CHAPTER XV

Monte Carlo-The enchantment of the place-Sunny memories -A giant in those days-The dégringolade of the croupierA disputed stake-Playing on a system-The only sure way to win-French detectives-Their naïveté-A French 'confidence-man.'

A PRACTICAL man with no imagination or adaptability will see in Monte Carlo only a garish Margate with a monotonous sea, a deceptive sun, and murderous winds, shoddy people, vice in most unbecoming dishabille, and he will resent being charged a missionary's ransom for a brandy-and-soda. To enjoy Monte Carlo, you must be willing to be mesmerized, to submit your will and judgment to the fairy spirit of the place. You immediately find yourself in a twinkling paradise where money is public property-that is to say, as soon as your pocket is empty, you borrow from the nearest stranger (the ordinary unit being a mille, or about £40); where everyone is happy in the possession of the philosopher's stone-that is to say, of a system different from anyone else's, by which the

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element of chance is entirely removed from the games of roulette and trente-et-quarante; where you enjoy sumptuous banquets, not knowing who is host-sometimes it may prove to be yourself; where you eat, drink, drive, gamble, shoot, shop, love, lend, borrow, until the end of April, when the family solicitor disenchants you and brings you home to everyday life.

The Princess-up the hill, opposite the casino, not far from the Métropole-was the restaurant which the particular section of Monte Carlo society which I knew best used to patronize two or three years ago. It was admirably managed by Monsieur Aubanel and his handsome wife. A table was always reserved for us in the bright, white-enamelled grill-room which opened on to the street. The food was very good and, for Monte Carlo, very cheapthat is to say, the prices were about the same as at the Savoy Hotel in London. In the middle of the room was a large table covered with a spotless white cloth, on which were arranged studies in still lifefruit, game, fish, vegetables, even tiny joints. And at this buffet each selected what he fancied. beautiful, buxom, big-hearted, and much-divorced Muriel Kinnleside was generally at our table, often attended by a shy lad who was nicknamed The Tadpole, his real name being Newte. Jack Deeley, the pigeon-shot, was always there, and poor Tom

The

Dexter, who is now no more. Satyr-faced little Asti, the composer, was frequently of our party, sometimes with his charming wife, and sometimes not. We were rather too Bohemian for Isidore Notadore, but now and then, when more august hosts could spare him, he would look in and give us a little tone. At the end of the banquet, whoever felt richest produced a purse and paid the bill. When nobody had any money-which happened on one or two rare occasions-the meal was put down to Tom Dexter, who was staying at the hotel, and had a running, though tethered, account. It is difficult to imagine Monte Carlo without Tom Dexter. He was popular with everyone, even the police authorities, with whom he occasionally joined issue. He was extremely good-natured, tall, looselimbed, athletic, a good pigeon-shot, but, owing to his generosity, carelessness, and fondness for the tables, generally in financial low-water. His most celebrated exploit with the Monte Carlo police was many years ago, before the local round-house was rebuilt. In those days it was like a prison in an opera 'set' that is to say, it consisted of a small room, built of stone, with heavy doors studded with nails. Tom had caused some disturbance late at night, and, after invaliding several officers of the law, he was finally overcome by numbers, and at last led off by ten tiny commissaires de police to this

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ridiculous dungeon. The door was unlocked, and eight of Tom's guardians preceded him into the cell. Their ill manners cost them their liberty, for no sooner were they inside than Tom seized the other two by the scruffs of their necks, threw them in after their companions, and locked the massive doors upon them. He then threw the key into one of the fountains, strolled home to bed, and slept the sleep of a Samson. In the morning a smiling Chief Inspector called upon him and told him that if only he would restore the key, or tell them where it was to be found, all should be forgiven. Tom, however, denied all knowledge of the night's adventure, and by his truculent demeanour so terrified the police official that he tore downstairs, leaving his hat behind him. The prison doors had to be prized open by workmen. But nothing came of it, as far as Dexter was concerned, and, for all I know, the key lies still in the basin of the fountain.

The last time I saw Tom Dexter at Monte Carlo he was just starting to call upon the British Consul. 'I've got a pretty clear case this time,' he said sanguinely-' these rotten little gendarmes! I'm going to give 'em a lesson. A thousand pounds damages, or I'll know the reason why.' 'What have they done this time?' I asked. 'Took us off last night— me and Peter Parley and Jem Finney-and locked us up,' he exclaimed with the air of a martyr. 'And

one little wretch actually presented a revolver at my head!' 'What had you been doing?' I inquired. 'Nothing at all,' said Tom decisively; 'that's to say, we came out of the club-the room upstairs, you know-rather late, and we wanted a drink. There wasn't any light in the Hôtel de Paris, and they didn't answer the bell, so I just tried with my shoulder if the door was fastened, and it opened of its own accord. We switched up the light and found some whisky and syphons, and, as there was nobody to wait on us, we helped ourselves, naturally. Suddenly a lot of these little commissaire devils came in and said something about vol de nuit avec effraction, and walked us off.' 'Did you go quietly?' I asked. 'Er-yes, oh yes! Fairly quietly,' said Tom. 'Of course, I was angry when the little brute pulled out his revolver.' 'Had you struck him?' I asked, noticing that Tom was rather surreptitiously nursing a freckled leg of mutton he was pleased to call his hand. 'No, I'll swear to goodness I didn't,' protested my friend of the injured innocence. He wouldn't be alive if I had. But I may have just-pushed him,' he had conscientiously to admit as he displayed two broken knuckles. I am afraid he never got his £1,000 damages.

The following will show how casually a Monte Carlo bailee regards his responsibilities:

One morning I found Tom Dexter and Jem