Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 24, No. 4. Whole No. 131, October 1954

The Big Tipper by Hartzell Spence[2]

Most readers will remember Hartzell Spence as the author of that delightful bestseller, ONE FOOT IN HEAVEN. Nearly all of Mr. Spence’s work is characterized by religious feeling — which is not surprising, since Mr. Spence is the son of a minister. But the man who was the officer-in-charge of “Yank” during the war, the major who got fired for writing an editorial his boss-general didn’t like, is capable of writing a story with no religious flavor in it at all. Such a story is “The Big Tipper” — an extremely amusing and ingenious tale of high-stake gambling in Monte Carlo, which to some people is a kind of heaven, and to others a kind of hell... “The Big Tipper” is an unusual story to appear in EQMM. There is no detection, and in a strict sense, there is not even any crime. But there is a fascinating mystery — about Monsieur Chapuyt and his incredible run of luck at the Casino and his fabulous tipping of the croupier — princely sums night after night!

I first heard about M. Chapuyt in Paris, from a friend who had recently returned from the Riviera. “This Chapuyt,” I was informed, “has the most incredible luck. Night after night he wins at the Casino, and how they absorb their losses must be a story as interesting as his gambling genius.”

Under this double-edged impulsion, I very soon found myself writing to the only man I knew in the south of France, one Emil Gautier who, over a bridge game during the Atlantic crossing, had offered to accompany me to the famous Casino when I traveled his way. Now I imposed upon this brief acquaintance to inform him that I would accept his invitation.

A Frenchman who has decided to be courteous does the thing extremely well. When I reached my Riviera hotel, a note from Gautier greeted me effusively and stated that he would call that night at 9 — which he did — and in another five minutes we were walking through the formal gardens which illuminated the pink marble palace of chance. Gautier knew that I was a writer, but when I told him that I was intrigued by one Monsieur Chapuyt, Gautier did not acknowledge the name as within his acquaintance. He seemed genuinely glad to see me, and by the time we reached the Casino, we entered as good friends.

I knew nothing about Gautier. He was a fashion plate, one of those Continentals who always looks as though his barber has just turned him out after a shave, haircut, facial massage, manicure, and shoeshine. His easy urbanity suggested traditional good breeding except that his black eyes were unemotional and never relaxed. Evidently he was well known at the Casino, for the concessionaire in the cloakroom bowed and mentioned his name. We toured the two salles de joie on the main floor purely as sightseers. When Gautier asked if I wished to try my luck, I parried him at once. “Solitaire is my game,” I said lightly.

Monsieur Gautier raised one perfectly trimmed eyebrow, as though I had prompted him, and said, “Well, I don’t know whether there is play in solitaire tonight. It’s upstairs, you know. Let’s go up. But don’t expect too much. Chapuyt is definitely the exception.”

So he did know Chapuyt after all. I ignored the reference, however, as we entered an octagonal paneled room sumptuous enough to have been the sitting-room of Madame de Maintenon.

Two roulette tables, each placed under a crystal chandelier, were populated by modish women, who sipped coffee during their play and occasionally laughed over their shoulders at their escorts — who unanimously found nothing to be amused at. This was high-stake gaming and the chips on the tables were all of the 25,000-and 250,000-franc denominations — or roughly equivalent to $100 and $1,000.

Presently a man who had been outside the circle, casually appraising the tables in the company of a turbaned Moslem, bowed awkwardly to his companion and took a seat at the table adorned by the handsomest women in the room.

“Now you will see something,” said my escort. “That is your Monsieur Chapuyt.”

I am afraid that I stared at the celebrity rudely; but he, fortunately intent on his play, did not observe my scrutiny. He was a little man, not over five feet three, and was inching along in years. Only a few fine lines of gray hair bisected his shiny pate; deep seams above his weathered nose brought his eyes down into a squint; loose skin hung about his jowls and throat. But his eyes, pinprick sharp, missed nothing, either on the wheel, on the table, or revealed by the décolletage about him. His hands were those of a common laborer, but they were relaxed as though this man might lose all night without anguish. He held a great roll of the most expensive chips lightly. Five of these he now placed upon the felt in one neat stack, and in a moment acknowledged with a slight nod the bonanza which came back to him. Two of the ladies gasped, and the woman on his right paid him some deferential compliment which I could not hear, for all my straining. Monsieur Chapuyt’s teeth — very bad ones, incidentally, uneven and unkempt — showed for a moment in a bon vivant smile. He was vastly enjoying himself.

“Now watch closely,” said Gautier.

