The Murder League

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Oh, yes. Both she and her husband are quite clever.”

  He failed to explain this rather enigmatic statement until the two men had rounded up Tim Briggs, managed to find the bar and seated themselves in their favorite corner and had then ordered and been served with their usual. Briggs, being brought up to date on events, slid back in his chair and bobbed his tiny head.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I know the couple you mean. I’ve been watching them, as a matter of fact.”

  “Watching them?” Simpson said, surprised. He could easily understand anyone keeping an eye on the girl, but why anyone would want to watch the husband was beyond him.

  “Yes, indeed,” Briggs said, and picked up his glass.

  “What Tim means,” Carruthers said softly, “is that I asked him to keep an eye on the two of them in the card room—without their being aware of it—since the other day. And since Tim’s the smallest, it seemed most likely he could accomplish the mission with the least chance of failure.” He noted the query on Simpson’s face and answered it before it could be voiced. “I’ve been wondering when and just how they would manage to approach us; and feeling that you would make the most innocent-looking target of the three of us, I’m afraid we left you out of the secret.”

  “Secret?” Simpson was properly bewildered. He set aside both his cigar and his brandy, a sure sign of perturbation. “What secret? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Well,” Briggs said, taking the ball and running with it, “the two are cardsharpers. Twisters. This fellow Carpenter is an absolute master of manipulation. In our best days we couldn’t hold a candle to him. He can do things with cards that shouldn’t be allowed. And his wife has forty-five signals to take care of any contingencies, such as someone else dealing.” He shook his head, almost in admiration. “A real cute pair, believe me!”

  “And,” Carruthers said, moving into the breach smoothly, “as a threesome who have just picked up twenty thousand quid, a fact unfortunately widely publicized, it struck me as logical they should attempt to inveigle us into some game of chance.” He smiled gently and picked up his glass; it had all the air of his having stated verbally Q.E.D.

  Simpson stared at him, aghast.

  “And you and I are going to play bridge with those two? They being expert manipulators, and you with arthritis and me who has trouble shuffling the deck without dropping half the cards on the floor?”

  “We are, indeed,” Billy-boy Carruthers said simply. “And for as high stakes as we can manage to edge them into.” He considered the problem for several moments, sipping on champagne as if it whetted his brain—which it did. “I should say we might well get them up to sixpence a point. If we use our heads, of course. We’ll have to work out the necessary dialogue beforehand, you understand.”

  Simpson was stunned. The Corona in his hand burned itself to ash while he stared at his companions in horror.

  “Sixpence a point? Against professional cardsharpers? It’s madness! Insanity! They’ll wipe us out!” He suddenly seemed to realize he was talking nonsense, especially in view of the gentle smiles on the faces of his companions. He pulled on the cigar until it was once again back in business and smiled ruefully.

  “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I apologize. Obviously, Billy-boy, you have a scheme. I assume Briggs will be in the general neighborhood to—well, somehow manage signals to us?”

  Billy-boy Carruthers was honestly shocked. “Signals! I’m ashamed of you, Cliff!”

  “But, then how—”

  “This evening you shall—to coin a phrase—know all.” Carruthers glanced at his watch. “Incidentally, I suggest you take up on that nap that Mrs. Carpenter so fortuitously interrupted. And Tim and I shall do the same. To build up our strength, let us say.”

  Simpson did not argue. Briggs grinned across the table mischievously.

  “I have only one question,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “You keep voicing this deep concern for this—you’ll pardon me—idiotic American author who lost some book club sale because, in your words, we weren’t as moral in the past as we might have been. And yet, now you intend to take these card cheats for their life’s earnings, obviously by dishonest means. How do you square these two?”

  Billy-boy Carruthers was not at all dismayed by the question.

  “You do not understand,” he said calmly. “The ploy of the Biter-Bit is quite acceptable, even for the most puritanical of publishers. Or, at least,” he added somberly, reaching for his brandy, “I hope so, for the sake of our American colleague!”

  “Insomnia,” said Mr. Carruthers sadly. His heavy cheeks seemed to have assumed the dewlap quality of a weary beagle; his blue eyes suffered from lack of sufficient rest.

  “A terrible thing,” the library steward agreed sympathetically. He was still, however, a bit puzzled that the tragic matter should have been brought to his attention, especially at one in the morning just as he was in the process of locking up the card room for the night. It struck him that the ship’s surgeon was a much more logical person to approach, and being a man to whom the thought was father to the word, he voiced the suggestion. Mr. Carruthers shook his head.

  “Pills,” he intoned sepulchrally, making all pharmaceuticals sound like poison. “We aren’t allowed them, I’m afraid.”

  “But—” The library steward paused as he suddenly saw the light. He only refrained from smiting himself on the forehead because it always gave him a headache. “Of course! I’m a fool! You want a game of sorts to while away the time!”

