Sir Percival smote himself on the brow.
“It must be the sea air. I remember being taken to Brighton as a child and not being able to manage the penny machine without a penny, a problem I never faced back home in London.”
“The betting,” Simpson reminded him.
“Of course. I apologize for the oversight. Well,” said Sir Percival, “it works like this: if you have a higher value hand than your opponent—or opponents, as the case may be—you place a wager to the limit that the game is being played for. If you consistently wager the maximum and win, this of itself will cast suspicion upon you. However, after your bet, the others may do one of three things: either drop out of the play and admit defeat, in which case you pick up the money; or they may choose to meet your wager, in which case you compare cards and the higher value hand—in this case, invariably yourself— will win; or thirdly, they may exhibit excessive cooperation with our purposes and not only meet the wager but even raise it.”
“Raise it? What does that mean?”
“I was about to come to that,” Sir Percival said a trifle chidingly. “They may place an amount of money equal to your wager upon the table and then add a sum of money to it. This extra sum is called a raise. In this case you will meet this extra wager and add, yourself, the maximum amount permitted by the rules of the game. This merry chase continues until your opponent begins to suspect that he may not, truly, have the best hand. At this time he will merely call you.”
He saw Simpson open his mouth and hastened to define the new term.
“By calling, I mean he will merely meet your wager. At which time—”
“We turn over our cards and I pick up the money.”
“Precisely,” Sir Percival said, and beamed. His beam faded somewhat as he considered his partner-in-crime across the table. “What we have been discussing, of course,” he added, “is totally dependent upon your betting when you know you have the better hand. You do know how to read the backs of those cards, don’t you?”
“Of course. I told you. Top row of portholes, spades. Second row—”
Sir Percival interrupted. “And the value of the poker hands is clear in your mind? Although, even during the play of a hand, you may freely refer to your napkin if you wish.”
“I know. There’s just one thing, though—”
Sir Percival, who had been in the act of rising for the fourth time, fell back once again. He was beginning to feel like a toy condemned to a rocking action forever, or until its spring ran down.
“What is it this time?”
“Well, suppose I don’t have the best hand?”
Sir Percival stared at him.
“Then, quite obviously, you do not play that hand. You drop your cards as if they were aflame. You leave yourself out of the action. Is that clear?”
“Oh, ah! Don’t have to play them all, eh?”
“No,” said Sir Percival heavily, “You do not have to play them all.”
“Good-O.” There was a moment’s silence while Sir Percival waited; he was sure Simpson would think of something else. He was not mistaken. “But are you sure they’ll suspect cheating?”
“Let me put it to you this way,” Sir Percival said. “If I sat down with a beginner at the game of poker—and a beginner who had a napkin with a list of values he constantly referred to—and he bet the maximum each time he stayed in a hand, and he won every hand he played—well, I’m afraid I should seriously suspect that the theory of probabilities was receiving help from someone; and not being a particularly religious man, I’m afraid I wouldn’t accept divine assistance as the answer.”
He started to his feet and then sank down again. This time, however, the fault was his own. One thing needed to be said that had not been said.
“By the way, I intend to play so that you are the winner in any hand possible. In other words, if a hand comes down to myself and you, I shall drop out and allow you to win, whether my hand is better or not. Is that clear?”
“Quite,” Simpson said, and he suddenly looked across the table with a shrewdness Sir Percival had not suspected. “No sense in having any potential killers chasing after two victims, is there?”
For several minutes Sir Percival returned the even stare of the other, and then he came to his feet. Years of experience had taught him never to lie when it was unnecessary.
“Quite,” he said, and moved toward the door leading from the bar.
The four men sitting around the poker table in the northwest corner of the card room off the Main Salon were having a hard time of it. The screams of delight mixed with the despairing shrieks of woe emanating from the southeast corner; the clangor of recipes being exchanged intermingled with the bewildered cries of “Whose turn is it to play?”—in short, the usual racket produced by five women gathered anywhere at any time for any occasion was hard to bear. Add to this the fact that originally there had been five players in the poker game but one man had dropped out preferring—he said—to go down to the engine room and get some peace and quiet, and the attitude of the men at the table can be understood.
Four players do not a poker game make, or at least not the type of game these men preferred, so the sight of Simpson and Sir Percival approaching brought hope to the hearts of the four. Even the women seemed to reduce their racket a decibel or two at sight of the famous barrister. Sir Percival stood behind one man and smiled genially about the group.
“Room for two more?”
“A pleasure.” The words were bounced about the table, the tone in most cases genuinely hospitable.
“Absolute duffers, you know.”
“All the better,” said one, a pleasant-faced man named Wilkins, raking in the chips at the moment. The others smiled at the mot.
“Good-O, then,” said Sir Percival and drew up a chair. Simpson took a place well separated from his co-conspirator, while the man at his left—a huge man named Marmaduke Montmorency, who looked as if he had not only been forced to fight daily to defend his name but had come to enjoy it (the fighting, not the name)—turned and called to the library steward in a harsh voice.
“New blood calls for a new deck, Steward.”
