Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Jamie's narrow light added to his own, Z looking carefully at the same cards Jamie had inspected, he suddenly saw what she'd been talking about. Though invisible to the naked eye, through the glasses, he could see that tiny spots had been inked on the cards' backs.

  Marked cards! Wearing these special -- polaroid? -- glasses, a player could see spots no one else in the game would notice. Making it a dead cinch that, because Kunkle marked his cards, he was a gambler.

  Moreover a crooked one!

  Z soothed his wounded pride by telling himself that, if he'd known about the glasses trick, he would have seen the same thing Jamie had.

  Z took off the glasses. Set them down.

  Meanwhile, Jamie had picked up the worn deck again.

  Running her fingers along the sides of the pack -- twice -- she laughed, her husky voice in the silent house sounding like a donkey's bray.

  "He must have kept forgetting his own marking system, or else he had bad eyesight. Otherwise, why bother to rig a cut?" Again, she was using terminology Z had never heard.

  Apparently seeing that Z was puzzled, Jamie cut the deck, lifting up the pack to show Z that the Ace of Spades was on the bottom. Jamie shuffled the deck. Cut again. Ace of spades on the bottom.

  "How ....?"

  "Maybe it's the way I shuffle," she said with a wry smile. "Here, you shuffle."

  Z did. Three times.

  He handed the deck back to Jamie, who made another cut before upending the deck. Ace of Spades on the bottom.

  "OK," Z said, willing at last to admit that little Jamie had special knowledge he didn't. "How?"

  "Kunkle shaved the deck. What you do is, you take out the card that, after the deck is cut, you want to appear on the bottom. Putting the other cards back in the pack, you sandpaper the edges of the deck. That makes the other cards bow in just a little along their sides. When you put the unsanded card back in and run your fingers up the sides of the deck, your fingers automatically "stick" on the unshaved card, that card now a little wider than the rest. When you cut, you cut at that card, making that card the bottom card. Most gamblers are more sophisticated than to make the bottom card the Ace of Spades, however. That's rather obvious. Overdoing it. Of course, when Kunkle is the dealer, he could deal seconds."

  "Seconds?"

  "Deal off the bottom. Got to watch a dealer whose fingers are flapping on the hand holding the deck. A sure sign he's dealing off the bottom."

  "How did you ...?"

  "Just part of my job when working for the city. I've been put into games so I could testify in court. Not much gets past little Jamie Stewart!"

  Grudgingly, Z could believe it.

  "One time, incredible as it sounds, there was a game in which the pigeon actually let himself be seated with a mirror behind him, the others able to see his hand in the mirror. Can you believe that? The raw stupidity of the human animal never ceases to amaze."

  Z wondered if he would have thought of being seated in front of a mirror. Maybe not, but then he never played cards. The last time he could remember even holding cards was when he'd played "war" as a child.

  "On another occasion" -- Jamie was in her lecture mode -- "there were spectators, a lady kibitzer knitting. By knitting slow or fast, she was giving signals to her partner who was in the game." Jamie shook her pretty head. Picked up one of the unopened packs. "I wouldn't want to play with these sealed decks, either."

  "But if the wrapping's still on ..."

  "Someone's been tampering with the seals. If you can steam them off intact," she pointed to the cellophane wraps Kunkle had gotten off, "you can put them back on after the deck's been marked.

  "Let's see." Picking up what Z had taken to be an unopened deck, she shucked off the cellophane wrapper to thumb through the new cards inside. "Yep. I was right. These have been pre-dented. Which is also something of a surprise. Whoever did this, wasn't all that good a crook, if you ask me. What you normally do is, if you're dealt a card you want to keep track of, you dent it with your fingernail. When you're the dealer later on, you can feel the dent as you deal. That way, you know who got that particular card!" She frowned. "But pre-denting?" She shrugged her huggable shoulders.

  "Never heard of that," Z said, impressed.

  "First law. Don't gamble with people you don't know. Second law. Never play with professionals."

  They seemed like good rules.