  “Precisely!” Billy-boy’s smile was congratulatory; it seemed to wipe away the dewlaps instantly. “Cards, to be exact. We wouldn’t have troubled you, but the ship’s shop is closed at this hour—”

  “Oh, they don’t handle them in any event,” said the library steward and unlocked a drawer. He reached in, extracting a deck. “Here you are, Mr. Carruthers.”

  Billy-boy glanced into the drawer. “Most interesting, I must say! How many decks do you have?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, sir.” The library steward chuckled. “You won’t short us, Mr. Carruthers. Fifty decks of cards we carry, more or less, for the use of the passengers.”

  “Ah!” Mr. Carruthers said. It was plain to see he was pleased by this bit of information. “Excellent! That will allow us to pass the time playing Burmese solitaire!”

  “Burmese solitaire?”

  “An excellent game. It takes three people and fifty decks.”

  “Fifty decks?”

  “Exactly fifty, although it can also be played with forty-nine or fifty-one. Or even fifty-two,” Mr. Carruthers said, with the air of one wishing to be accurate.

  “But, then, sir—”

  “Worry not,” said Mr. Carruthers expansively, dipping into the drawer. “You shall have your fifty—or fifty-one—decks back by eight in the morning, long before the card room opens for the day. And they shall be as good as new. Better,” he added absently, filling his pockets.

  “I don’t believe I’m familiar with Burmese solitaire,” the steward said with a frown, and then added, remembering, “Sir.”

  “Few people are. Which reminds me.” Mr. Carruthers paused in his labors, sounding as if he were answering the implied question in the other’s words. “One thing, steward. As you know, we are—were—are, writers by profession. It is our intention in the not-too-distant future to put into print the vast intricacies of Burmese solitaire and thus slake this universal thirst for knowledge of the game. Until that time, naturally, the greatest secrecy is demanded. It obviously would not do to try and sell a book explaining a game if everyone was already familiar with the game. Surely you can see that.”

  “Oh, I do, sir—I do!” said the steward fervently. “It wouldn’t make any sense at all. I can see that. I shan’t say a word.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” said Mr. Carruthers approvingly and continued loading the pockets of his ecru suit.

  The card room of the S.S. Sunderland ha
d the advantage of being properly screened from the Main Salon of the ship by a bronze grillwork while still being within hailing distance of the bar stewards who serviced the general area, and for this reason the Messrs. Simpson and Carruthers were able to maintain contact with the source of supply from time to time and thus stave off polydipsia. Both Mr. Max and Mrs. Mazie Carpenter, watching the brandy and champagne disappear at an amazing rate, could only pleasantly assume that what Max’s ability with the pasteboards failed to accomplish, the ministrations of Bacchus were sure to do. The Carpenters were therefore more than disappointed—if that is not too slight a word—when, in fact, the fruit of the vine seemed to make the two old men luckier than ever.

  Mr. Carruthers arranged his cards, spread them for study and smiled in a genial manner first at one opponent and then at the other.

  “Four hearts,” he said, and closed his cards.

  Mr. Carpenter stared at him. He had difficulty believing his ears.

  “I open a spade and you jump to four hearts?” He gazed back into his own hand, as if to be sure he had the cards he knew he had dealt himself. They were, indeed, all present and accounted for. He shook his head and smiled. His smile was genuine for the first time that morning. “I’m afraid I must double that.”

  “Fear not,” said Mr. Simpson. He hiccuped, apologized vaguely and then nodded. “Redouble,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  The proper number of passes having been made, Mr. Carpenter led a card. The swift manner in which Mr. Carruthers then proceeded to haul in the tricks and the undoubtedly inspired finesses he made not only to make his contract but to garner an overtrick left the Carpenters sweating more than slightly. Unless the old so-and-so had x-ray eyes or was in league with the devil, he was doing the impossible.

  “I say,” said Mr. Carruthers, looking up apologetically after he had marked down the score. “I’m afraid we’re being terribly poor winners. Could we offer you something to drink?”

  “I don’t drink when I’m work—playing cards,” Mr. Carpenter said a bit abruptly, and turned in his seat, raising his voice. “Steward! A fresh deck, please!” He turned back to the table, the falseness of his apology a sad thing to behold. “Just like to change my luck.”

  “Just as well,” Mr. Carruthers agreed politely. “Cards were getting a bit smudged at that.”

  Mr. Simpson considered the score pad owlishly.

  “And your luck could stand changing at that.” His big greenish eyes came up warm with sympathy. “Are you sure you want to play for stakes this large? As I told Mrs. Carpenter when I met her yesterday, we were—or rather, still are, I imagine—the champions of our club …”

  Mr. Carpenter gritted his teeth and came to a decision. As he was the first to proclaim at all times, decisions made in the heat of anger are for suckers, but he could not hold back the words. They seemed to pop from his mouth by themselves.

  “You’re right, you know,” he said. “The stakes are all wrong. How about doubling them?”

  Both Carruthers and Simpson looked startled. Carruthers finally spoke.