He gathered up the old deck and pushed the cards aside. Sir Percival picked them up, checking the backs to see if his memory was in order and then, reassured that it was, put them on an adjoining table. The sextet waited patiently while the steward disappeared into the library to return a moment later and place a packet on the table.
“You can shuffle and deal,” said the huge man, pushing the new deck toward Simpson. “New man and all that, you know.” He made it sound much more a command than a request. One finger thick as a sausage pushed the deck before Simpson. The tiny hard eyes of the huge fellow peered at Simpson accusingly. “What’s your game?”
Simpson swallowed; he could feel himself getting pale.
“My game?” He forced sincerity into his voice. “Believe me, sir, I merely wanted to play some poker. I assure you there was no ulterior motive behind it at all. . . .”
The other men at the table laughed with enjoyment at the clever response to the age-old question, but the huge man did not seem to find it all that comical. His bushy eyebrows rose dangerously.
“Oh, a joker, eh?”
“Is that like a one-eyed jack? Because I don’t play with wild cards.” There was a touch of pride in Simpson’s voice; he had not forgotten.
Sir Percival thought it time to intervene.
“The gentleman was simply asking which particular form of poker you intend to deal, Clifford.”
“Oh!” Simpson smiled in embarrassment. He placed his napkin in plain view, picked up the deck and sliced the seal while thinking. He looked about, pleased to have arrived at a decision. “I say, how about a round of stallion?”
“Stallion?” asked Mr. Wilkins.
“Yes. I’m sure you all must be familiar with it; I understand it’s one of the more common forms of the game. One places one card face downward before each pl
ayer and then deals the balance of the hand with the faces of the cards open for inspection.”
The laughter returned, sweeping the table. This Simpson was really a card!
“I think you mean stud,” said Mr. Wilkins.
“Do I?” Simpson concentrated and then nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He smiled in friendly fashion, pleased that he had amused the others, even if unwittingly. Even Sir Percival seemed pleased; the true reason being, of course, that nobody had ever given such a poor performance before. Winning was bound to set Simpson off as the most inept card cheat of all times.
Only the huge Mr. Montmorency didn’t appear to be entertained. His grating voice jarred through the laughter. “Deal!”
“Oh. Of course. Sorry.”
Simpson slipped the cards from the deck face upward, removed the two jokers and began to shuffle them. A few riffles in this position and he turned them over. Suddenly he blanched; his eyes rose in horror.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Wilkins asked in a tone of concern.
“I do believe I’m going to be sick,” said Simpson in a small voice, and meant it.
Sir Percival glanced across the table and then cast his eyes toward the ceiling in supplication. Before Simpson the cards did not exhibit the S.S. Sunderland with its neat four rows of portholes; the backs of these cards showed a gaily colored bird leaning dangerously from the limb of a lush tree in some exotic glade. . . .
11
“The ruddy library steward said—” Simpson changed his tone of voice, raising it slightly, giving a fair imitation of the prissy voice of the steward. “ ‘The Captain had some extra decks in his digs—private like, sir—and he told me to offer them in case you, Mr. Simpson, wished to play cards. I had no idea he had them, sir, but wasn’t that thoughtful of him? And those birds; my, aren’t they pretty? Don’t you think so, sir?’ No,” Simpson went on, resuming his normal tone, “I didn’t think them pretty!”
“The Captain, eh?” Carruthers looked thoughtful. “I had a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach that our uniformed Charon wasn’t as stupid as he looked.” He sighed and shook his head. “What did Pugh say? And where is he, by the way?”
“He didn’t say anything,” Simpson said. “After I excused myself from the game, he stayed on, playing. Picked up the cards, shuffled them right smartly, and dealt them.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “The game ought to be breaking up soon, though. Getting on toward lunch time, you know.”
“That’s our bloody barrister for you,” Briggs said with bitter accusation from the adjoining cell. “Here we are in the bloody brig and he’s off playing bloody cards.”
“He may still learn something, though, you know,” Simpson said with a thoughtful frown. “I watched for a few moments and he seemed to hold the deck in the same fashion as that Carpenter chap. You know, fingers curled around the edge of the deck? And Pugh won the first three hands in a row. . . .”
“Oh, ah?” Carruthers smiled brightly. “You may be right. He may still learn something from the game.”
“Cheating, eh?” said Briggs with fine illogic, and sniffed disdainfully. “I’m not surprised. Just his cup of tea, plan or no plan! He’s just a twister at heart!”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their meal trays, brought from some mysterious source around a bend in the corridor by James V. King. He set them on the floor until he could unlock the doors and deliver them to the tables in the small cells, but at no time did he allow his watchful eyes to waver for one instant from his prisoners. It made for a dangerous journey as far as the soup was concerned, but the salad, joint and trifle made it without trouble. Simpson, peering in as his friends sat down to their meal, seemed surprised at the fare. Carruthers saw the look on his face and properly interpreted it. “No,” he said gently. “No vermin.”
