The Ghost Club

by William Meikle

  “He’s taking money steady,” Stumpy Pete, my table manager, said. “Not from us—I saw to that as soon as I spotted what he was about and have been spreading the bets out—but some of the others around the table ain’t as smart, and he’s rooked them for a hundred each already. I’ve seen his like before—he’s counting the cards—and if he ain’t stopped, he’ll empty a lot of pockets before the night is out—and it’s us that’ll get blamed for it.”

  Normally Stumpy would have put a stop to it himself without needing me, but he knew who Johnson was, and he knew the stakes weren’t just the ones that lay on the blackjack table. I thanked him and, my heart already sinking, headed over toward the table where the insurance man sat.

  As it turned out, I hadn’t been called early enough. A fight was already underway—no guns, thank the Lord, as the purser had already ensured they were all checked in and secured—we knew from long experience that steamers, card games, whiskey and shooters was a far too potent mix to be allowed out on the water. But knives, they were another matter entirely. Black Tam—a rogue and ruffian, well known up and down this stretch of water—had his blade out ready to do some slicing. And I had been right, Johnson was the intended target.

  If the insurance man was ruffled, it did not show. He stayed in his seat, a smart move on his part, and kept his mouth shut, another smart move. But Black Tam’s temper was up and he was cussing and shouting fit to bring down one of my fine chandeliers. I had Stumpy Pete and two of the deckhands—it took all three of them in the end—show the big man out before I led Johnson, none too gently, out of the Salon and through to my cabin.

  He seemed unperturbed and unrepentant when I accused him of cheating.

  “Counting the cards is not cheating, not in the slightest, it is an act of great skill and I pride myself on my proficiency.”

  “And I pride myself on knowing a sharp character when I see one. I will trouble you for my policy, right here and now, Mr. Johnson, before you get yourself gutted and thrown over the side for the birds.”

  “Is that a threat, Captain?”

  “More likely a prophecy, Mr. Johnson. I know the tenor of the men who frequent the tables on this river better than you. These are not Eastern gentleman who will part with their money with a wave of the hand and a sigh of regret. I believe you may have noticed that already?”

  “Nevertheless, I intend to stay for the duration, down to the Delta and back was the deal. And I shall not be kept from a seat at that table.”

  “And my policy was part of that self-same deal. I would rather have that in hand sooner rather than later—you can call it my insurance should your seat at the table prove to be too hot for your backside.”

  Much to my surprise he relented. We went to his cabin, and he signed on the dotted line—he even gave me a discount that meant I would be paying only half as much as I thought. I put the papers in my pocket—I would post them back east at the first chance I got—then I cut his throat.

  Black Tam wasn’t the only one who thought it circumspect to carry a blade, and if there’s one thing I hate more than any other it is cheating jackasses.

  I was indeed going to throw him over the side, he would not be the first to take that dive in the dark, but Stumpy Pete suggested caution, and a better means of disposal. We put him in the boiler. He burned fast and hard and we got a few extra knots out of his fat belly, so he was at least good for something.

  ***

  And that was that, or so I thought. The Princess was on the river, everybody was having a grand time, I had the insurance papers in my pocket, and the jackass had hopefully gone straight from one hot place to another. We cruised downstream through a sultry late evening, not in any hurry to get anywhere in particular, and for those brief hours I was as happy as I had been for many a day.

  The troubles started the very next night, so small at first so as to be barely noticeable. I was having a pre-supper drink in the Salon bar when Stumpy Pete came over for a word.

  “There’s something right hinky with the cards, boss,” he said.

  “What do you mean, hinky?”

  “Well, I know there’s only two black jacks in the deck, but they’re coming up in every deal, and I ain’t doing any shuffling.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said.

  Stumpy didn’t reply, just gave me a look that told me he wasn’t in the habit of lying, and I couldn’t smell liquor on his breath. I moseyed over to the table to see for myself.