  “We’ve never played for more than a penny a hundred before, and here we are at a shilling a point! A shilling, do you realize? And you’re speaking of two shillings a point?” He pondered. “I really don’t know—”

  “That luck of yours can’t last forever,” Mr. Carpenter said, trying to sound jovial and missing it by a mile. “Thought you English were whatchacall sporting. Ought to give us a chance to get a little of our own back.”

  “He’s right, Billy-boy,” Simpson said. He seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with his words. He sipped at his brandy, took a fair draft of champagne and patted his forehead. “I say,” he said, turning to include Mrs. Carpenter in the conversation, “it’s a bit warm in here, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” she said, and clamped her jaw shut.

  Mr. Carpenter accepted the new deck from the steward and paused.

  “Well? How about it?”

  Mr. Carruthers sighed. “If you insist.”

  “Swell!” Max Carpenter slit the deck open with an expertly trained thumbnail, riffled the cards with a speed that defied the imagination and set about fixing himself an unbeatable slam. The time for subtlety was long past, he felt; the effects of four large brandies and half a bottle of champagne in the digestive tracts of each of their two opponents—and not even ten-thirty in the morning, yet—was clearly visible. He felt he could probably deal the cards face up without encountering too much argument from the old men. He completed the arrangement to his satisfaction and placed the deck before Mr. Carruthers for a cut he knew he could easily obviate. Mr. Carruthers’ arthritis, aided and abetted by his multiple brandies, inclined to make him slightly sloppy, but he finally managed the cut, though it took him several tries and he had to straighten the cards as he pushed them back. Mr. Carpenter winked across the table at his wife, expertly dealt the cards, picked up his hand with a slight flourish and almost fainted.

  “Hey!” he said. “These aren’t—” He forced the words down his throat, though they gagged him. Mr. Carruthers was watching him calmly. “I pass,” Mr. Carpenter said falteringly.

  “I say!” Simpson said, arranging his cards and beaming. “You do deal wizard! I’ll have a crack at two spades, if I may!”

  “Pass!” said Mrs. Carpenter, barely containing a hiss, her eyes two dark smudges promising her husband a time he’d never forget once the bridge session was over.

  “Oh, I say!” Mr. Carruthers studied his hand carefully, moved one card from one spot to another and looked up. “Two spades, you said, partner? Did I understand it was two spades? Well, we can’t really let it go at that, can we? What about six spades?”

  And so the session went.…

  A group of players had slowly given up their own games to come and gather about the table as the play continued and word of the size of the stakes became known. Each miraculous defense play by the Mystery Authors Club champions, proving in each case the only possible means of defeating a hand, led the gallery to ecstatic “ohs” and “ahs”; each fantastic finesse or end play, every squeeze or coup seemingly anticipated from the very first card, brought admiring whispers from the growing group. Three more times Mr. Carpenter called for new decks; each one, if anything, seemed to bring him worse luck. Once he actually made the gaffe of staring at his talented hands as if wondering if they were betraying him, but a sharp kick on the shins from his partner made him quickly change the gesture into a minute inspection of his manicured fingernails.

  In the crowd behind the four players, Sir Percival watched in profound admiration. There were several things his eagle eye noted and transmitted instantly to his giant brain: one, the Carpenters were professional card cheats and deuced good at it; and two, the old boys were making the cardsharps look like rank amateurs. Just how they were managing to do it, Sir Percival had no idea, but he was sure it was not through equal card manipulation nor through any extraordinary ability at the game of bridge. Whatever their gimmick was, he had to admit it was beyond his ken, and this irked him. Sir Percival was an avid bridge player who played for extremely high stakes, and while he was acknowledged to be one of the best in Britain, he still wouldn’t have eschewed whatever trick the old men had up their sleeves. He was honest enough, however, to recognize he was probably the last person in the world to whom they would reveal their secret.

  A deep voice sounded in his ear; he turned to find himself facing his old friend of many years and voyages, Captain Manley-Norville. The Captain was watching the play with narrowed eyes.

  “Quite skillful, eh?”

  Sir Percival smiled. “Which ones?”

  Captain Manley-Norville smiled at his old friend briefly, but it was a smile that tilted his lips slightly while it did nothing to the bushy brows nor the steady gray eyes.

  “Which ones would you say?”

  Sir Percival laughed. “I’m the barrister, remember? I asked you first. Which ones would you say
?”

  “A good question; that’s what I’d say,” Captain Manley-Norville replied enigmatically and continued to watch the match with a thoughtful expression on his handsome face.

  “Down three doubled and vulnerable,” said Simpson, referring to the last hand played by the Carpenters, and marked down the score. His eyes came up. “My, my! This is somewhat of a rout, I’m afraid. Are you sure you want to continue at these stakes?”

  “Shut up—I mean shuffle the cards and deal,” said Max Carpenter between clenched teeth, and he stared fixedly at the cards as they slid across the table toward him, rather than look up and meet his wife’s baleful glare.…

  Buy Rub-a-Dub-Dub Now!

  About the Author

  Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.

  Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.