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.

"That's all very well for you, Paul," the latter remarked. "You've got a
country to go to where you can buy a mountain or two and an old castle
and live like a lord for a few dollars a year. What the hell are we
going to do, fussing about Europe? I'll admit we're up against a tough
proposition here with this gang of Tim Rooney's hanging about after our
territory, 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. Seems
to me we're about through with this racket. We've got to either split up
or 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, a
forefinger upon which flashed a wickedly assertive diamond.

"I've got a hunch for you," he announced. "There's only one place for us
in 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, I
got a brother there and I know something. Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo--why
at the baccarat there there's millions, millions you can handle, mind,
in good _mille_ notes, changes hands every night. Suckers there by the
thousands and not a nursemaid to look after them. Hauling liquor round
here has been a good-enough job while it lasted, but the shooting's
getting a bit too free and easy for me."