No Quarter

CHAPTER II. PLEASURE BEFORE BUSINESS.

Bright sunlight beat down from a blue-black, cloudless sky. The shore line of the Pacific Ocean showed below as a shivering turquoise, separated from the shore line by a silver strand.

The big plane nosed downward. The shore line slipped away to the right. The succession of parched, brown hills stretched away to the left, until they rose abruptly into jagged, barren peaks, back of which lay desert. The sun glinted from the roofs of Tijuana.

The motors abruptly ceased their thrusting song of power. Agua Caliente showed for a moment between wing and fuselage. A magnificent array of buildings, glinting in sun-swept whites and tile reds. Jax Bowman turned to Big Jim Grood and nodded.

The two were the only passengers on the plane, and plans called for a very subtle bit of character acting, when the wheels of the plane touched the landing field.

The plane circled once, slid down on a sharp angle, a succession of jolts ran from the wheels through the wings and fuselage. The plane came to a stop. A lad in uniform opened a door. Jax Bowman and his companion stepped out into the dazzling sunlight, a sunlight so bright, an atmosphere so dry that the shadows seemed blotches of black, and the highlights as much a strain on the eye as the welding spot of an acetylene torch.

The pair were escorted to a car, and within the space of minutes, stood within the beautiful lobby at the Agua Caliente resort.

Gone was the swift purpose from the manner of Jax Bowman. Gone was the aggressive directness of Big Jim Grood. The two men looked and acted like Eastern millionaires out for a time of play, careless of expense. They made no inquiry whatever about prices, demanding only the best.

A Mexican boy showed them to their suite.

"Now," said Jax Bowman, "we've got to be careful not to appear too prosperous or respectable. The murder of a really prominent man would be investigated. What we've got to do is to act as though we'd made a clean-up in a bucket shop, and we're spending the money on the principle of easy come, easy go."

"Okay," Jim Grood said, "let's go. A couple of drinks of this excellent port, and I'll feel a lot more like acting the part."

The big resort is planned for play on a large and luxurious scale. The two men, who had upon occasion played such grim parts in the extermination of criminal gangs, caught the spirit of the surroundings. With happy smiles twisting their lips, they flung money right and left in a mad abandon of spending.

An unobtrusive Mexican gentleman, of faultless manners, brushed against Bowman and begged his pardon with profuse courtesy. Bowman's ready friendliness matched the other's courtesy. There were a few questions and then Bowman was telling the story of his life—a life of slick promotions, quick profits, periods of hectic enjoyment, then other promotions, each promotion one of those shady affairs which left investors holding the sack.

This time he hinted, with just a suggestion of reticence, that his activities had been unusually profitable, but that narrow-minded postal authorities had threatened an investigation, and so he had decided to take a "vacation."

The courteous Mexican gentleman was very much interested, but not particularly communicative. Soon he moved away, and, within the course of minutes, the management of the hotel had a code notation upon a card describing Jax Bowman; the sky was the limit so long as he paid cash. His credit was nil.

The house detective then moved on to Big Jim Grood.

The men enjoyed a lunch in a patio where everything was a riot of color, not the harsh colors that are hard on the eye and nerve, but a profusion of pastel shades that filled the eye with the rhythm of beauty just as the ear is filled with music. They took a siesta through the long afternoon, and by evening were ready to take a whirl at the gambling tables.

Their system was carefully agreed upon. They were, so far as possible, to keep bystanders from knowing whether they were winning or losing. They were to play after the manner of plungers, but never to be seen losing steadily. Chips were scattered over the roulette board so that it took quick mental arithmetic to tell whether the winnings exceeded the losses. They were scattered about sufficiently so that at almost every turn of the wheel there were some winnings. As soon as there were several consecutive turns of the wheel without winnings, they were to quit for a period, only to return for another whirl at the tiger after a short recess.

It was a system that worked perfectly. It is, moreover, the system used by professional gamblers who have reduced the art of chance-taking to an absolute science. "Win while you're hot, quit when you're cold. Ride your good luck to the limit. Plunge while you're winning. Make the most out of every winning streak. When you can't win, quit."