  Since it was established that Jamie knew about card cheats and Z didn't, he might as well ask. "What's a glib?"

  "Glim," Susan corrected. "This little mirror." She picked it up. "What you do -- using this instant glue," she pointed to the small tube, "is stick the mirror to the palm of the hand you use to hold the deck. When dealing, remembering to cup your hand so only you can see the reflection, all you have to do is make certain a corner of each card passes over the mirror as you deal. That way, if you're quick, and your memory's good, by the time you've finished dealing, you know every card in every player's hand. Takes some of the fun out of gambling, but has the cheat crying all the way to the bank."

  "The alcohol?"

  "That's new. I'd bet anything the small-timer who did this," she pointed at the items on the desk, "couldn't get the hang of that. In Vegas, they're having trouble with people surreptitiously swiping alcohol over the back of key cards. The alcohol evaporates, so there's no sign of it. The trick is, that someone with super-sensitive feeling can tell the difference between a treated and an untreated card. Like in the days of Jesse James, when a safe cracker twiddled the dials of a bank vault to feel for the faint vibrations when the lock tumblers fell in place. A genuine mechanic would first sandpaper his fingertips. Sort of bring the nerves to the surface as a way to improve his touch."

  Z couldn't help but shudder.

  So, he thought, trying to forget the agony of raw fingertips, Jamie knew a lot of about card sharps. It was just that he hadn't realized gambling was in her line of fraud detection.

  "Anything else?"

  "Besides the fact that the owner of the house was a homosexual? Nothing."

  "Homo ....?"

  "Sure."

  "And how can you tell that?"

  Z had her there, his advantage over her, that he'd checked out Kunkle's car. Though shrimpy in size, Kunkle was a man's man. And how did Z know that? Two ways. First, the muscle magazines Z found in Kunkle's car. Second, there was the box of condoms in the glove compartment.

  "Just a guess," Jamie admitted. "Over there in the magazine rack. Muscle magazines."

  "Indicates he's a body builder." A guess that was as far from the truth as you could get, though Jamie couldn't know that.

  "So, where's the weights?"

  "Couldn't afford them?"

  "Maybe. But how much do free weights cost? Then, too, there are the missing magazines."

  "Missing ...?"

  "Girlie magazines. No Playboy. No Penthouse." Even in the dark, Z could see the ghost of her smile.

  "I found condoms," Z said by way of rebuttal, indicating he'd discovered them in the bedroom when he'd actually seen them in Kunkle's car.

  "You ever hear of AIDS?" Jamie wasn't accepting the discovery of rubbers as proof that Kunkle was straight. "If you're going to bugger your brother, you got to have protection." She grinned again. "By the way, did you know that when Cosmo began putting in male centerfolds, the circulation of the magazine rose?"

  "So?"

  "Not from increased sales to women. From sales to homosexuals."

  Z hadn't known that.

  "Women are not as turned on by looks as men are," she said matter-of-factly. "Which is good for old guys who look like you."

  Though Jamie smiled to show she was teasing, that hurt.

  "In my case, it's your outgoing personality that drives me wild."

  Kidding again.

  "Yeah."

  "To say nothing of your subtle communication skills."

  Jamie could be a real pain, when she wanted to be. Which was most of the time.
r />   Still, Z had to admit she'd come up with observations he hadn't made himself. Of course, providing proof that Kunkle was what Johnny Dosso thought, a gambler, didn't add much to Z's knowledge. Knowing that Kunkle was a crooked gambler did help Z feel a little better about Kunkle's accidental death.

  And that seemed to be that. They had given the house the once-over Z wanted.

  The conclusion? That the death of Howard Kunkle had to have been some kind of accident. In a vague way, Z may have had something to do with it. But chance played the greatest part.

  One bird (the Kunkle bird) down. One to go.

  Leaving the house, Z and Jamie walked side-by-side down the dark, deserted street to their cars.

  "One more thing?"

  "What?"

  "Something else you wanted to see."

  "Oh?"

  This was taking a risk, but you couldn't play everything safe all the time.