Chapuyt took one fourth of his winnings — a princely sum — and dropped the chips into the croupier’s tip box through a slot provided for the purpose. The croupier bent low in gratitude. At the same time a majordomo who had been standing near the table exchanged a quick glance with Gautier, accompanied by a subtle distention of the fingers, as though he had expected Chapuyt’s generosity but emphatically disapproved it.

We watched the play for fifteen minutes. Chapuyt was a heavy investor, and though he sometimes lost substantially, he appeared to my inept eye to win often enough to be accumulating a profit, except that each time he won, he tipped magnanimously.

“Is he crazy?” I whispered finally to Gautier.

“He is the sanest man in the room,” my host responded. “But I cannot speak of him here. How about some supper? The bouillabaisse is one of the rare experiences of life, and I recommend it, even at this hour.”

We walked across the park to the restaurant, and settled in an inconspicuous corner.

“We must not be overheard,” Gautier said. “The subject of Monsieur Chapuyt is not mentioned. And I must have your word that if I tell you the story, you will not use it without making both him and the Casino unidentifiable.”

I gave my promise.

“Chapuyt first came to the Casino about a year ago,” Gautier said. “As you can see, he does not look like much. The management assayed him as another seedy tourist, and sold him a visitor’s card to the public rooms. Their analysis stood up on his first night. He risked a few thousand francs — taxi-money, you might say — at the roulette table just inside the door, where a thousand-franc loss is tragedy to the inveterate players who long since have gone bankrupt but who return night after night with their pencil and card to note each turn of the wheel and, when their system indicates an auspicious moment, to stake — and lose — a pittance. The singular thing about Chapuyt, however, was that he had a way with the wheel. He took no seat, but three times leaned over the table to place a few chips on a low-odds situation which gave him more than one chance to win. Each time, he was successful.

“He spent not a penny on refreshment, buying not even an aperitif or a demitasse. But he watched — how he watched everything! — and when he departed, before 11 o’clock, he had perhaps fifty thousand francs or, as you would calculate it, $200.

“The next night he was back, and this time the beldames at the first table noted his arrival. Anyone who wins sensationally at roulette, even for a single evening, becomes a celebrity overnight. These habitues — did you see their faces? Hopeful, then desperate, then bitter, yet convinced that soon fortune must turn, or the perfect system be found. The condition is pathological. It gets into the blood like a virus, inducing fever for play, until finally it becomes a mania. You can see what a winning player would do to such people. They watched Chapuyt avidly. When he leaned over their shoulders to make a wager, they pounced down their little bets at the same place... I see you like the bouillabaisse.”

“It is perfect,” I said.

“Well... Chapuyt did not seem to mind this parroting of his bet. But he did not like the greedy triumph with which they gathered in their winnings. He was so upset, in fact, that he left his stake, including his profit, on the table, and walked away. The other players realized that they had offended him. So they did not follow his position again, and were stunned when he won.

“The croupier did not know what to do. Lacking instructions, he let Chapuyt’s bet ride, since a winner almost never comes up three times identically. But Chapuyt won. And as the croupier pushed a quarter-million francs into a neat pile with his stick, Chapuyt reappeared at the table, collected his chips without glancing at the crones, and fled.

“A profit of a thousand dollars creates no excitement at the Casino, except in the first room. So the management paid no attention to Chapuyt when he entered the inner salon where the players were risking that much on each spin of the wheel. He played one 25,000-franc chip, and lost. He risked another, and lost again. Then he began to hit, winning five times successively, parlaying all his profit until he had the equivalent of $100,000. Here he drew in his chips and went back to his original 25,000-franc bet.

“By now he was a celebrity in the inner room, too. His next wager was duplicated by everyone at the table. As in the other salon, he was revolted. Immediately he cashed his chips and departed. The story wearies you, perhaps?”

“No, no,” I said, “I’m fascinated. But you tip the ending. Monsieur Chapuyt was the devil in disguise. As a story-writer, I can tell you it is very old stuff.”

Gautier was delighted.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Such a possibility occurred to the management, of course. Such things do not happen — but gamblers like to be sure. Chapuyt did not leave the Casino alone that night. A man he did not see followed him to his hotel and ascertained that his identity papers were in perfect order. Like most careful travelers, Chapuyt had a minimum accommodation at the best hotel, his meals included in the price. He made no special demands, had no visitors, and no interest except the Casino. His only fault was that he never bestowed a tip. You are surprised at this, I see.”

“It seems out of character,” I replied, “after what I have seen.”

