Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Well, if you insist—” McArthur surrendered. Eleven forty-six.

He must not look at his watch again.

“Sure. Sit down and make yourself at home.”

“All right, thanks. And if any of your boys would like to know my stunts,” he added, blinking, “it won’t take me five minutes to show them the secret.”

They looked at him uncertainly.

“You wouldn’t really show us?” asked Kirke, with some interest.

“Certainly. I’ve no more use for the stuff.”

“Humph. I dare say that’s true,” observed Harrison.

“Four-Ace Mac,” the Greek commented, without mirth.

“Oh, is that the one you want?” the inventor responded instantly. “Surely — I’ll give you that trick in no time.”

He took a pack of new cards from his pocket. Several of the players, observing his act, turned, in curiosity.

“Come on, boys!” Harrison invited, loudly. “Our friend Mr. Four-Ace Mac is goin’ to show us his secrets. You better all take it in, for it may be your last chance to see him perform.”

A murmur of surprise filled the room. Chairs scraped here and there as men rose and came forward, amused and puzzled.

“Four-Ace Mac!” some one else said — but it was a jeering tone.

The inventor stood facing them, smiling and bowing.

“Gentlemen,” he said, rising his voice a little, “on this, perhaps my last appearance among you, I have agreed to show you the secret of some of my mysteries.”

A few more of the men came forward, until they formed a half circle before him. McArthur noticed the difference in the way they watched him: the patrons, who did not know of his connection with Ward and Steele, and whose interest was in his exhibition; and the gangsters, whose glances held either ridicule or burning hatred.

He wondered which members of the crowd had guns. Castle, undoubtedly. The Greek, undoubtedly. The man who sat near by at the end of his table, probably; he had been in the cabaret with Stone.

“Now, the little four-ace trick,” he explained, “is very simple. You simply lay down the aces, face up, this way. Shuffle the deck, and cover each ace with three cards, face down. Gentlemen, do you all follow me? Then take one of the four piles” — he took the one with the ace of spades — “and put it aside. Then pick up one of the three remaining piles, and show every one that the ace is still on the bottom.”

He showed them.

“But, presto! — you throw down the cards, one by one, and the little ace is gone. One — two — three — four! It’s so simple!” There were shouts of amazement from many of the gamblers.

“But, gentlemen, don’t you see it?” McArthur asked, in professional tones. He stood blinking at them all while some of the watchers returned unwanking stares. “You make your mistake, I think, when you look at me instead of at the cards as they fall on the table. Now we’ll try it again.”

More players had left their games and pushed forward. McArthur took up one of the two remaining piles, showed the ace, and threw them down face upward.

“One — two — three — four!” he counted. The ace had disappeared.

There were fresh exclamations. Others crowded forward in wonder — many of the gamblers leaving their money on the tables.

“Now the last!” cried Dizzy McArthur. “Watch the table, watch the cards, and you can’t miss it! See! There’s the ace!”

Up and down went his arm with the final pile of cards, and with each gesture his voice rang through the room!

“One — two — three—” Crash!

A splintering impact shook the house to its foundation. All along the wall, for the length of the hallway outside, a row of ax-blades knifed through the partition. The heavy door itself burst back into the room, shivering on its hinges; and after it came Steele with a sledge hammer, Bennett and Fortner with drawn pistols.

There was an oath, a cry of terror, a volley of imprecations. McArthur lifted the table and charged with it against the nearest gunman, trampling him to the floor. From above and below came the crash of other doors going in. At the back of the room a gun roared — once — twice: another barked from McArthur’s left; a third spoke sharply from the door. Frankie the Greek gave a scream of pain and stumbled to his knees, dropping his weapon.

“You’re all under arrest!” shouted Special Officer Bennett. “Don’t any one else move!”

Chapter XLIX The Goal

With a savage oath, John Castle leaped over a fallen chair and ran to the corner beyond the roulette wheels, followed by several others. Fortner of headquarters fired a shot at the floor to stop them, but they raced on without heeding it. In the extreme corner of the room a section of the wall sprang back, revealing a small rear stairway.

It had long been agreed that if ever there should be a raid, Harrison and his assistants might escape by these stairs and by the back alley. The staircase extended from the fourth floor to the basement. Harrison, however, was too stunned to take advantage of it. He was livid.

“Bennett, you double crossing sinker,” he bellowed, “you’re the last man that ever ought to raid my joint—”