The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 by David Carter (microsoft ebook reader TXT) 📗

maybe nine or ten women doing their best sex in the city impression, and a team of professional gamblers intent on mischief... and winning.

Word flew round the staff that high rollers were attacking the pontoon tables. Big bets were placed, earnest whispered conversations amongst the punters, even a calculator appeared, though that wouldn’t be welcomed. Long before midnight everyone in the place knew the house was losing. Something was going down, and it was more than the staff’s Christmas bonus.

Extra sentries were placed; watchers sent out, croupiers in civvies, pretending to gamble, pretending to be on the other side. To the driver, they stood out a mile, and if the driver could see it, the serious gamblers could see it too? Whispers grew that innovatory cheating methods were involved, but where, and how, and by whom, and worst of all, how much was it going to cost?

The driver was glad that French roulette was the preferred station. Pontoon was a game to be avoided, and the bosses wouldn’t be impressed by any croupier who lost a packet. Losers disappeared. Those playing roulette couldn’t help but glance enviously at the card schools packed round the tables, couldn’t fail to hear the raucous shouts of Yes! And Get in there! And feel the lucky winning mentality in the air, as heavy chips flowed across the table, toward the punters. The tide was running out, for the house.

The driver would not like to admit it, but maybe, just maybe, the eyes had been diverted for one split second, long enough to miss who placed the big bet on 16.

The winning big bet on 16.

Twenty-five ten-pound chips paying thirty-five to one.

£8,750!

God almighty!

A decent win in anyone’s language, a great pay day for a mere ten second’s work.

The problem came when two competing punters claimed the bet. The croupier hadn’t noticed, couldn’t rule, no one had noticed, such was the excitement flowing over from the card tables.

One claimant was Chinese and spoke no English, the other, a quiet, gay man, who had been a member of the Argosy Club for over twenty years. He wasn’t quiet any longer, and neither was he weak. What began as a heated argument degenerated into a pushing and shoving match, and threatened to boil over into an all-out brawl.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!’ called the croupier, trying to bring them to order. It would never happen, because neither of them was prepared to back down, as the Chinese spat out filthy rhetoric that no one but his friends could understand. The management came running to mediate, and that annoyed them too, for they had their hands full watching the cards.

The croupier wasn’t alone in wondering if this roulette charade was a diversionary tactic, but if it was, it was hard to see how. If it was, it was sure as hell clever, and had paid a big dividend.

The floor manager stared at the driver and asked: ‘Whose bet was it?’

A shake of the head and the downcast look spoke volumes.

The driver didn’t know; failed a basic instruction: always be aware of whose bets are whose; and especially big bets like this. The house took the men to one side, invited them into the private rooms for champagne and crepes, while pretty girls with reddened, pouting lips hung about in the background. Were they on offer too? A touch of compensation? Might they help settle the dispute?

Not much of an incentive for poor Derek.

After a further hour of furious argument the two claimants agreed to split the winnings, though both claimed total dissatisfaction at the outcome. It would leave one of them smiling and elated, and the other feeling robbed, and swearing never to attend the Argosy again.

It had been a dreadful night for everyone, the croupier, the owners and management, and for once the house was delighted to cut their losses and close the doors at 2am. The croupier couldn’t get out of there quick enough, but on the way to the door, that same floor manager, Teddy Helms, called out, ‘Sam, can you spare a minute, I need a word.’

Sam pulled a face and stepped into the private office.

‘Take a seat.’

Sam sat down.

‘You weren’t on your game tonight.’

Was that a question? Sam pulled a face, but didn’t reply.

‘It’s not like you. Is there something on your mind? You seemed distant from the start.’

‘Everything’s fine, Mister Helms.’

‘You couldn’t have picked a worse night to have a mare.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Helms, it won’t happen again.’

‘It bloody well better not! You get my meaning?’

Sam nodded.

Helms nodded toward the door, and as Sam stepped out, Helms shouted, ‘Last warning, Sam. Last chance!’

No reply, just a nod, and a quickening of the feet to get out of there.

MR HELMS SHOULD WATCH his step or he might find himself in the crosshairs. A shaking of the head, a quickening of the step, a squelching of the trainers in the mud, a deep breath, forget about him, forget all about the Argosy and the black arts of gambling, forget about everything, other than the important things in life.

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL day, cold but bright with a brisk wind that reminded God’s creatures everything was well with the world.

It was a solitary place, the New Cut, far away from the main road. It needed a good walk to get there, and you’d only come if you knew of its existence, and that was why few people found their way to the waterside.

But there was someone there, away to the right, beyond some low struggling willows. A man, an old grey-haired man, slight and skinny, fishing, concentrating, standing on the edge of the cold, deep water.

It wasn’t as the driver had planned.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was interesting.

A picture of Desi filled the mind for a second, interrupting the train of thought.

Unexpected opportunities must be taken.

Stood perfectly still. Glanced around. No one in sight. Not a sound, other than the freshening wind, bird song and territorial wild fowl, and the gentle hum of traffic on