Open Writing

Tonight had been a good night at the tables. He’d pocketed a fistful of notes once he’d cashed in his chips and now it was time to get out before the others finished the hand and smoked a final cigar together. But tomorrow first thing, he intended buying himself some smart new clothes, a new top hat and a cane and a couple of pairs of good shoes. These old ones were beginning to split at the seams and he was so ashamed of them he hid his feet under the table the moment he sat down.

But his dexterity with cards was as good as ever; his hands moved like lightning, faster than the eye could follow, his old tricks had not deserted him. He could substitute one card for another in a split second, draw another out of his cuff with the stealth of a cat delicately inching a moth out of a crack, and ease a third out of his belt while pretending to hitch his trousers. Never caused the slightest suspicion. He’d not been caught yet and never would be.

New worlds, new casinos, partners, friends…

But sooner or later they all began to blur into one long parade of faces, round and round they spun in his head, smirking and smiling, sneering and leering; bare shoulders, sexy upswept hair, jewels pendant from shell-like ears, flashing rings on pink-tipped fingers; all trying to impress him and grab his winnings. But oh no, he was too smart for them, he knew what they wanted and had no interest in furthering their acquaintance now or in the future; all he wanted was to win and for that he needed his wits about him, women were a distraction with no place in his life.

Peeling off his jacket and shucking off his tight new shoes, he sighed deeply and emptied his pockets, stuffing the thick wad deep into the bottom of the large Meissen vase on the mantelpiece. Deftly replacing the pierced glass flower holder, he carefully re-arranged the faded flowers and blew a dusting of cigarette ash over the leaves. ‘Nobody touched ‘em in months,’ he said, ‘that’ll do for now, ‘til I move on again.’

Exhausted, he fell into bed, and slept for fourteen hours. Waking, he bathed and shaved, dressed in clean linen and a well-cut suit. Picking up his silver-topped cane he stepped quietly into the passage and slipped down the stairs, closing the heavy front door silently behind him.

Hours later he returned, slipping quietly into his room where he changed his clothes and got ready for another night at the tables. Another good night and another pocketful of notes, the money was mounting up, soon he must find another hiding place, the present one wouldn’t take much more.

A night of heavy drinking and gambling followed until again, he rose from the table to cash in his chips. Hiding the night’s winnings he slept again, but failed to turn the key in the lock. Oblivious to the stealthy footsteps creeping towards the bed, his loud snores shook the window. Tiptoeing across the room, the dark figure reached a hand towards the Miessen vase, swiftly removed the decoration, extracted the contents and silently left the room.

Next morning, preceded by cheerful whistling and snatches of song, he carried his bags downstairs, paid his bill and called a cab. Giving directions to the driver, he loaded his luggage and settled on the cracked leather seats. Arriving at Waterloo he caught the morning express to Dover and a fast steamer to Calais and was never seen again.

Back in London, the night intruder removed the wad from her bag and, locking herself into the windowless room, unwrapped her prize.

“Christ! All it is, is a bloody pack o’ cards. An’ I thought he was hiding his winnings in the vase. I’ve been watching him through a crack in the door for weeks, and this is what he’s been up to. He’s duped us all and got away with millions. No wonder they call him the cleverest card-sharp in the business!”