A short time later, Masterson rounded up all the players and herded them toward the double doors leading into the private room. Conrad spotted Rance McKinney among them. The rancher had abandoned his town suit and wore range clothes: black trousers, black shirt, and a black-and-white cowhide vest. He had never looked comfortable in fancier duds, and Conrad had a hunch McKinney thought he might play better if he was wearing his normal clothes.
Those things didn’t matter to Conrad. He was in black trousers and jacket, white shirt, and string tie. He’d been wearing his black Stetson with the concho headband when he came in, but had handed it to one of the Palace’s beautiful hostesses to take care of.
Masterson collected guns and knives from the players before they were allowed to enter the room. He had quite a few pocket pistols, derringers, and even a few long-barreled hog legs before he was through, along with a number of knives of different sizes and styles. Conrad took off his holster and handed over it and the .32. If he wasn’t going to be carrying the gun, he didn’t see any point in putting up with the discomfort of the holster.
“All right, gentlemen, gather around,” Masterson said when all the players were in the room and the doors were closed, shutting out the noise from the main room. One of the hostesses joined him, holding a huge, white, ten-gallon hat. Masterson continued, “Inside this hat are numbered chips. You’ll draw one at a time for seating assignments. Thad Harper, you go first.”
The man Masterson had picked stepped forward and drew a chip from the hat. It had the numeral 3 on it. Masterson pointed out which table was the third one. The other men went up one by one, and drew chips as well, spreading out across the room to the tables they had drawn. Once they had chosen their seats, hostesses appeared and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Most of the men declined, preferring to keep their heads clear, at least for a while.
Conrad drew Table 5, feeling a twinge of disappointment as he did so. McKinney had already drawn Table 2. Conrad had been hoping to be at the same table as the rancher right from the start, but knew he couldn’t ask anyone to switch with him without arousing suspicion.
That meant in order to play against McKinney, he had to emerge as the big winner at Table 5. There was nothing he could do about it, so he might as well get at it, he thought.
After he had taken his seat, a lovely, smiling hostess leaned over him and asked, “Would you like a drink, sir? Wine? Brandy?”
Conrad shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“A cigar?”
“Never picked up the habit,” he told her, returning her smile briefly.
“If you do need anything, please let me know.”
“I will,” he promised, but knew what he really needed, she couldn’t provide.
He glanced over at Table 2, where Rance McKinney was arranging stacks of chips in front of him. More than ever, his instincts told him McKinney knew more than he had admitted about Pamela’s plans.
Conrad would be betting more than money in that tournament. The real stake was the possibility that McKinney could tell him where his children were.
While he was waiting for all the players to get settled in their seats and ready for the games to begin, Conrad looked around the room. It was quite large, maybe half the size of the main room, with thick carpet on the floor that muffled the steps of the hostesses as they moved around. The eight tables were arranged in a grid that took up most of the space in the center of the room. Around the walls were overstuffed divans, comfortable armchairs, and smaller side tables, places where men could relax while taking a break from the competition. Gas chandeliers over the tables provided plenty of illumination, while the lighting around the edges of the room was more subdued. Paintings, mostly sedate landscapes, hung on the walls. It was a comfortable room that felt like wealth, just the sort of place where rich men would gather to play high-stakes poker.
When everyone was in place, Bat Masterson stood up and addressed the group to explain the rules of the tournament. Each man had an assortment of chips in front of him representing his ten thousand dollar buy-in. In addition, each man would be allowed to purchase up to another ten thousand dollars in chips as the games proceeded. Breaks could be called whenever all the players at a table were in agreement. Players who were cleaned out and had to leave the game would be required to leave the room as well, although there was nothing stopping them from waiting in the main room outside until they found out who the big winners were. The big winners from each table would be allowed to remain in the room while the other winners were being determined. There would be an eight-hour break between the end of that round and the beginning of the next.
