Reckoning at the Riviera Royale (Anty Boisjoly Mysteries Book 5) by PJ Fitzsimmons

Author:PJ Fitzsimmons [Fitzsimmons, PJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-11-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rigging Roulette at the Riviera Royale

“No one can steal from a casino,” I contended.

“Jacqueline and Chadwick have found a way,” insisted Mama. “I’ve seen it myself, and so have the biddies.”

“Very well, Mumford, what makes you think Aunt Jacqueline and Chadwick are cheating the casino?”

“I didn’t, initially, I confess.” Mama swirled her drink and then tasted it again with more consumer discretion. “Glen Glennegie?”

“Pre-war,” I confirmed. “Toppers?”

“Please.” I retrieved the decanter while Mama continued, “This afternoon the biddies made to me the most extraordinary proposition — they offered me half a million francs.”

“That’s about four thousand pounds,” I guessed. “You’re quite sure it’s not the biddies leading a life of crime? What did they want for their money? An ounce of honesty? A half an ounce? I know you sell it dearly.”

“They weren’t just offering me four thousand pounds, Anty,” said Mama coolly. “They were offering me four thousand more pounds.”

“More than what?”

“More than they had already invested with Jacqueline and Chadwick. They’re a gambling syndicate, and they thought I was in on it.”

“Are you?”

“Anty, please, this is very grave.”

“There’s nothing wrong with forming a gambling syndicate, Mama,” I pointed out. “Well, nothing illegal, let us say. It’s invariably a mistake to pool your stake with friends. Takes almost all the fun out of losing your shirt.”

“They’re not losing, Anty,” said Mama severely. “They’re winning. Rather a lot.”

“So? So do you.”

“No, I don’t. I often have good fortune and for some reason when I’m bank at baccarat opposing players tend to make poor decisions, but I’m not cheating.”

“What makes you think Jacqueline and Chadwick are?”

“It’s very subtle.” Mama looked into her whisky for the sympathy I was failing to deliver. “Doubtless you won’t believe me.”

“Faddle and fleard, Mama,” I proclaimed. “What reason have you ever given me to disbelieve you?”

“They almost never lose, Anty,” explained Mama.

“More faddle and fathoms of fleard,” I differed. “I was with Chadwick only this afternoon when she drew vingt-trois at vingt-et-un. That’s deux too many.”

“And then what did she do?”

“Quit. She’s a sensible girl. And we had an appointment with Thumpy.”

“That’s all? She didn’t signal the croupier, or trade places with her mother?”

“She certainly spoke with the dealer,” I admitted. “She knew him from his days as a connoisseur of the second-round concussion. And she did perform an odd ritual with a monocle. That doesn’t prove anything, though — clubmate of mine, Lobes Lillibins, had a very strict gambling routine, too — every time he ended a Saturday of long odds at Hurst Park out of pocket he’d break his umbrella over his knee. Had to order them in by the dozen.”

I noticed, as I spoke and paced the room, that the mahogany case was in full view. I positioned myself before it and, as a pretext, released the wasp from the sugar bowl. It shot out of captivity like a bullet from a gun on what should have been a direct course for the wide open balcony doors but, drunk with refined sugar,

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