Back of every gambling device is what is known as the "hidden percentage"—a percentage which is founded upon psychology, rather than upon mechanics or mathematics; it is a phase of human psychology which makes it natural for a man to lose more than he wins. It is the tendency that makes a man, who is not a natural gambler, play conservatively when he is enjoying a winning streak, sends him doggedly "fighting his luck" when he runs into a losing streak.

Jax Bowman got hot.

The whirring wheel almost invariably clicked the balls into pockets which corresponded with the numbers where Jax Bowman was making his very sizable bets.

The play grew rapid. It was almost impossible for any one to estimate the exact amount of Bowman's winnings, but even a casual observer could see that they were tremendous.

The management resorted to the device of changing croupiers, trying to break the run of luck by shattering that mysterious something which a good gambler can feel as plainly as he can feel the surge of warmth in his veins following the first two cocktails of the evening.

Jax Bowman continued to win.

Big Jim Grood, who had not been so fortunate, ceased playing altogether in order to watch his companion. Bowman changed his chips frequently, keeping the extent of his winnings concealed, crowding his luck to the limit, his bets constantly higher, his winnings constantly greater.

There followed a lull in the winning. The crowd of hangers-on, that had pushed about the table, eager to ride on the crest of Bowman's luck by placing their own bets on the squares which he had covered, gradually started making bets elsewhere, subtle acknowledgment of the fact that the player has exhausted his winning streak. The croupier settled down to the welcome task of getting the chips back as Bowman's tide of fortune turned.

Bowman smiled urbanely, but his eyes were determined.

"I'm going to check out," he said.

There was the scurry of much activity. A suave manager appeared. Certainly the señor was not checking out from the hotel? His vacation had but just commenced. Bowman explained to him that he was not checking out of the hotel, merely temporarily cashing in his checks. The suave individual smiled courteously, assisted Bowman to transfer his checks into money.

There were various rumors circulated about the crowd as to the amount of that money. The amount did not shrink any as it passed from lip to lip in awed whispers.

The night was still young, and Jax Bowman, flushed with the pleasure of winning, strolled to the bar, had two drinks of mellow port and then walked beamingly through the lobby of the hotel.

A dark-eyed Spanish girl managed, with an indirect approach that seemed utterly innocent, to engage Bowman in conversation.

Big Jim Grood, standing across the lobby, shook his head in silent negation in response to Bowman's unspoken inquiry.

Bowman courteously terminated the conversation.

The evening closed without further event.

The next day was a repetition of the other—a day spent in relaxation, rest, basking in the brilliant sunshine, dressing for dinner and then a sojourn at the tables.

Bowman was not lucky.

A crowd of hangers-on watched his every play, gave muttered comments of approval when he won a bet. He was about to get hot. He was getting ready for another winning streak, and so on.

But Bowman rigidly confined his losses to two hundred and fifty dollars, made for the most part in small bets. Once or twice, when he would have a temporary winning streak, he would plunge by increasing the size of the bets, only to drop immediately to lower stakes when the winning streak failed.

When he had lost two hundred and fifty dollars he turned away from the tables.

The croupiers exchanged glances. This was the type of man who presented the most deadly menace to a gambling house, the man who would limit his losses to a fixed amount, but who was prepared to win everything that the bank had in sight.

Bowman strolled out into the tropical night, watched the blazing stars, the hills silhouetted against the sky. A woman's low laugh sounded at his elbow.

"Pardon the intrusion," she said, "but I take it you don't understand Spanish?"

"No," Bowman said, "I don't. Why?"

"You should have heard the conversation after you left the tables," she said. "They were laying for you tonight. The fact that you took away your winnings of last night and have managed to hang on to them is causing quite a bit of consternation."

Bowman's laugh was contagious.

"Unfortunately," he said, "I gamble to win, or, perhaps I should say, I gamble for amusement, and I cannot derive amusement from being a sucker."

They both laughed lightly.

"You," asked Bowman, "have perhaps been fortunate at the tables?"

"Not I," she said. "I'm down here with my father. He is so afraid that I'll get what he calls the 'gambling fever' that he keeps a wary and watchful eye on me. In fact, he'd probably keenly disapprove if he knew that I had started a conversation with you without the formality of a conventional introduction."

Bowman laughed again, light-heartedly.

"You mean he's rather old fashioned?" he asked.

"Only so far as his daughter is concerned," she said. "Other people's daughters he likes to see right up to the minute, but he is strong for the conventions as far as his own household is concerned. Tell me, you don't think me forward, do you?"