  I sat in on a few hands—I got a pair of black Aces first deal, so I already thought something was up. Every hand Stumpy dealt, the house lost—and lost big. And he was right, every hand had two black Jacks in it somewhere. They looked like they were smiling at me.

  Now, it’s not that I suspected Stumpy of any subterfuge—Stumpy and I go back years, to before he got his moniker—and I knew he wouldn’t try to chisel me. But I had to see for myself. I took a turn at dealing and had no more joy than Stumpy had been getting. The house lost and the black jacks smiled happily.

  I closed down the table—we told everybody that Stumpy had taken ill—that was for the best, for riverboat crews are a superstitious lot at the best of times, and rumor of anything ‘hinky’ was going to spread fast unless quelled early. There was some grumbling, from Black Tam in particular, who was keen to recoup some of the previous night’s losses, but he went quiet when he looked me in the eye—his blade was big, but mine was faster, and he knew it.

  I went back to the bar, knocked back a few whiskeys and headed through to the dining room, my good mood fading fast. I had hoped for another chat with the voluptuous, inviting lady from the night before, but she was on the opposite side of the room. I was saddled with a corpulent Pastor from Virginia who farted as much as he spoke and with much the same result at each end, but least I didn’t have to endure him for long. We only got the first course down—oysters, it had to be oysters—when people started excusing themselves from the table and heading rapidly for either cabin or washroom. Some didn’t make it in time and the resulting odor as they vented semi-digested food set off those around them in a reaction that quickly spread to the entire dining area. I was left seated at the top table on my own in a matter of minutes.

  When I lifted my wineglass it was to find a playing card stuck to the bottom. I knew before I turned it over that it was a black jack, smiling.

  ***

  Things went downhill fast. That night the roulette wheel refused to give up anything but a black ten, someone got a pair of jacks—black—in every poker hand, and, worst of all, the whiskey went sour, like vinegar in my mouth. I closed the Salon before midnight—that was going to cost me money I did not have, but ‘hinky’ was now too small a word for what was going on—and the bar staff were already busy spreading stories to the lower decks. I was likely to have a mutiny on my hands before too long.

  And everywhere I looked, there were cards—black Jacks—on the bar, on the floor of the washroom, even under my blasted pillow. I caught a couple of hours of fitful sleep, knife in hand the whole time, and woke in the morning as we berthed in Frasertown. I watched more money drain from the coffers as most of the passengers—and not a few of the crew—disembarked with no intention of returning.

  We took on lumber—I had to help out as we were now short-handed—and took to the river again, but it felt like a different boat altogether now. All gaiety was gone. The bar saw plenty of business, although the whiskey was still undrinkable at least the rum and the beer hadn’t been touched by whatever curse we were now under. The gaming tables stayed quiet. I think that, even if I had opened up, nobody would have played. There was a general air of lethargy and listlessness over everyone all through the day, and I spent much of it standing on the bridge smoking a succession of cigars and worrying about the night to come.

  I’d expected more magic tricks and more black jacks. What I got was something a lot more sinister.

  The corpulent Pastor was first to succumb. We’d just got out into mid-ri
ver and I gave the order to get up a head of steam. I felt the thrum as the boiler was stoked with oil and timber, and the boat thrummed underfoot, feeling almost like an animal breaking into a trot. At almost the same instant, a scream rose up to join the big steam whistle, the sound echoing through the calm night.

  He was dead when I got to him—lying, face up, on the blackjack table, his face swollen, bright red, eyes filled with blood. It didn’t take much examination to see that he had choked to death—and his gullet was packed full with cards, every last one of them a black Jack.

  I’d just stepped away from the body when there was a yell of alarm from the dining room—another body had been found. It was my voluptuous lady friend this time, and she had quite lost her charm, being head first in a soup tureen. There were cards floating in the liquid, and I guessed more in her throat although I didn’t wait to see. I didn’t need to—they would be jacks, I knew that already.

