"Those crimes," he called over his shoulder, "are the work of 'Baloney' Belting, all right."
CHAPTER II.
PLEASURE BEFORE BUSINESS.
Bright sunlight beat down from a blue-black, cloudless sky. The shore line of the Pacific Ocean showed below as a shivering turquoise, separated from the shore line by a silver strand.
The big plane nosed downward. The shore line slipped away to the right. The succession of parched, brown hills stretched away to the left, until they rose abruptly into jagged, barren peaks, back of which lay desert. The sun glinted from the roofs of Tijuana.
The motors abruptly ceased their thrusting song of power. Agua Caliente showed for a moment between wing and fuselage. A magnificent array of buildings, glinting in sun-swept whites and tile reds. Jax Bowman turned to Big Jim Grood and nodded.
The two were the only passengers on the plane, and plans called for a very subtle bit of character acting, when the wheels of the plane touched the landing field.
The plane circled once, slid down on a sharp angle, a succession of jolts ran from the wheels through the wings and fuselage. The plane came to a stop. A lad in uniform opened a door. Jax Bowman and his companion stepped out into the dazzling sunlight, a sunlight so bright, an atmosphere so dry that the shadows seemed blotches of black, and the highlights as much a strain on the eye as the welding spot of an acetylene torch.
The pair were escorted to a car, and within the space of minutes, stood within the beautiful lobby at the Agua Caliente resort.
Gone was the swift purpose from the manner of Jax Bowman. Gone was the aggressive directness of Big Jim Grood. The two men looked and acted like Eastern millionaires out for a time of play, careless of expense. They made no inquiry whatever about prices, demanding only the best.
A Mexican boy showed them to their suite.
"Now," said Jax Bowman, "we've got to be careful not to appear too prosperous or respectable. The murder of a really prominent man would be investigated. What we've got to do is to act as though we'd made a clean-up in a bucket shop, and we're spending the money on the principle of easy come, easy go."
"Okay," Jim Grood said, "let's go. A couple of drinks of this excellent port, and I'll feel a lot more like acting the part."
The big resort is planned for play on a large and luxurious scale. The two men, who had upon occasion played such grim parts in the extermination of criminal gangs, caught the spirit of the surroundings. With happy smiles twisting their lips, they flung money right and left in a mad abandon of spending.
An unobtrusive Mexican gentleman, of faultless manners, brushed against Bowman and begged his pardon with profuse courtesy. Bowman's ready friendliness matched the other's courtesy. There were a few questions and then Bowman was telling the story of his life—a life of slick promotions, quick profits, periods of hectic enjoyment, then other promotions, each promotion one of those shady affairs which left investors holding the sack.
This time he hinted, with just a suggestion of reticence, that his activities had been unusually profitable, but that narrow-minded postal authorities had threatened an investigation, and so he had decided to take a "vacation."
The courteous Mexican gentleman was very much interested, but not particularly communicative. Soon he moved away, and, within the course of minutes, the management of the hotel had a code notation upon a card describing Jax Bowman; the sky was the limit so long as he paid cash. His credit was nil.
The house detective then moved on to Big Jim Grood.
The men enjoyed a lunch in a patio where everything was a riot of color, not the harsh colors that are hard on the eye and nerve, but a profusion of pastel shades that filled the eye with the rhythm of beauty just as the ear is filled with music. They took a siesta through the long afternoon, and by evening were ready to take a whirl at the gambling tables.
Their system was carefully agreed upon. They were, so far as possible, to keep bystanders from knowing whether they were winning or losing. They were to play after the manner of plungers, but never to be seen losing steadily. Chips were scattered over the roulette board so that it took quick mental arithmetic to tell whether the winnings exceeded the losses. They were scattered about sufficiently so that at almost every turn of the wheel there were some winnings. As soon as there were several consecutive turns of the wheel without winnings, they were to quit for a period, only to return for another whirl at the tiger after a short recess.
It was a system that worked perfectly. It is, moreover, the system used by professional gamblers who have reduced the art of chance-taking to an absolute science. "Win while you're hot, quit when you're cold. Ride your good luck to the limit. Plunge while you're winning. Make the most out of every winning streak. When you can't win, quit."
Back of every gambling device is what is known as the "hidden percentage"—a percentage which is founded upon psychology, rather than upon mechanics or mathematics; it is a phase of human psychology which makes it natural for a man to lose more than he wins. It is the tendency that makes a man, who is not a natural gambler, play conservatively when he is enjoying a winning streak, sends him doggedly "fighting his luck" when he runs into a losing streak.
Jax Bowman got hot.
The whirring wheel almost invariably clicked the balls into pockets which corresponded with the numbers where Jax Bowman was making his very sizable bets.
The play grew rapid. It was almost impossible for any one to estimate the exact amount of Bowman's winnings, but even a casual observer could see that they were tremendous.
The management resorted to the device of changing croupiers, trying to break the run of luck by shattering that mysterious something which a good gambler can feel as plainly as he can feel the surge of warmth in his veins following the first two cocktails of the evening.
Jax Bowman continued to win.
Big Jim Grood, who had not been so fortunate, ceased playing altogether in order to watch his companion. Bowman changed his chips frequently, keeping the extent of his winnings concealed, crowding his luck to the limit, his bets constantly higher, his winnings constantly greater.
There followed a lull in the winning. The crowd of hangers-on, that had pushed about the table, eager to ride on the crest of Bowman's luck by placing their own bets on the squares which he had covered, gradually started making bets elsewhere, subtle acknowledgment of the fact that the player has exhausted his winning streak. The croupier settled down to the welcome task of getting the chips back as Bowman's tide of fortune turned.
Bowman smiled urbanely, but his eyes were determined.
"I'm going to check out," he said.
There was the scurry of much activity. A suave manager appeared. Certainly the señor was not checking out from the hotel? His vacation had but just commenced. Bowman explained to him that he was not checking out of the hotel, merely temporarily cashing in his checks. The suave individual smiled courteously, assisted Bowman to transfer his checks into money.
There were various rumors circulated about the crowd as to the amount of that money. The amount did not shrink any as it passed from lip to lip in awed whispers.
The night was still young, and Jax Bowman, flushed with the pleasure of winning, strolled to the bar, had two drinks of mellow port and then walked beamingly through the lobby of the hotel.
A dark-eyed Spanish girl managed, with an indirect approach that seemed utterly innocent, to engage Bowman in conversation.