Murder at Monte Carlo

Paul Viotti tapped with the tips of his finger nails the five cards
which lay face downwards before him upon the green baize table. His four
companions took the hint and prepared to listen. This was no ordinary
card room in which the five men had met. It was the Holy of Holies in
the most famous gambling club of New York. He would be a brave man who
sought entrance there while a séance was being held.

"To-night," he said, "we are to speak of serious things. Perhaps I am
more careful of my health than you others. Anyway, I know when the going
is good. One gang against us was dangerous enough. We had all we could
take care of when Tim Rooney brought his boys out. Now there are two. I
am for fighting when I think that we'll win. Now I am sure that we shall
lose if we go on, I say let us get away."

His four companions listened in absorbed interest. The game was
momentarily forgotten. The cards lay untouched, the chips uncounted.
Each seemed to have adopted a different attitude. Marcus Constantine--he
was known under a different name in Paris and on the French Riviera--a
long, graceful-looking youth, pale of complexion, with dark eyes and a
curiously sensitive mouth, slouched across the table, his head supported
between his hands, his eyes fixed upon his chief as though afraid of
missing a single word. Matthew Drane, a good-looking, elaborately
dressed man with smoothly brushed brown hair, pink-complexioned, with a
humorous mouth and a right hand which was reputed to be the quickest in
the world at drawing a lethal weapon from the obscurity of a hidden
pocket, 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 cut
tweeds, a shirt of violent design and a shameless tie, grunted his
impartial approval of the scheme, whilst Edward Staines opposite, a
tired-looking man who had the appearance of a successful but
hard-working lawyer, listened with the slightly cynical air of one
predisposed towards pessimism.