  Stumpy Pete voiced what I was thinking as we both got some rum into us.

  “It’s yon Yankee pal of yours, boss. He’s come back to ‘aunt us, ain’t he?”

  I could only agree, despite my disbelief in such things.

  “Break up the blackjack table and put it in the boiler,” I said. “Then do the same with everything in the cabin he was in, and best do the same with my stuff. Let’s see if we can burn it—whatever the blazes it is—out.”

  Stumpy hurried to carry out my orders. The boat lurched and bucked again with each addition to the flames, as if feeding it was only making it stronger, but the deaths kept coming, even as I gave the order to head for the nearest dock.

  ***

  We weren’t going to make it. We were still a couple of miles upstream from Lewisporte and the burning hadn’t worked—not so far anyway. Three more passengers succumbed to choking, then it was Stumpy’s turn. He went fast, standing right in front of me. He coughed and hacked, and brought up a card—a black jack. Then he just couldn’t breathe. He went purple, fell over, kicked his heels and was gone, just like that. The whole boat lurched and the steam whistle blared, as if in joy.

  And this time I heard it loud and clear—that nasal, sarcastic, New York whine of his, in the very whistle itself. Just as suddenly, I knew where the jackass had hidden his wraith—he was still in the same place we had put him, in the boat’s furnace itself.

  I sent everyone else still alive to the rowing boat with directions to head for shore, then made my way down to the boiler room. The whistle blew, again and again, the Yankee whine getting ever louder. I opened the pressure valve to its full extent and started to throw oil into the furnace. The flames roared and spat. I got so warm that I removed my jacket so that I could keep stoking, but finally it got so hot that I could only back away as the pressure rose, and rose again. I had one last look into the heart of the fire. There was a black jack in there, smiling as it burned. Then I headed for the stairs and up onto the deck.

  I leapt over the guardrail just as the boiler went up with a boom that sounded like a clap of thunder, then burning debris and timber fell all around me and I had to swim for my life. It was only once I was well clear that I remembered my insurance policy had been in my jacket pocket and I’d left it in the boiler room.

  ***

  So there it is — the story of my ruin. The only recompense I have is to tell everyone I meet that Thomas Johnson was almost the greatest jackass ever to be seen on the river.

  Almost.

  But not as great as me.

  All of the invitees to our little dining club are published writers—save one. I met this young man—or rather, he met me—on the steps of the club one hot day last summer. I quickly discovered that Herbert Wells positively fizzles with excitement and ideas aplenty. He asked for my autograph, but I saw rather quickly that this was merely a ruse to press upon me an idea for a story. Normally I give such encounters short thrift, but as I say, the lad had ideas in plenty—and no little skill in their telling, expressing a desire to take up writing for himself now that his studies are concluded. Alongside that, he has such an open and forthright nature I could not help but take to him immediately. I accepted his card, promised to get in touch, and for once I actually meant it.

  When PC Wren found that he could not fulfil his attendance at the club in Christmas week, I remembered young Wells, used his card to contact him and told him we were prepared to listen if he had a story to tell. I was not surprised in the least to find him waiting—almost an hour early—on the doorstep on club night, with a neatly typed up manuscript in his hand.

  Here is his tale.

  FARSIDE

  Herbert George Wells

  I answered Hoskins’ dinner invitation and arrived at his door in Belgravia promptly at seven. In truth, I was more than a little intrigued, for the card had not just mentioned dinner, but had also promised a demonstration of a new scientific breakthrough. Knowing Hoskins’ penchant for some of the wilder extremes of modern thinking, I was anticipating something more than a tad out of the ordinary. As it turned out, I was not to be disappointed in the slightest in regards to that particular evening’s entertainment.

  Brown, Dennings, and the doctors, Greenway and Kier, were already there ahead of me, and after a quick snifter and smoke we went through to the dining room for an excellent supper of potato soup, salmon, new potatoes and peas, and a lovely rice pudding, before settling down in Hoskins’ parlor for his promised demonstration.

