She heard him, after a pause, say:

  “Oh, dash it, I can’t tell you that. I mean, it was just by accident. I happened to be fiddling with that panel the other day, and the jolly old thing came away in me ’and.”

  Georgia’s heart leapt with relief. Peter had taken the right line. There was exactly the right blend of hesitation, embarrassment and unconvincing candour in his voice.

  “My wife didn’t by any chance——”

  “What the devil d’you mean, sir?” interrupted Peter, blustering. “I tell you, I found the knob by accident. I happened to be in her room out there one day, waiting for her to come in, and—— Are you suggesting I’m a liar?”

  “Please, Mr. Braithwaite.” Alvarez’ hand sketched a deprecating gesture. The stretched, parchment face broke into a smile that Georgia found peculiarly chilling. “Believe me, we appreciate your—er—chivalry. It is, if I may say so, worthy of a better cause.”

  Peter’s fists clenched. “I came here to play roulette, not to be insulted with oily compliments. Georgia, we’d better go.”

  “Oh, no. I insist on your staying. Perhaps you will take my invitation to play as an apology for any unintentional discourtesy of mine. I’m sure my guests will be charmed to——”

  There was a general stir of assent. Preserving his air of slightly tipsy dignity, Peter allowed himself to be persuaded. Room was made for them both at the table. Georgia found herself sitting next to Professor Hargreaves Steele. He, and the financier, Mr. Leeming, were the only two present whom she had seen at the club on her few previous visits. Georgia had more leisure to observe them now. The white-moustached man was introduced as General Ramson. There was a middle-aged man, with the melancholy features and heavily-pouched eyes of the Russian nobility—Prince Orlov. There was a Herr Schwartz, pink and white of complexion, in a tight, high collar that might have grown into his fleshy neck. Beside the men, three ladies were playing. Two of them Georgia put down as “bazaar-openers,” and left it at that for the time being. The third, a Miss Mayfield, was a younger, more striking woman. Her mop of flaxen hair and the complete absence of cosmetics on her face made her an incongruous figure in this company. A healthy, bouncing, Keep-Fit sort of girl, Georgia thought her—but the gambler’s fever appeared in those forget-me-not blue eyes when the wheel began to spin again.

  Indeed, as far as the evidence of her senses could go, Georgia was bound to admit that the whole company looked exactly like what they were pretending to be—rich, bored, more or less respectable people with a weakness for Dame Fortune. Their absorption in the game, their little stereotyped mannerisms in placing the chips or jotting down a calculation, the haggard tension that never quite broke through their polite poker-faces—all indicated the seasoned gambler. Georgia was discouraged by this, until she remembered that, if her instinct and Peter’s information were correct, these people were indeed gamblers—and for higher stakes than they laid on the table to-night. Much more discouraging was the fact that, among these nine faces there was not one which suggested the winsome, unforgettable features of the woman in the locket. Well, why should there be? she asked herself despondently. If that locket did belong to one of the leaders of the conspiracy, he’d not be likely to put inside it the picture of any one who could be connected with him.

  She found herself eyeing the jewelled watch on Miss Mayfield’s wrist. Was there one of the E.B. discs hidden there too? The next moment a voice at her side was murmuring to her unbelievably:

  “And what does John Strangeways think about all this?”

  It was as startling as the sudden shrill of a telephone bell in a dark house in the small hours of the morning. Georgia perhaps was never again so near to giving herself away. It seemed minutes, though it was only a second, before she realised what Professor Steele had meant, and replied:

  “I don’t really know. Officially he’d disapprove, no doubt.”

  “I hope you’re not a police spy in our midst,” said the scientist, giving her one of his abrupt, playful smiles. Georgia smiled back.

  “Oh, I won’t tell on you. As a matter of fact, I shan’t be seeing much of Sir John now.”

  “Are you really separated from your husband? It’s not just a publicity stunt?” The professor’s puckish grin made even this remark sound almost inoffensive, but Georgia
replied in kind:

  “I don’t think Professor Hargreaves Steele is quite the right person to make charges of publicity-seeking.”

  “Madam, as one victim of the Press to another, I offer you my humblest apologies.”

  What an enigmatic creature he is, to be sure! she thought. Is he—could he possibly be one of Sir John’s helpers too? Or was it just by accident that his questions came so near the mark?

  Nothing else of moment happened that evening. Georgia took advantage of Peter’s having had a short run of luck to persuade him out of further play. He left with her, giving an admirable imitation of a fundamentally decent young chap who has made a nuisance of himself, has sobered up, and is feeling a bit ashamed. He was very silent in the car, and when the three of them had got rid of Rudolph and were having a nightcap in Alison’s flat, he said dismally:

  “Well, there it is. Looks as if we’d been leading ourselves by the nose properly.”

  “Why so gloomy?” asked Alison.

  “The boys were just playing roulette. A plumb wicket. To think I’ve gone through all that with the Madame for nothing. Do stop looking like a monkey that’s found the king of fleas, Georgia.”

  “Not for nothing,” said Georgia slowly. “Did you notice the way all their heads were turned to the door when we went in? It never occurred to me at first.”

  “Well, they’d been warned. The Madame rang that bell under her desk, which presumably meant that some rough fellows were going to burst in on their roulette.”

  “But, don’t you see? Several minutes elapsed between her ringing the bell and our entering. If it’d been a genuine roulette game, the only point in the bell would have been to warn them to conceal the evidence of the game. But they didn’t conceal anything. They wanted us to believe they’d been rouletting all the time. But they made that mistake of looking up when we came in. Real gamblers, like they certainly are, would have been far too absorbed in the game to pay any attention to a door opening—the ball was still rolling, remember. Either the bell Madame Alvarez rang connects with the gambling-room, in which case, if the roulette was bona fide, they should have concealed the evidence of it; or the bell does not connect with that room, in which case, if they were genuine roulette gamblers, they’d never have all looked up at our entrance. Therefore, which ever way you take it, the game was bogus.”