  "At my apartment."

  "My, my," Jamie said slyly. "Whatever could interest me about your apartment? Anyway, what have you got to show me I haven't already seen?"

  Z was afraid his answering grin was more queasy than mysterious.

  "On the other hand, since you've already popped my cherry, why the hell not?"

  His invitation accepted, with Jamie following in her truck, Z pointed the Cavalier home, down Vivion, right on Oak, north until the turnoff. Down the side street and right again, Z parking in front of his rooming house.

  The two of them sliding out, he guided Jamie through the dark, along the sidewalk to his door.

  Strangely, Z felt like he should be picking his own lock. It had been that kind of night.

  Using his key, Z unlatched the deadbolt, holding the door for Jamie, coming inside himself, closing the door, switching on the ceiling light.

  Jamie, now that he could see her clearly, had packed herself into a pair of dark blue jeans. Was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt. Also packed.

  "This place looks just like you," Jamie said, turning her head slowly to take in the small living room and the kitchenette at the back. "It doesn't have a lot to say."

  "Yeah." A smart mouth could damage any girl's looks. "The bedroom's this way."

  "Got some etchings back there?"

  Z didn't say anything, just led Jamie through the short hall into his "boudoir" where he snapped on the overhead light.

  "Not much room," Jamie said, looking around, "reminding me of the old saying, 'Head for the roundhouse, Nelly. He can't corner you there.'"

  As usual, Z had no idea what Jamie was talking about.

  "There," he said, pointing to his bed.

  "Want to flip me for it?"

  "I mean. That's what you want."

  "What ....?"

  "To see the bed where Susan and I make love."

  "That wasn't exactly ...."

  "Now that you've seen it, you can call off the seance."

  "Oh! Is that what this is all about? Not luring me to bed, but protecting little Susan?

  "When you called, I wondered what the deal was. You're going on and on about what a professional I was, how you needed my expertise, how much respect you had for me, all that kind of crap. That's why I came. Followed you around like a little lamb. To find out what kind of shit you'd pull.

  "And now I really do feel insulted."

  "But, you said ...."

  "And how did you hear about the seance? ... Of course, Susan told you. Has she figured out who I am, yet?"

  "No!"

  "And you got to pray she doesn't."

  "No more games." Z was getting irritated. "How did you find Susan?"

  "Tracking Susan wasn't hard. In addition to her picture, you had her business card in your billfold. As for the seance, if you got ghostly noises in the house, you want to talk to someone about it."

  Suddenly, it hit Z! "You're the one who made those noises."

  "He catches on, at last."

  "But why go to so much trouble ....?"

  "Like I told you, to see the bed you and Susan make love in."

  "But ...." Z pointed to his bed again.

  "Cute," Jamie said, unimpressed. "You knew what I meant. Not your bed, Susan's." Jamie shook her head. "You just don't learn, do you? That you can't mess with Jamie Stewart." She grinned the smile of crocodiles. "After losing this round, buster, I'm not even going to tell you what it'll take to tear up your marker!"

  And turning on her heel, the girl was gone ... Z left with the echo of the front door slam.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 9

  Goddamn son of a bitch! Motherfucking asshole of a cocksucker! Frigging, fart-faced, corn-holed buggery! Shitfaced, whore. That bull dyke, flit of a hairy-pawed pussy licker, muff diver! ... Fork-tongued weasel-snatcher .......

  Weasel-snatcher?

  For the last two days, Z had been sitting at his desk, cursing his shabby, wood file cases, the old cabinets taking it pretty well. It was with "weasel-snatcher," that he'd been brought to his senses; made to see that he'd run out of both curse words and steam.

  It was early Wednesday afternoon.

  The seance was this evening.

  And he'd thought of nothing he could do to stop it.

  Susan had called yesterday evening, all excited about the coming event. Two of her friends from work would be attending, she'd said, young women who Z had probably heard about but had never met.

  The devil of it was that Z no longer had any idea what Jamie Stewart was up to. He knew he might be making a mistake by having Jamie out to his apartment -- but thought it was because it was risky to let Jamie know where he lived. He hadn't expected Jamie to react like she had to the reason Z had her over.