  There had been much speculation around the dinner table as to the nature of the night’s entertainment, of course, but our host had merely answered everything with a smile and a quip and had not given anything away at all. He waited until we were all provided with a drink and a smoke and had got ourselves comfortably seated before he wheeled a small trolley into the center of the room. I was not close enough to make out much detail, but it looked like an old magic lantern, with an arc lamp attached, and some sort of large wheel between the light source and the projective lens, with a turning handle to one side.

  “I’m sure you chaps are bored with me talking about my experiments in photography,” Hoskins started. “So give thanks—this is not one of those—at least not entirely.”

  He asked his man, Jennings, to dim the gas lamps in the room, then switched on his lantern. At the same time he started to turn the wheel. A wash of whirling color was projected on the wall opposite the window.

  “Now, I’m sure you chaps have all seen a Chromotrope slide before now—this is little different to them. But I believe I have stumbled on something rather remarkable.”

  He turned the wheel faster.

  “I saw a setup like this being demonstrated in Paris on my last trip over and thought it would be fun to build one for my own use,” he said. The wheel spun even faster and the wash of color on the wall circled rather violently in reds and greens, yellows and blues, then faster still until all that was projected on the wall was a simmering wall of white, almost opaque, color. “I have been experimenting with the effect of putting different colored glass on different sectors of the wheel.

  “Now, this might surprise you,” Hoskins said. He kept spinning the wheel with his left hand, but put his right some way in front of the lens, such that his shadow was cast on the wash of white. His hand itself showed up black of course, but all around it was another shimmering aurora of color—a dancing, rainbow haze. I have only seen its like once before, in the far north of Scotland in the height of winter when the Northern Lights are singing. To see it here, around the shadow of my friend’s hand, was most peculiar, to say the least.

  “I believe what we are seeing here is a manifestation of the vital force of life itself. See how it reaches out to about the length of my thumb from my hand?” Hoskins said, “Now watch this.”

  He flicked his forefinger along the edge of his thumb and pointed. The shadow of his finger seemed to eject a stream of shimmering rainbow light across the whitewashed wall, several feet long before it dissipated where the white projected circle ended.
/>   “This is a trick,” Kier said. “Some penny-ante conjuring trick. I thought better of you, Hoskins.”

  If our host was offended, he did not show it. He merely laughed.

  “I thought you might be the first to protest, my good solid doctor,” he said. “But in that case, I invite you to come forward and see for yourself—I have nothing to hide here and no ulterior motive.”

  Grudgingly at first, for Kier was rather corpulent and had got himself well settled in the chair with his brandy and cigar, the doctor finally stood and went over to the lantern. He studied it this way and that, he had Hoskins stop the wheel and start it again and he even turned the wheel for himself.

  “Let us see what your shadow tells us, shall we?” Hoskins said, and had Kier place his hand in front of the light while he spun the wheel up to speed until the wall showed opaque white once more and we could all see the rainbow aura. It hugged more closely to Kier’s hand than it had in Hoskins’, but it was most definitely present.

  Of course, after that there was nothing for it but for all present to take their turn in projecting the shadow of their hand on the wall. Each of us were astonished in our own way to see the shimmering, dancing lights around our fingers and palms, brought into sight by Hoskins’ contraption. In all of our cases the aurora clung to the contours of our hands, varying in depth from half an inch away from the skin in Greenway’s case to Hoskins himself who had the strongest emanation of all of us.

  Dennings was the last to try—he put his hand in front of the lens, the wheel turned. We all gasped, for instead of the rainbow shimmer we had seen on the rest of us, the man’s shadow was surrounded by a sickly glow, all green with no other trace of color in it.

  Dennings pulled his hand back and flatly refused another attempt. Hoskins had the gas lamps turned up, switched off the lantern, and, over several smokes and drinks, we all discussed, to no apparent conclusion, what we had just seen.