TheSilverCurtain - (EPUB全文下载)

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THE SILVER CURTAIN
The croupier’s wrist moved with such fluent ease as to seem boneless. Over the green baize its snaky activity never hesitated, never wavered, never was still. His rake, like an enormous butter-pat, attracted the cards, flicked them up, juggled them, and slid them in a steady stream through the slot of the table.No voice was raised in the Casino at La Bandelette. There was much casualness; hardly any laughter. The tall red curtains and the padded red floors closed in a sort of idle concentration at a dozen tables. And out of it, at table number six, the croupier’s monotone droned on.“Six mille. Banco? Six mille. Banco? Banco?”“Banco,” said the young Englishman across the table. The cards, white and grey, slipped smoothly from the shoe. And the young man lost again.The croupier hadn’t time to notice much. The people round him, moving in hundreds through the season, were hardly human beings at all. There was a calculating machine inside his head; he heard its clicks, he watched the run of its numbers, and it was all he had time for. Yet so acutely were his senses developed that he could tell almost within a hundred francs how much money the players at his table still retained. The young man opposite was nearly broke.(Best to be careful. This perhaps means trouble.)Casually the croupier glanced round his table. There were five players, all English, as was to be expected. There was the fair-haired girl with the elderly man, obviously her father, who had a bald head and looked ill; he breathed behind his hand. There was the very heavy, military-looking man whom someone had addressed as Colonel March. There was the fat, sleek, swarthy young man with the twisty eyebrows (dubious English?), whose complacency had grown with his run of luck and whose wallet stuffed with mille notes lay at this elbow. Finally, there was the young man who lost so much.The young man got up from his chair.He had no poker face. The atmosphere about him was so desperately embarrassed that the fair-haired girl spoke.“Leaving, Mr Winton?” she asked.“Er – yes,” said Mr Winton. He seemed grateful for that little help thrown into his disquiet. He seized at it; he smiled back at her. “No luck yet. Time to get a drink and offer up prayers for the next session.”(Look here, thought Jerry Winton, why stand here explaining? It’s not serious. You’ll get out of it, even if it does mean a nasty bit of trouble. They all know you’re broke. Stop standing here laughing like a gawk, and ge ............

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