“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” responded Cranston quietly. “I changed eighty thousand into paper money, at the request of the croupier, during short intermissions. I have seventy thousand here.”
A flood of heavy gold coins descended upon the table. Cranston stacked the yellow discs as calmly as if they had been paper chips. Big Tom sat aghast. This had gone beyond him. The tide had turned so swiftly that he had not realized the extent of the losses sustained by the house.
Calculating mentally, the gambling king recalled amounts that he had sent out to pay off those who were turning in gold for paper. He was dumbfounded when he approximated the total.
Other players had won tonight. Two hundred thousand dollars, at least, had been lost — and three fourths of that amount had gone to Cranston.
Half a million!
That had been Wheels Bryant’s estimate of the crime syndicate’s prospective earnings by the end of this week. With Carpenter still working on a basis of two hundred thousand; with Bryant counting on the gambling house for profits between now and the dead line, tonight’s loss meant that virtually all the previous gains had been wiped out!
Big Tom was in a quandary. Never before, in his checkered career, had he encountered such a night as this. He could not understand it. His gambling devices were fixed to win; his operators were experienced men. Big Tom sensed a double cross.
“Well?”
Cranston’s quiet question brought Big Tom back to earth. The gambling king found himself staring into two penetrating eyes that shone from the other side of the desk.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Cranston,” said Big Tom, with a forced smile. “Seventy thousand dollars is yet due you. I shall give it to you in bills of large denomination.”