He passed her two crumpled twenties and a ten. They had lately been paid to one Robert Rowland, third mate of the Rangoon.
It was, philosophized McGoggle, a good investment. What the hell.
“You’ll give him a big Finn?”
Varinka nodded.
Rowland was turning slowly back. The bosun had a pal who was clamoring for a loan of five dollars.
Varinka stood up from putting the money in her stocking.
“What’s that?” said Rowland.
“Cash register,” smiled Varinka.
Her eyes were very deep and kind.
“Finish your drink, mister,” said Varinka.
Rowland finished his drink.
Varinka took him by the hand and he found she had very slender fingers. The drink was warm in him and he felt protective toward her.
McGoggle looked at them as they moved away from the bar. Varinka’s eyes were hard when she glanced toward McGoggle. She winked.
She led Rowland across the surging dance floor—a small white yacht towing an ocean liner.
He did not know where he was going until they passed through a small door and went down a passageway.
Beyond he could hear the clink and clatter of chips and the whir of a roulette wheel.
He pulled up short as soon as he saw the gambling room beyond.
“I . . . I haven’t any money.”
She turned and looked at him. He felt a small shiver go through him.
Varinka turned away and reached down. When she again faced him she was holding a twenty-dollar bill. She pushed it into his hand and closed his fingers over it.
“What’s this?” protested Rowland.
“You might as well have some fun before . . .” She covered it up by leading him in through the door.
The crowd about the gaming tables was thick. Chinese croupiers were droning numbers over their wheels. Blackjack clinked and slapped at the side tables. Somebody was calling “Double five! Double five!” above the cavern of a dice board. The St. Louis Blues were thinner in here. The room was hushed and tense.
Rowland looked about him wonderingly. The twenty was limp in his fingers. Limp and warm.
“Go ahead,” said Varinka.
“What do I do?” said Rowland.
She pushed him toward an empty place beside a roulette wheel. She made a sign to the Chinese croupier and then made Rowland drop the twenty on the board.
The scoop went away with the money and came back with plaques. Rowland felt very young. He looked at the plaques and then at the girl.
She was smiling at him and her eyes reassured him.
“Black,” said Varinka.
Rowland dropped a plaque marked five on the black edge of the board. The wheel whirred, the wooden ball bounced into black. The scoop shoved a plaque toward Rowland’s bet.
Down the table stood an English officer. He was out of uniform but he could not hide his build. He was betting large sums and losing. It did not seem to have any effect upon him whatever, nor did it seem to drain his wallet. He would throw down a plaque marked fifty as though it were a burned match.
The officer bet red.
“Black,” said Varinka.
Rowland bet black. The ball dropped into black.
Another five-plaque was shoved toward him. He blinked. Unable to understand why he should win. The Chinese croupier was watching the officer with an apparently indifferent glance—but he was watching the officer.
The officer bet the first column, throwing down a hundred.
“Ten on second,” said Varinka.
Rowland won. The officer bet fifty on odd. “Even with twenty,” said Varinka. Rowland won.
He could not understand this. The Chinese kept pushing plaques at him and Varinka was right about ninety percent.
The plaques grew and grew into a miniature skyscraper and tottered on the level of Rowland’s tie.
Suddenly the croupier seemed to notice the plaques there. The officer was gone.
“We’ll go now,” said Varinka.
The croupier made a motion with his hand.
A hand was laid heavily upon Rowland’s shoulder.
“What’s the idea, Varinka?”
The voice was hard. Rowland turned to look up at a man three inches taller than he and about a hundred pounds heavier. The face looked like it had been through a meat chopper. Rowland recognized the “fighter’s growl.”
“You can’t get away with that,” said the bouncer to Varinka.
Varinka looked contemptuously at him, turned to the croupier. “Cash these plaques or I’ll tell the officer this wheel has been fixed against him.”
The Chinese was jarred. So was the bouncer. They both looked at the officer, who was now some distance away. Varinka made a move toward the Englishman.
The bouncer grabbed her.
Rowland suddenly picked one off the floor and let drive. His knuckles crashed into the raw beef face. The bouncer bounced as he hit the floor. He came up roaring, hand on his hip as he tried to lift his coat and get at his blackjack.
Rowland squared off. He extended one fist, gave it a short jab. The bouncer’s head snapped back with a click.
The crowd whirled to face the fight.
The bouncer decided to make it a murder and reached for the gun against his stomach.
Rowland’s left was numb to the shoulder. He used his right. His fist went three inches deep when it sowed into the bouncer’s stomach just above the gun.
The bouncer regretted his lack of training as he went down. The world was whirling agony, all red and blue. He couldn’t get his breath.
Croupiers were blowing up like storm clouds. Varinka was facing them.
To the first who came she said something in Chinese. It was short and it was tense. The officer had drawn close by now. The croupier looked at the officer, then at Varinka, then at the bouncer and finally at Rowland, who was sucking his knuckles thoughtfully.
A sleek Chinese in evening clothes came up. Varinka said the same thing in the same whisper. The Chinese in dinner clothes gave her a poisonous glare.
He turned to the table. “There must be some mistake,” said this Chinese in English. “Cash the gentleman’s checks.”
The plaques were counted and cash advanced. Varinka put half of it in her stocking, gave Rowland the remainder. She knelt over the bouncer for an instant as though half-minded to help him. But when her fingers touched under his shoulders, she evidently found him too heavy to lift. She abandoned the attempt.
Rowland was dazed, more than before. He was in a very strange world. But then, he thought, he was very young.
Nobody seemed to want to throw them out, which was also very strange. Varinka took his arm and piloted him toward the door.
They went down the corridor and up a flight of stairs, Varinka leading. Rowland felt rather foolish about the fight. It had been surprisingly easy but his hands hurt. He guessed he must have landed that last one on the bouncer’s gun.
The crackly bills in his pocket amused him. He grinned.
Footsteps were coming down the stairs from above. Heavy footsteps which sounded as if the owner of the feet was angry. Varinka stopped on the landing, looking up. She flinched. Rowland could not see what she saw. He stepped up beside her.
A tall, heavy-set man, nicely dressed, had also stopped above Varinka. On the upper step that way, the fellow looked very superior and very big. He had a lean, weather-beaten face and a set of angry gray eyes. His coat bulged over his chest on the right side.
Rowland admired the fellow’s carriage and build. There was something striking in the way he looked at Varinka. . . .
“I’ve been looking for you,” said the man in a harsh monotone.
“I . . . I’ve been down . . .” Varinka was too frightened to finish. She backed up a little and got behind Rowland, directing the stranger’s glance at the third.
“So this is the reason,” said the stranger.
He was very cold and calm about it. Rowland stabbed a look at Varinka and then back up the steps.
So that was the lay of the land.
“Maybe the lady doesn’t want to see you,” said Rowland.
“Obviously,” said the stranger.
Rowland was about to add to that when he noticed that for some time the man’s hand had been moving upward toward the bulge under his coat.
Rowland stepped forward.
The stranger’s hand accelerated.
Rowland’s dive was instinctive. Before the gun had shown more than its hammer, the third closed on the stranger’s legs.
With ridiculous ease the man came off the steps. Rowland tossed him over his head and against the wall beside the landing. The stranger hit hard enough to shake the building down.
Varinka was suddenly up beside the third again. “Look out! He’ll kill you!”
The man leaped forward. His fingers were fumbling with his empty holster. He realized then that his gun was gone.
He dived back to the landing. The revolver was glittering against the mopboards. He had it before Rowland was up with him.
“Stand back!” shouted the man, whipping the gun level.
To be continued
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