“So I see. I say,” Simpson went on, turning to the suspicious warder who had retired to his stool and was keeping a sharp eye on the tall thin man to make sure he didn’t surreptitiously take a bottle of acid from his pocket and attack the bars, “I don’t suppose you could manage to arrange another tray—?”
To his complete amazement, King, James V. rose to his feet with alacrity and started off down the corridor, but his surprise turned to disappointment when he saw the action had not been occasioned by any desire to furnish Simpson with nourishment; it had been prompted by the approach of Sir Percival Pugh. The master-at-arms put the requisite distance between himself and the cells and then settled down on his heels, taking his usual broom straw from one of his many pockets and applying it to his teeth. The famous barrister came up, smiled first at Simpson who was the nearest and then treated the two imprisoned men to equal time as far as his smile was concerned.
Carruthers put down his knife and fork, but Briggs continued to sustain himself, keeping a watchful eye on their visitor as he did so. Sir Percival nodded to him pleasantly and seated himself on the small stool.
“Bon appétit.”
Briggs made no acknowledgment of this politeness, continuing to chew on his joint. Carruthers studied Sir Percival’s face. “Any luck?”
Sir Percival nodded. “Quite a bit, actually. Sixty-four pounds, eight shillings, fourpence. Really not bad, considering the smallness of the stakes. Half of which sum,” he continued, turning to Simpson, “is, technically, I suppose, yours. Although, under the circumstances, I hardly think—”
“No, no!” Carruthers said impatiently. “I mean any luck in determining which of the men you played with might have killed the Carpenters? That was the idea of the game, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was,” Sir Percival admitted, “but I’m afraid that part was a bit of a washout.” He shook his head. “An amazingly complacent group. I did everything but reach across the table and help myself to their chips, and not a peep out of any of them.” Simpson was properly astounded. “Not even that huge chap with the ugly mug?”
Carruthers looked from one to the other. “Who?”
“A chap,” Sir Percival explained, “named—believe it or not —Marmaduke Montmorency. As Clifford correctly states, large and unpretty. He offered his name to me more as a challenge, I do believe, than for any other purpose. He seemed to calm down considerably, however, when he heard mine. In fact, I believe I noted a touch of sympathy in his attitude from then on.”
“He looked the sort who would stuff a chap through a porthole just for the laughs,” Simpson said. “Do you mean he allowed you to cheat him openly and said nothing?”
“That is precisely what I mean. Oh, he frowned once or twice, but that could have been headache. Mr. Montmorency really isn’t a bad chap, you know. Large in the shoulders, but small in the brainpan, I’m afraid. I’m not even sure he knew he was being cheated. Wilkins, now—”
“Who?” Simpson frowned.
“The one who brayed whenever you said anything. His attitude with me was more chiding than anything else. He runs a small bookmaking establishment in the near East End and his outlook seemed to be that if he attempted my tactics with his customers, he’d be out of business in a week. Possibly,” Sir Percival added, “with a broken back.”
“What about the others?”
Sir Percival’s broad brow wrinkled in concentration.
“There was a certain Arthur Tompkins, the one on my left. The one with the bifocal glasses,” he added for the benefit of Simpson’s recollection. “A certified accountant, by profession. I recall we split one hand—equal flushes, not a particularly simple thing to arrange. At any rate, I elected myself to divide the money in the pot. I took two shillings for each one I slid across the table to him. And still not the slightest argument.”
“But why?” Carruthers demanded.
Sir Percival shrugged. “Possibly the man is weak in mathematics. . . .
Simpson wasn’t through with his catechism. “And that chap on your right?”
“A certain James Wellington. What he does in private life I do not know; but if he does not condu
ct his affairs with more acumen than he exhibited during that poker game, he’ll never be a client of mine. He won’t be able to afford it.”
“But why?” Carruthers repeated, a touch of desperation in his voice. “Why? Why would any one of them, let alone all of them, let you get away with it? Without one of them saying a word?”
“I can think of several reasons,” Sir Percival said seriously, and then allowed his seriousness to dissolve into a soft smile, “none of which I am prepared at this moment to divulge.”
“Great!” It was Briggs, entering the conversation the way he entered a room, bursting in with disgust. He had finished his trifle, cleaned his plates with his tongue and reseated them and was now girded for battle, energy from the joint flowing through his veins. “So all that came out of that fancy plan was that you picked yourself up thirty-odd pounds. Because regardless of how you feel about it, half of that money belongs to Cliff!”
“If you insist,” Sir Percival said equably. “Actually, as you know, the cards were supposed to be recognizably marked, easing our task, and they were not. And my idea was to stake Clifford out as a sort of sacrificial goat, and again I was forced to take his place. However, I must admit the role seems to have ended up on the cutting-room floor, so I shall not argue the point.”
“And what are your plans now?” Carruthers asked anxiously. “We’re still in here and the murderer is still outside someplace. What’s your next scheme? Scheme number one seems to have failed dismally.”
“Scheme number two,” Sir Percival reminded him. There was a touch of rebuke in his voice. “My scheme number one entailed saddling any one of a number of people with the crime or crimes and later, once we are all back home in England, defend him and get him off. I still like it, you know,” he added gently.
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