"So I hear!" he said excitedly. "They drink and smoke and gamble!" He gave a knowing wink.
"Well, Harry," Bess said carefully, "it is possible that there may also-," she caught herself as Mother appeared with our trousers.
"Mama," said Harry, "we are going to an illicit nightclub! Can you imagine?"
"That's nice, Ehrich," Mother said.
Bess leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Keep an eye on him, will you, Dash?"
"I always do," I answered.
"Besides," Harry continued, "we are not due at Mr. Graff's shop for another three hours. If I don't keep you on your feet, you'll fall asleep in front of the fire."
"Which sounds like a very attractive notion to me," I answered. "What possible reason could this Mr. Harrington have had for insisting on such a late meeting?"
"Mr. Graff assured us that this was not so unusual. Possibly Mr. Harrington is on the ran from the law. The automaton may have been stolen from its rightful owner."
"Perhaps," said Bess, "but if Le Fantфme was stolen, Lieutenant Murray would have known of it."
"Not necessarily. It would almost certainly have come from a collection in Europe. That would surely fall outside of Lieutenant Murray's jurisdiction."
"At least Lieutenant Murray has a jurisdiction,
Harry," I said. "We're just busy-bodies."
"No imagination, Dash. It is your greatest failing." He turned away and pulled on his trousers.
Moments later, the Brothers Houdini descended to street level. Resplendent in our rabbit-scented tailcoats and top hats, we headed toward the night club district on foot to conserve what little cash we had between us. As Harry had promised, an opportunity to get inside the Cairo presented itself almost immediately. We arrived just as two carriages drew up at the entrance, disgorging a large group of high-spirited young men. Seizing our chance, we darted between the two carriages and mixed in with the herd, so that we were swept along into the main parlor of the club without anyone taking note of our shabby clothes or empty wallets.
Inside, Harry and I took up a position beside an enormous potted palm. Before us stretched a vast billiards room with a row of four green baize gaming tables beyond. Young women circulated with trays of clear effervescent liquid which I knew to be champagne, although I had never seen this exotic wine before. The ladies who carried these trays, I could not help but notice, were dressed in an arresting form of dishabille. After a moment, one of these fascinating creatures made her way towards us.
"May I offer you gentlemen a beverage?" she asked.
"Thank you, no," said Harry, frantically averting his eyes. "Alcohol is detrimental to the careful balance of the bodily humors."
"He means he doesn't drink," I said, trying to be helpful.
"What about a cigar, then?" she asked.
"Tobacco is also forbidden if one wishes to preserve the vital forces," Harry told the potted palm.
"You?" she said to me. "Worried about your vital forces?"
I tugged at the lining of my pockets to signal that I had no money.
"Call me if you change your minds," she said, turning away.
"My God, Dash!" Harry cried. "These women are barely dressed!"
"1 hadn't noticed," I said.
"What sort of place is this?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"It's the sort of place where men go when they desire the society of ladies. I tried to tell you this earlier."
"The society of ladies? Would it not be better to remain at home? When I desire the society of-oh." His mouth contracted into a tight, open circle as the realization hit. "Oh," he said again.
"Harry, take a breath. Your face is bright red."
"We should leave this place."
"Fine by me."
"After all, it is hardly the sort of place where one is likely to find an English lord!"
"He's right over there."
"What?"
I pointed to the nearest of the green baize gaming tables, where Lord Randall Wycliffe, seventh earl of Pently-on-Horlake, was enjoying a hand of cards. He had a cigar clipped between the fingers of his left hand, and a glass of whiskey within easy reach. He did not seem at all troubled by any absence of aristocratic decorum.
"His lordship is younger than I imagined," Harry said.
"I know what you mean," I agreed. "He should have white hair and mutton chop whiskers. Maybe a cavalry sword."
We edged closer. The game was poker-five-card Betty-and his lordship appeared to be winning, judging by the tall stacks of blue and red wooden chips in front of him. Two older players sat scowling across the table at him, and a large knot of onlookers had gathered to see the handsome young foreigner relieve them of their money.
Harry and I stood and watched for a time. I'm no stranger to the game of poker, and it was clear that all three men were experienced players. The older men played a solid but conservative game-nursing a pair or three-of-a-kind, drawing two or three cards and hoping for the best. Lord Wycliffe, who played a riskier and more aggressive game, appeared to be toying with them. At the finish of each hand, when the bets were made, he would gaze across the table and sigh heavily, as if filled with regret over the failings of two particularly dim-witted pupils. Then he would lay down his hand to show a straight or a full house. "One has to take chances in this game," he said more than once. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"Dash," Harry whispered, "he's cheating."
"You spotted that, did you?"
"Is it not obvious? Does no one else see what's going on?"
"Harry, nobody here knows what to look for."
"It seems perfectly obvious to me. I can hardly be-lieve that anyone with a pair of eyes and a brain could allow himself to be taken by so craven a manipulation. One day I really must write up a book on this subject. Or a trifling monograph, at the very least."
'"How to Cheat at Cards'?"
"Something of that nature. If I may warn the unwary and deter the youth of this land from the fascinations of the green cloth, I shall feel that my efforts have not been in vain," He turned his attention back to Lord Wycliffe. "He's not even very good at it!" he said indignantly. "With a few simple lessons I could have improved his technique many times over."
"It seems good enough. He's making a pile."
"The Right Way to Do Wrong"
"What?"
"The title of my book. The Right Way to Do Wrong."
"Catchy."
We looked on as Lord Wycliffe won another hand and swept in his chips. A murmur of appreciation rose from the onlookers. A sallow blonde in a green satin concoction had now attached herself to his lordship, squeezing his arm and sending up a delighted laugh with each win.
"What shall we do?" Harry whispered. "We can't very well make an open accusation! He might take offense!"
"So?"
"Well, he might demand satisfaction!"
"A duel, you mean?" I turned and looked at the young Englishman, who was appraising the girl in green as though she might be a race horse. "He doesn't strike me as the type to go in for pistols at dawn. Harry, I have an idea."
"Yes?"
"You wanted to stay alert for whatever opportunity presented itself. We've been handed one on a platter. When I give you the signal, I want you to strip off your tailcoat and start doing those ridiculous 'muscular expansionism' exercises of yours. All right?''
"My exercises? But-"
"Just this once, Harry, follow my lead and do exactly as I say. When I give you the nod, go into the routine."
He continued to grumble through five more rounds of play, but I managed to ignore him. Lord Wycliffe, I noticed, was beginning to get cocky. Up to this point he had allowed himself to lose a hand occasionally, just to keep his marks hooked, but with his new blond friend at his side, he began to take every hand. At the finish of each game he would smirk and say, "Sorry, chaps," which was a phrase I had never before encountered outside of a penny dreadful.