"I think you wonderful," he answered, bowing.

"My name," she said, "is Evelyn Brokay and I'm lonesome as the devil down here. My dad has a few cronies he enjoys, and it leaves me pretty much isolated."

Bowman gave her his name, bowed low and acknowledged his pleasure, assured her that he felt any modern young woman had a right to pick her friends, regardless of the outworn formalities of conventional introductions, particularly at resorts where the very nature of the place was such that the less desirable class was excluded.

"If," she said, "my father should catch us talking together, he'd be displeased unless he thought we were old friends. You'd forgive a white lie, wouldn't you?"

Jax Bowman laughed.

"Forgive it," he said, "I'd welcome it!"

"I wonder," she said, "if you'd like to stroll—" She broke off with a gasp.

Bowman looked at her sharply. Her eyes were wide, startled, staring at a portly figure that came walking along the tiled balcony with purposeful insistence.

"That's father now," she whispered.

A masculine voice that was cold with displeasure said, "Evelyn, I thought you were in the Casino."

"I was, father," she said, "but I recognized an old acquaintance in Mr. Bowman. Permit me, father, to introduce Mr. Bowman. My father, Mr. Bowman.

"Mr. Bowman," she went on, "was on the President Hoover when I took my cruise to the Orient. It seems like old times to see him again. We were swapping reminiscences of the cruise."

The frown of austere disapproval faded from the man's face. His eyes twinkled with ready good nature. A well shaped mouth broke into an affable smile under a close-cropped iron-gray mustache. His hand shot out, gripped Bowman's hand with a cordial squeeze.

"I'm mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Bowman," he said, "very glad indeed for Evelyn's sake that she had found some friend here. I'm afraid I was a little short sighted in planning a trip down here without arranging company for her. Are you going to be here long?"

"I am leaving within a very short time," Bowman said, "although my plans are more or less indefinite. I'm on a vacation and I want to see something of the country. I thought some of going to Hollywood."

Brokay nodded, turned to Evelyn.

"Why don't you invite Mr. Bowman to spend a day or two with us in Hollywood," he said. "We'll be going back as soon as I've concluded this business deal, and you could drive him around and show him some of the sights. You might even be able to get him admitted to a studio where they were taking pictures."

She smiled at Jax Bowman.

"Oh," she said, "please come, we'd like it so much."

Bowman simulated embarrassment.

"Come on, young man," said Brokay in cordial insistence, "here in the West we don't take no for an answer when it's the question of giving hospitality. Don't be afraid we'll treat you with too much formality, because we won't. You'll just be home folks. My daughter and I live in the house with a housekeeper. I can assure you you'd be very welcome indeed."

"I have a friend with me," Bowman said lamely.

"Bring your friend, by all means," Brokay boomed. "Good heavens, man, give us a chance to show some of our Southern California hospitality. Say that you will."

The young woman squeezed his arm.

"Please," she breathed in an undertone.

"I'll make a conditional promise," Bowman said. "I will if business doesn't interfere."

"Fine," said the older man and turned away.

"Be seeing you later," he said. "I was just trying to find out where Evelyn had gone and I've got a very important conference on."

The young woman turned to Bowman as the distinguished, well tailored figure of the man with the iron-gray mustache moved through one of the light-flooded entrances to the lobby.

"Oh," she said, "what an awful mess! That's what comes of telling a white lie, but I'm afraid you've got to be a sport and keep up the deception. You see, my father might get very suspicious. I don't ordinarily deceive him. I don't know why I did it this time, but if he should feel you weren't an old friend—well, I'm afraid my allowance would be cut and my new motor car would go by the board."

Bowman laughed lightly.

"Well," he said, "if it's a question of helping you out by keeping up the deception, I can't imagine anything that would be more pleasant."

Her hand gave his arm a convulsive squeeze.

"Oh, you dear!" she exclaimed.

"That is, of course," Bowman qualified, "if business doesn't interfere."

"It won't," she said; "it can't."

And at that moment Big Jim Grood, strolling out into the night, caught sight of the girl's face where light from an open window streamed upon it, and nodded an emphatic assent.

Jax Bowman sighed.

"Well," he said, "I guess we'll have to follow the old axiom. If business interferes with pleasure, cut out the business."