“It is common among working men; and that, the management discovered by inquiry in Paris, was Chapuyt’s origin. For forty years he had lived inconspicuously in St. Cloud within walking distance of work in a pottery factory, where he ultimately became a foreman. He had never married. During the Occupation he had been forced into labor at the Renault auto works, also near his home, and there he had performed small jobs of espionage for the British, who hired him as a chauffeur for a time after the Liberation. When this work ended, he toured Italy. Now he appeared to be on his way home. Does he still sound like the Old Nick?”

“He disappoints me,” I said. “But you do not. How the devil do you know all this?”

Gautier was embarrassed. “It is not generally known,” he said, “but I am a director of the Casino. It is my business to know these things. Sometimes a knowledge of our patrons comes in handy, as you will see. In this case, our conclusion was that Chapuyt, knowing nothing about roulette, was having a phenomenal run of beginner’s luck. It happens. He plays roulette best who plays it worst. Chapuyt had something better than a system: instinct, courage, and ignorance.

“He returned the following night, and this time there was determination in his stride, as though he had decided not to let the avidity of the others deter him from making a fortune. In his changed attitude I saw the beginning of the end. I fully expected his winnings to be safely in our pockets by 11 o’clock, and his nest-egg along with them.”

“But he continued to win,” I intervened.

“Nothing of the sort,” Gautier said. “He didn’t play. To be sure, he approached the tables as before. The chips rested confidently in his quiet hand. But every time he took a playing position, the table filled at once and everyone poised to duplicate his choice. This deterred him. His manner indicated that to him gambling was sport, but to these others it was something evil, to which he could not be a party. Do you understand me?”

“Most gamblers don’t worry about the other fellow,” I said.

“Ah, that’s precisely the point,” said Gautier. “Was Chapuyt a gambler?”

“Proceed,” I encouraged him.

“About 10 o’clock, when Chapuyt had not risked a franc, one of the floor managers suggested to him that he visit the high-stake salon on the floor above, where he might try his luck in peace. The exclusive clientele there, he was told, were of a sort who would consider the duplication of another’s bet very gauche behavior. He went upstairs immediately.

“He drifted about aimlessly, and so doing discovered the solitaire tables. They are not used much — only at the height of the season when the very rich are with us. Chapuyt was intrigued by this form of gaming which could not be copied. We observe the usual Klondike rules. You know the game?”

“I think so,” I said. “We call it Canfield, but actually it is a seven-file layout, each file with an exposed card on top. The right-hand file has six face-down cards, the adjacent file has five, and so on down until the last file consists of a single card, face up.”

“Precisely,” Gautier concurred. “In a casino, the hand stock is played one card at a time off the top, so the player goes through the deck only once. This form of solitaire is an extremely interesting game. If you buy the deck for $100 a card, and run the cards clear out, you pocket $26,000. The payoff is at the rate of five times the per-card investment for each card put up into the foundation. So you begin to win on the eleventh card. But I do not need to remind you that the odds are much greater than five to one.

“Well, to get back to Chapuyt. He seemed to know the game, and finally slid into a vacated seat. The departing player was one of your Americans who wagers $1,000 a card. Evidently Chapuyt thought this the minimum for the table, for he bought the deck at her price.

“He did not win much in the first game — ten thousand, I think it was. But he played carefully. For example, when there was a choice of shifting one of two files, he always moved from the rank which covered the most down-cards, thus reducing his odds, even though the other move might have been more to his temporary advantage. He never played a card to the foundation if it might be needed later to build a file. In other words, he was out to run the pack rather than just to make a small profit. Few people, playing solitaire for money, have courage enough to pursue the ultimate game, and as a result, few of them win. I see from your expression that you are anticipating again.”

“He won, of course.”

“Not spectacularly. But ten thousand here, fifteen thousand there, over several evenings, until he had — with his roulette luck thrown in — a quarter-million dollars of our money.”

“That shouldn’t bother you.”

“Not at all. It is good publicity and eventually most of it comes back to us. But in francs at current exchange it becomes astronomical: 62,500,000, to be exact. We were worried. And since Chapuyt was now playing from profits, he became bolder. For example, he sat down one evening and calmly ran off ten losing games in succession, then in three profitable sequences got it all back. We could only hope that his incredible luck would fail and that he would be cleaned out before the laws of chance gave him what every solitaire player must ultimately realize: a clean sweep of the deck.”

“When I play solitaire,” I observed, “I may win three or four times within a few minutes.”

