THE COMPLETE JIM MAITLAND SERIES. H. C. McNeile / Sapper
against a gang of hem. Righteous indignation: the man would be ostensibly kicked out; one's losses would be refunded. Mark you, it wasn't the Comte who cheated; he wasn't dealing. But the new pack was stacked so that he got the hand. They were all in it—all four of them. I can smell a thing like that better than a cat smells valerian. And it's going to be the same bunch tomorrow. The point is what to do."
He resumed his thoughtful pacing.
"Bluff! Some sort of bluff! But what? How can I bluff that bunch—how can I bluff the Comte into disgorging those bonds?"
And then suddenly he stopped short in his tracks, his eyes blazing.
"I've got it," he almost shouted. "I've got the main idea. Go away, Dick—go to bed. I've got to work out the details."
With that he bundled me unceremoniously out of the room, and when I turned out my light I could still hear him pacing up and down next door. But when I went into his room next morning about half-past ten he had already gone out, and I didn't see him again until he came into the American bar twenty minutes before lunch.
He grinned at me and we sat down in a corner. "Got it worked out?" I asked.
"I think so, old man," he answered with a faint chuckle. "And it's best for you to know nothing about it until the time comes. But there's one thing you can do for me, with your well-known tact and discretion. If you get an opportunity, let it be known by Mademoiselle that though in normal circumstances I have the disposition necessary to run a babies' creche, at the same time if I happen to get roused things happen. Hint, old son, at dark doings in strange corners of the globe: corpses littering up rooms—you know."
"Is this part of the plan?" I asked.
"A very necessary part," he answered quietly. "And here, if I mistake not, are our guests."
We met them in the lounge—the Comte suave and debonair, the lady looking even prettier by day than by night—and adjourned at once in to lunch. It was a merry meal, during which Jim accounted for far more than his fair share of the bottle of Veuve Cliquot. I noticed that the Comte drank sparingly, and his companion hardly at all. And they didn't talk very much either; Jim monopolised most of the conversation.
And since of all men in the world Jim talks less about himself than anyone I know, it soon became evident to me that there was some specific object in his mind. He was almost vulgar with his: "I've been there, of course,"—and "I've seen that and done this." But because he had been, and seen, and done, he was also extraordinarily interesting. Especially when he launched at length on to the question of snakes and rare native poisons. He might almost have made a study of them, so extensive was his knowledge, and Mademoiselle St. Quentin shivered audibly.
"You make me quite frightened, Monsieur," she said, taking a sip of champagne. "Just one teeny scratch, you say, and a horrible death. Ugh!"
Jim laughed, and ordered another bottle.
"Such things don't come your way in civilised parts, Mademoiselle," he cried. "It's only we who have lived at the back of beyond who run across them."
"You must have had an interesting life, Mr. Maitland," said the Comte. "A life which many men would not have come through alive."
Jim laughed again.
"Because they don't know the secret of life, Comte."
"And that is?"
"Bluff." Jim drained his glass. "Bluff. Any man can win when he's holding winners, but success only comes to the man who wins with losers. And in life—as in poker—it's bluff that enables you to do that."
The Comte smiled.
"Mon Dieu! Yvonne, we have a formidable opponent this afternoon. I think I had better go to the bank and get some more money."
And so in due course we came once more to the house set so charmingly on the high ground looking over the sea.
Without delay they went indoors, while I followed slowly. As a piece of acting it was superb; almost did he deceive me during the next hour. Not by the quiver of an eyelid did he deviate from the character he had set himself to play—the bluff Colonial with money to lose if necessary, but with money only secondary to the game. I played more as a matter of form than anything else; my whole attention was occupied in what I knew must be coming. And gradually excitement took hold of me till my hand grew a little unsteady and my mouth a trifle dry. If only I had known what to look out for—what to expect!
And then quite suddenly it came. I had noticed nothing, but in an instant the atmosphere of the room changed from quiet suavity to deadly fury. And dominating them all—more furious than any—was Jim.
With a single heave he jerked the dealer from his chair, and there on the seat was the pack of cards for which the stacked pack had just been substituted.
"The same trick as last night, you bunch of sharpers!" he snarled. "Do you think I didn't spot you?" He swung round on the Comte, who, with a livid face, was backing towards the bell. "Stand still, you swine!" he roared, and he seemed to be lashing himself into a worse rage. "I'll show you how I deal with sharpers. You wretched fool—I came prepared for this!"
There was a sudden sharp whistling hiss and a long thornlike piece of wood hung quivering from the Comte's cheek.
"Put away that gun," he sneered contemptuously, as the Comte produced a revolver. "Don't you understand, you wretched cheat—you're a dead man now. Is it beginning to prick and smart, that cheek of yours? I told you I came from the East, didn't I? And do you know what this is?"
He held out a long wooden tube, and the Comte stared at it fearfully.
"That is the sumpitan, or blow-pipe," roared Jim, "used by the Senangs in Malay. And that "—he pointed at the Comte's cheek—"is a poisoned dart." He laughed contemptuously. "You scum—to dare to swindle me, as you swindled that unfortunate boy out of those Egyptian bonds." He plunged his hand into his pocket and produced a small bottle. "There is the antidote, my friend—don't move, or I smash it in the grate. It will add to my pleasure to see you die, watching the bottle that could save you all the time."
And now pandemonium broke loose. Two men dashed to the door, to find themselves looking down the barrel of Jim's revolver.
"I think not," he said pleasantly. "It will only be a quarter of an hour before our friend leaves us—for good. During that brief space we will all stop here."
And then the girl flung herself at me.
"Do something!" she screamed. "He is a savage—a monster! Beg him to save Pierre; he is my husband." But Jim only laughed.
"Mon Dieu! Monsieur," she cried, going down on her knees to him, "I entreat of you to spare him. I love him—you understand; I love him!"
Jim grunted, and lowered his revolver as if in thought.
"He is your husband, is he? Well, get me those Egyptian bonds at once. Is it smarting, Comte? Then you have no time to lose, Madame. Hand me those bonds, and I will consider whether I will save this man."
He stood aside and she rushed from the room like a woman distraught. The Comte was moaning in a corner with the two other men bending over him, and Jim caught my eye and winked. And so superb had been his acting, that it was only then, for the first time, that I began to wonder about the sumpitan and the poisoned dart. It occurred to me that it had looked much more like an ordinary long wooden cigarette holder.
But at that moment the girl returned. Feverishly she thrust the bonds into his hands, and with maddening deliberation Jim looked through them while she waited in an agony of impatience. At last he thrust them into his pocket, and produced the little bottle.
"Let this be a lesson to you," he snapped. "There is the antidote. See that he drinks it all—at once."
We waited just long enough to see the contents of that bottle go down the Comte's throat; then, on a quick sign from him, we left.
And finding the Delage waiting outside the door, it seemed but fitting that we should