  Women were funny creatures.

  Not so funny when they had their hooks in you.

  All Z could do now was go to the seance himself. Surely, with him right there, Jamie would be reluctant to go too far. It was just that Z was afraid of what Jamie might consider as not going too far. Then, too, Susan's coworkers would also be at the "party," women neither he nor Jamie knew, Jamie not apt to pull a fast one in front of total strangers. That's why, if you wanted to break up with a girl, you'd take her to a fancy restaurant to tell her, a place where she couldn't very well make a scene. (Not that Z had ever done that. He'd seen it in a movie, though, and thought it was a good idea.)

  On the only other topic worth thinking about, the one good thing that had happened since the row with Jamie, was Harry Grimes' check coming in yesterday's mail: five hundred much-appreciated dollars. Since Z was back to eating peanut butter and jelly, Z could stretch that kind of money into several months of survival.

  Back to ... the problem.

  Z didn't know anything about seances, except what he'd seen in movies: people sitting around a table in the dark, holding hands. There was also something about table rapping -- the favorite way "spirits" got messages to the living. Apparently, the afterlife couldn't produce something as technically advanced as a megaphone -- to say nothing of a Mr. Microphone. ...... So much for "pie in the sky, by and by."

  He also remembered seeing a TV program about seances; gauzy ghosts appearing from nowhere to hover over the table, ghosts looking sad and, for want of a better word, dead. He thought he remembered the seance table itself flying up in the air. And clanking chains -- or was that Marley's ghost?

  He'd also seen movie versions of turban-headed Madams going into trances so that "spirits" could enter their bodies. (The best reason he could think of for stocking up on Ex-Lax.)

  The phone rang.

  Now used to the phone ringing right at his elbow, Z picked up the receiver.

  "Bob Zapolska Detective Agency."

  "Z. Susan."

  This was the second time that month Susan had called Z at his office.

  "Yeah."

  "I just had to ring you up to tell you how proud I am of you!"

  Better than the opening line a newly enlightened Susan might have used, the one that started with, "You two-timin
g rat!"

  On the other hand, what did Z say when he didn't know why he was the object of Susan's "pride." Better to wait until he received enlightenment.

  "I thought you said it wasn't going to happen?"

  "What?" Z asked, still mystified.

  "The interview with Dan Jewell, on channel 1492. The Morning Show."

  "I did talk to him."

  "I know!"

  Something wasn't connecting. While Z had promised Susan he would talk to Jewell, he hadn't told her he'd done it. How could she ...?

  "And I said it would be good for business," Susan explained to show she remembered their conversation. "You said you were not going to be on the radio."

  "Yeah."

  "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Well, when did you change your mind? You don't ever listen to my suggestions, Z, so I didn't think there was a chance I was getting through to you."

  "Talked to him, but said no quotes."

  "Technically, that's right," Susan said, a frown in her otherwise elated voice. "The man doesn't have to quote you if you're speaking for yourself."

  What was she talking about? "What are you talking about?"

  "This morning's radio show. The start of the series about law enforcement in Kansas City."

  "So?"

  "So tell me all about it!"

  "Didn't hear it."

  "You know what I mean!"

  "Didn't hear it."

  "Of course you didn't hear it, dummy," Susan growled in her cute, low voice. "How could you when you were on the program?"

  Not connecting.

  What was needed here was a little detective work.

  There had to be a reason for Susan to call, just as clearly, she wasn't going to tell him what it was. It followed, then, that it was Z's job to ferret out the missing link in this conversation.

  Perhaps the way to start was to provide some information of his own. "I did go for the interview. At Jewell's home. Last Sunday."

  "Go on."

  "That's all. Haven't seen him since."

  "Haven't seen ...." There was a pause. "Of course. You taped your comments when you were at his house."

  Taped ......

  Suddenly, Z had a sick feeling. "You heard ... something on the radio."

  "Sure."

  "Me?"