“Solitaire is that kind of game,” Gautier agreed. “But when you are playing at home, risking nothing, you can afford to lose for a month before that happens. Few people could bank such losses in a casino. However, if you do not have consistent heavy losses, you realize a very large profit when you begin to hit. And that is what Chapuyt did to us. Playing his long game, he nicked us consistently for small sums. He was a splendid player. He never made a mistake. Most people overlook possible plays, or make foolish moves for immediate advantage which increase the odds against them. Not Chapuyt!

“Then came the inevitable evening when he ran out the deck on us his very first game of the evening. He made ten thousand on his second game, lost fifteen thousand on his third, and then, mirabile! two more smashes in a row. Three-quarters of a million dollars’ profit in ten minutes! And with that, Monsieur Chapuyt rose from the table and approached the cashier to collect 187,500,000 francs.”

“Smart fellow,” I said.

“Exactly,” Gautier agreed unhappily. “There was no doubt that he was finished, though for some reason quite detached from the play, he seemed most reluctant to quit the salon. In my mind I could see him aboard the morning plane for Paris. It was most unappetizing.”

“So?”

“Naturally, we do not carry two hundred million francs in the cashier’s cage against a single night’s play. To pay such a sum in these times is difficult, though not impossible. My colleagues and I decided to play a bit of strategy on Monsieur Chapuyt, and keep him in town a while. He had, we thought, run his luck. Now to get the money back! That was our problem.”

“Quite a problem,” I said.

“Under ordinary circumstances, and against ordinary frequenters of casinos, no. Against Chapuyt, yes, for he was not the gambling type. Ordinarily we would have paid up with extravagant compliments, making a splendid scene of our congratulations and envy, with toasts in vintage champagne and talk of a memorial in the garden, had he been just a bit luckier. Had he seen the bronze to M. Rochambeau, we would say, the only man to win a million? The victim would return to beat Rochambeau’s record, and lose everything. Such tactics always work. But Monsieur Chapuyt did not have the disease.”

“Not malignantly, anyway,” I concurred.

“It need only be chronic,” said Gautier. “What we did with Chapuyt was to conduct him to the directors’ chambers and explain that to pay such a sum required a trip to our bankers. He understood that. Would he care for a glass of wine during his wait? No, he said, he drank nothing. A bit of supper? His stomach permitted no piece-mealing. A coffee, perhaps?” Gautier paused, winced, and went on. “He joined us in a glass of Vichy water!

“As we talked to him, we realized that he was not excited over the money he had won. He was anxious, in fact, over his windfall, and afraid that if he remained among us he might become like the habitual players, who depended on the night’s play as a narcotics addict relies on his daily injection. He liked the excitement, but since he could not play roulette, and since solitaire had begun to bore him, he was going home, before he began to lose and contract the gamblers’ disease.

“It was then that my colleague M. Reynard was suddenly inspired with the true assessment of Chapuyt’s character. He had returned night after night not to play solitaire but to mingle with the celebrities who patronized the exclusive upstairs room.

“So Reynard cautiously suggested that there was a way whereby Chapuyt might play on and yet avoid the disease. In fact, he might spend the rest of his life about the Casino. All he had to do was to leave the three-quarter million he had won with the Casino as an investment against a lifetime of play. Reynard emphasized what Chapuyt must by now realize, namely, that frequenters of the salon intime would never duplicate another’s wager. In return for his investment, the Casino each night would give Chapuyt an unlimited supply of chips. When he finished playing, he would turn in his unspent chips. Obviously, if he won, he surrendered his gains. But when his luck turned, as inevitably it must, he could not lose, either. Unobsessed by either the profit motive or the fear of loss, he would never contract the virus.”

“He took it?” I asked, incredulous.

“He accepted promptly,” Gautier said, “with one stipulation which proved how precise Reynard’s evaluation of him had been. He insisted that no one — not even the croupiers — know of the deal that had been made. He had already won sufficient on previous nights to maintain himself comfortably in a hotel for life. And it was, on the whole, a good investment for us.”

“Quite a deal,” I said.

“Ah, but the odd thing is that Chapuyt’s luck has not changed. He wins at roulette night after night. He is the idol of the salon, a mystery man of great distinction among, shall I say, a discriminating clientele. Had he made no bargain with us, he would today be one of the richest men on the Riviera, in the world.”

“What a story!” I exclaimed.

“But I am not quite to the end of it,” Gautier said. “You mentioned his extravagant tips to the croupiers.”

“I did, indeed. He must give away thousands.”

“He gives away nothing,” Gautier said bitterly. “All his life Chapuyt was a money-grubber, watching every franc. He never had a penny for tips. He was even embarrassed about it.

“Now, my friend, he can afford to tip like a champagne salesman. Don’t you see? The chips cost him nothing. He is tipping with our money!”