“Is everyone clear on the rules?” Masterson asked. “Any questions?” When no one spoke up, Masterson grinned and said, “All right, gentlemen. Good luck to you all. Start the games whenever you’re ready.”
Conrad didn’t know the other five men at the table with him, although a couple of them looked vaguely familiar to him. He supposed he had seen them during previous visits to Denver. They took turns introducing themselves. Conrad took note of the names—Hal Roberts, Bernard Church, J.D. Wilson, Fred Montgomery, and Edgar Pennyworth—but knew he probably wouldn’t remember them in a week. They were just obstacles between him and Rance McKinney.
On the other hand, he had to beat them all in order to move closer to McKinney, so he took a little time to study them. Roberts and Wilson had the staid look of successful businessmen. Bernard Church was a little harder to read, which told Conrad that he was probably a professional gambler. Fred Montgomery was a rawboned railroad magnate; Conrad recognized the name. Edgar Pennyworth was an older man, probably sixty, with a mild, round face and a shock of white hair, who looked like he could have been a small-town preacher. He was probably the most dangerous opponent of them all, Conrad mused, simply because he didn’t look like much of a threat.
When Conrad gave them his name, Montgomery said, “I thought I recognized you, Browning. Didn’t you own some stock in my railroad at one time?”
Conrad nodded. “I did. Maybe I still do.” He chuckled. “I don’t really know. My lawyers handle everything like that.”
He saw the scorn in Montgomery’s eyes. He didn’t think much of a man who didn’t manage his own business affairs. If that led him or the others to underestimate Conrad, then so much the better.
They cut cards to see who would have the deal first. It fell to Hal Roberts, who took the deck, shuffled, and dealt with reasonable deftness after announcing that they were playing simple five card stud. That was fine with Conrad. He watched the cards fall in front of him, not touching them until Roberts had finished dealing. Then he picked them up and expressionlessly looked to see what sort of hand he’d been dealt.
The game was underway.
Chapter 14
As in nearly any game, the pace was slow and cautious at first as the players got to know one another and gauge the strength of their opposition. Conrad kept his bets reasonably small, considering the stakes, and didn’t try anything fancy. He seldom bluffed, just enough to let the other men know that he was capable of it, and by the time a couple hours had gone past, he was up a few hundred dollars.
The players took a short break to stretch their legs. Edgar Pennyworth smoked a fat cigar while Fred Montgomery filled a pipe and puffed on it. Bernard Church had one drink, a short, neat whiskey.
When the six men returned to the table, the feeling in the air was more tense than it had been earlier. Things would begin to get more serious.
Midnight rolled past. The room was fairly quiet. Low-voiced conversations took place at each table as men asked for cards or commented on a just-concluded hand. The hostesses weren’t being kept very busy fetching drinks, so some of them sat down, yawning, and dozed in the armchairs. Bat Masterson, as the organizer of the tournament, wasn’t playing. He strolled from table to table, a cigar clenched in his teeth, and kept up with the action.
As Conrad could have predicted, Fred Montgomery was the fir
st one to grow impatient and start taking more risks. He won a couple big pots with daring plays, but lost even more. When his pile of chips began to shrink, he called Masterson over and said, “I need five thousand more, Bat.”
Masterson nodded. “Of course. Anyone else?”
J.D. Wilson, who had lost several hands in a row, also bought more chips. They turned their money over to Masterson, and one of the hostesses delivered the chips. Play resumed.
Montgomery’s luck didn’t change. His stake continued to dwindle. He bought his other five thousand in chips. By six o’clock in the morning, he was down to his last thousand. With an annoyed grimace, he shoved the chips into the pot to call when he, Conrad, and Pennyworth were the last ones left in the hand. Pennyworth took the pot with four tens.
Conrad saw the anger flash in Montgomery’s eyes, and for a second he thought the railroader was going to lose his temper and cause a scene. Masterson hovered nearby, ready to step in quickly if there was trouble.
