Read Online Mediterranean Nights by Dennis Wheatley - Free Book Online Page B

to number eleven, but ten turned up—her
cheval
brought her seventeen and her corners eight apiece. With her loss of six, she was twenty-six to the good on the turn. Next time eleven turned up, she was on it still and had won again. A little murmur of excitement ran round the table. For the next two spins a higher number won, but with the third the luck came back to the lower figures once more; she was on six, and two was called.After that the luck seemed to settle in the lower dozen—in half an hour she won six times on her numbers, and every second spin her
cheval
and corners more than covered her bets. She had increased her stakes now and was putting on maximums every time. A little crowd had gathered to watch her play—her stacks of plaques were growing rapidly. She had a bad period after that first brilliant run of fortune for about twenty minutes, but it made no serious inroad on her winnings. The luck came back to the lower numbers and she won three times on number six.
    Suddenly she stood up. ‘I’m going to the
louis
table,’ she declared, gathering her piles of plaques together. ‘My chance has come.’ He did not attempt to stop her, but moved quietly at her side. For a few minutes she watched the higher play at the new table without making any bet, then she leant forward and plastered the seventeen. It was a spectacular entrance to a spectacular game. As though to welcome her the little ball clicked into seventeen—the middle dozen at the higher table favoured her, just as the lower numbers had before. Time after time her bets came home—steadily the chips of higher value mounted in three piles before her.
    People began to follow her luck after a while, but she began to dodge about the table and the luck always followed her choice.
    At half past two the croupier spoke to an official of the casino, and for a few moments play was suspended. Sally had accomplished the gambler’s dream—more money had to be sent for—technically, she had broken the bank at Monte Carlo.
    When the money arrived she still played on and added yet another hoard to her amazing winnings in the ensuing half-hour. At three o’clock the young man tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Time for you to stop,’ he said gently.
    â€˜Must I?’ Sally looked up, her grey eyes shining with excitement. She felt that she could go on and on—that her luck would never change. ‘Must I?’ she pleaded. ‘Just a little longer.’
    He shook his dark, attractive head, his firm mouth showed no relenting; she got up slowly from the table. ‘We’ll cash them in,’ he said, and began to stuff the plaques into his pockets.
    Sally turned to the croupier and gave him a
mille
note. With a charming smile and low, ‘
Merci—bon soir
’ she turned and followed her fairy godfather to the
caisse
. Directly she left the table she felt how right he was to make her stop. Another half-hour and all that money might have melted away again; now it was safe—she had won a little fortune. Smiling, she watched him change the plaques into notes of high denominations. He was busy for quite ten minutes; as they walked away he held them out to her—a bulging, solid sheaf. Then he drew them back as he said with a smile: ‘Too much for your little bag, I’d better take care of them for the moment—you won’t be tempted to change your mind about that cousin now.’ He split the bundle, pushing the two wads into his pockets.
    Sally smiled back; she knew that the cottage was hers now—all through a
mille
of borrowed money. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘I’ll get my coat, then if you’ll take me back to my hotel we’ll put them in the safe till the morning.’
    She was only gone five minutes—five glorious minutes of visualising again those marvellous coups—those masses and masses of counters being pushed towards her—that great