Then Montgomery let out a laugh and shook his head. “Looks like I’m busted. But I had a good time, so I reckon it was worth it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, taking his watch from his pocket to check the time. “The railroad office’ll be open in a couple hours. I need to get in there and tell my boys to raise the cost of a ticket a little bit. I’ll have that twenty grand back in no time!”
“You don’t want to wait and see who wins, Fred?” Masterson asked.
“Oh, I’ll be back. I don’t figure you’ll settle things here for a while yet.”
Montgomery left, and the other men at the table took a break. The players at several of the other tables had stopped for the moment, too, including Table 2. Conrad walked over to a long table where coffee and food had been set out. Rance McKinney was there, sipping from a cup of coffee that he had sweetened with something from a silver flask he took from his pocket.
He gave Conrad a curt nod of greeting. “Browning. How are you doing?”
“Fine,” Conrad said without going into detail. Actually, he was up almost seven thousand dollars. His calm, steady play had been going well. “How about you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” McKinney snapped. “The rest of that bunch can’t stay with me.”
Was that the rancher’s natural arrogance, Conrad wondered, or was the bravado intended to cover up the fact that he wasn’t doing as well as he’d expected? That was the potentially major flaw in his plan, Conrad thought. McKinney might not make it out of the first round, and since they had drawn different tables, the effort would have been for nothing.
In that case, he would figure out some other way to get to the truth, Conrad told himself. It would be just a minor setback.
The food and coffee refreshed the players. No one wanted to take a longer break to catch some sleep. After awhile, the game resumed.
The hours rolled by. In the windowless room, there was no way of knowing if it was day or night. Conrad took off his coat and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The other men got more comfortable, too, as they settled in for the long haul. It was a scene that was repeated at table after table in the room. From time to time a man would let a curse rip out as the cards didn’t fall his way and he saw the last of his chips being raked in by one of the other players.
Of the forty-eight who had started the tournament the night before, eight were gone by midday and several others were perilously close to being wiped out. There wasn’t much noise, only the whisper of cards, the click of chips, and the strained voices of men making their bets or asking for more cards.
Sometime early in the afternoon, J.D. Wilson leaned back in his chair at the conclusion of another losing hand and said, “That’s it. I’m done.” The green felt in front of him was empty of chips.
“It was a good game, J.D.,” Hal Roberts said. Obviously the two of them had been acquainted before the tournament.
Wilson grinned ruefully. “I hope you’ll tell my wife the same thing when she finds out how much I lost. I’m not sure she’ll agree that it was worth it.” He shoved back his chair. “But it was. Good luck, gentlemen.”
The table was down to four players, and visible weariness gripped all of them. Pennyworth, who was the oldest, mopped sweat off his face with a handkerchief and said, “I think a longer break is in order, if you agree, gents.”
Conrad, Roberts, and Church all nodded. Conrad lifted a hand to get Bat Masterson’s attention. Masterson, who had been in the room the whole time, somehow looked as fresh and rested as he had when the tournament began.
“We’re taking a break, Bat,” Conrad said. “You’ll have someone watch the table?”
“It’ll be just like it is when you come back,” Masterson promised. “I can guarantee that. Go through that door right over there. There are rooms waiting for you. How long do you need?”
Conrad looked at the other three men. “A couple hours?”
They all nodded.
“Someone will wake you,” Masterson said. “Have a good rest, gentlemen.”
Conrad and the other men adjourned to the rooms Masterson had waiting for them. The rooms were furnished simply, with nothing more than a chair, a wash basin, and a narrow bed, but that was all Conrad needed. He stripped down to his underwear, put his clothes on the chair, and stretched out on the bed. Sleep hit him like a hammer.
But just before the blow fell, he thought about Arturo and wondered what his friend had found out about Rose Sullivan.
Rose was back at her desk in the outer office of Hudson, Burke, and Hardy when Arturo arrived at the law firm that morning. She greeted him with a smile, obviously remembering him from the day before. “Mr. Vincenzo, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Arturo said as he took his hat off. “How are you this morning, Miss Sullivan? Recovered from your ordeal last night, I hope?”
She nodded. “I suppose Conrad told you all about it.”
“Of course.”
Rose looked around and lowered her voice. “We left before the police arrived, so I don’t know if it would be a good idea to speak much of it around here.”
“I understand. I was just inquiring about your health.”
“I had a headache last night from that knock on the head, but it’s gone this morning.”
“Excellent. I’m sure Mr. Browning will be glad to hear it.”
“Where is he?” Rose paused. “Oh, yes, that big poker tournament at the Palace. I’ve heard quite a bit of gossip about it. The so-called respectable people won’t admit it, of course, but they’re just as interested in it as anybody else.”
Arturo smiled thinly. “No doubt. Is Mr. Hudson in?”
“Are you here on Conrad’s behalf?”
“I have some business to discuss with him,” Arturo said, not really answering Rose’s question.
“Well . . .” Rose got to her feet. “Let me see if he’s busy.”
Conrad had told Arturo about the telephonic communications system between the offices, but Rose didn’t use the black box on the desk. Instead she turned and went through the door behind her, leaving Arturo alone in the outer office.
She probably didn’t want him to hear what she was going to say about him, he thought.
Rose certainly seemed like a pleasant, friendly young woman. It was hard to believe she might have anything to do with a couple vicious assassination attempts. Yet it made sense. Conrad and Arturo had discussed the matter the previous night, before Conrad left for the Palace. Arturo had a feeling Conrad hoped he was wrong, but neither of them was willing to rule out the possibility.
He thought about going through her desk while she was out of the office, but didn’t know how long she would be gone. Besides, if she was cunning enough to do the things they suspected her of, she wouldn’t likely leave proof of her part in it lying around where anybody could find it.
He waited patiently, and in a few minutes Rose returned and told him, “Mr. Hudson can see you for a few minutes, Mr. Vincenzo. But only a few.”
Arturo smiled again. “That’s fine. Thank you.” She ushered him down the hall to the double doors where Julia Moorehead waited. Julia led him into Ellery Hudson’s office while Rose returned to her desk.
“Arturo,” Hudson said as he came forward. “What can I do for you? Did Conrad send you?”
“In a way.” Arturo glanced at the doors, which Julia had closed behind her. She might be just on the other side of them, though, for all he knew. Or she might be in another office, listening through one of those devices.
No matter. He would just have to take a chance. “Someone tried to kill Mr. Browning again last night.”
Hudson’s eyes widened in shock. “Good Lord!” the mild-looking little attorney exclaimed. “What happened this time?” Before Arturo could answer, Hudson went on, “Wait a minute. Wasn’t he going out to dinner last night with Miss Sullivan, before that poker tournament started?”
“That’s exactly right.” Quickly, Arturo told Hudson about how two men had stopped the buggy, then traded shots with Conrad, only to wind up dead. He concluded by saying, “Since we both represent Mr. Browning in different capacities, I trust that what I’ve told you will be kept confidential.”
“Of course. But the police—”
“He didn’t wait for the police. The authorities found the two dead men, I’m sure, but have no idea who made them that way.”
“Good Lord,” Hudson muttered. “Why, it seems like every time Conrad is alone with Miss Sullivan, someone tries to . . .”
His voice trailed off as he looked at Arturo, his eyes widening.
“Exactly,” Arturo said.
Chapter 15
Thumbs hooked in his vest pockets, Hudson paced back and forth through a slanting rectangle of light that came in through his office window. “I don’t believe it. I simply don’t believe it. If there is any truth to the idea, then Pamela would have had to anticipate every move Conrad is making. She would have had to arrange more than a year ago to plant someone in my office, knowing Conrad would come to see me when his search brought him to Denver.”
The Loner: Killer Poker Page 9
