“I know it wasn’t your first scheme,” Simpson said stubbornly and dug a cigar from his pocket. He lit it broodingly and tossed away the match. “But it isn’t much more honest. It’s cheating, and while that’s better than sending a man over who’s innocent, it’s still cheating.”
Sir Percival stared at him. “And taking nearly three thousand pounds from the Carpenters using a marked deck was not?”
“But that was different, you see,” Simpson explained. He put aside his cigar long enough to sample his drink and then put his drink aside in order to sample his cigar. It was evident he was using the time to put his thoughts in order. “Billy-boy Carruthers explained it all to us, you see. It seems there was—or is, for all I know—this poor American author, brilliant in some ways, but an absolute sod in others, and he—”
He proceeded to repeat the sad tale of the book club in the States who had refused to handle the history of the Murder League simply because the naughty boys had profited from their crime.
“So you can understand,” Simpson ended, “why we have to avoid any hanky-panky. Billy-boy wouldn’t stand for it. The same reason he miffed on the accusing-of-innocents bit. You see?”
“You were saying something about cheating the Carpenters—”
“Oh, yes! I forgot. Billy-boy felt that taking a pair of card cheats was sort of the old Biter-Bit thing, you know. He felt this book club wouldn’t—or anyway, shouldn’t—be too upset about that.”
“In that case,” said Sir Percival—for his mammoth brain had instantly seen the opportunity presented and jumped upon it —“if the Biter-Bit is acceptable, how much more acceptable Justice Triumphant?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, it appears that if my normal means of operation have been denied me, I must actually discover the guilty party. This is known, in case you’ve missed TV lately, as Justice Triumphant.”
“But must we cheat to do it?”
There were several seconds of silence while Sir Percival reminded himself that he had made a bargain and that he had never gone back on his word in his life. He also reminded himself that if anyone could solve the contretemps of the echo, it was he, himself, Sir Percival Pugh. He stared across the table hypnotically, much as he eyed witnesses for the prosecution.
“May we take it step by step once more?”
“Of course.” Simpson was ever the gentleman.
“Now, someone killed either one or two of the Carpenters. Right?”
“Right.:
“We are in agreement that neither Carruthers nor Briggs, solely or in partnership, are guilty of the crime or crimes. Right?”
“Eminently right.”
“Therefore—ergo—the criminal or criminals had to be others. Right?”
“Everything’s fine so far.”
“Good. If I lose you anywhere down the line, merely raise your hand.” Sir Percival took a breath and continued. “Now: it is reasonable to assume that whoever killed the Carpenter or Carpenters did not do so out of idle whim or fancy, but had a reason for so doing. Right?”
“Very logical. I mean, right.”
“Thank you. Now, since the Carpenter family included in their repertoire both card tricks as well as blackmail, it is reasonable to assume that it was precisely these nefarious practices that might well have played a major part in inducing their killers to eliminate them. Right?”
Simpson frowned. “I'm afraid you lost me somewhere back there.”
Sir Percival was not at all perturbed. Whenever he allowed rhetoric to sweep him along it happened quite frequently.
“Let me put it to you this way: is it not reasonable to assume that the Carpenters might have cheated someone who resented it and that resentment was expressed by killing them?”
Simpson nodded, seeing the light.
“Right!” He recognized the word as being inappropriate and made the proper correction. “I mean, yes. It is. Reasonable, that is.”
“Fine! Now,” said Sir Percival, leaning forward, his glittering eye holding the other in a manner the Ancient Mariner would have envied, “as I mentioned to your friends in the dungeon below, there are four or five couples on board whom I have seen playing with the Carpenters, and whom I have seen lose large sums to these same Carpenters. Fortunately, lacking a partner whose game I know, I never managed to get involved.”
“Right! I mean, if you say so.”
“I do say so.” The famous barrister paused for emphasis. “Now, then: my plan is simplicity itself. You and I as partners will play with these four or five—or six—couples, one at a time, of course, and we shall cheat them as openly as we can without having them get up and walk away, or, conversely, stay and slap our faces. Do you understand?”
“Right! I mean, well, not quite.”
“If I finish you may see the dawn.” Sir Percival glanced through the windows of the bar and sighed. “We may both very well see the dawn. But no matter. Let me carry on. We want to cheat them so they know they’re being cheated. Do you understand?”
“No.” Simpson frowned. “What’s the point?”
Sir Percival sighed once again. He reminded himself of the years he had spent building up his reputation as a man impossible to disturb, as a rock in a sea of vacillating advocates, all of whom easily lost their tempers and panicked at the first sign of adversity.
“It is generally conceded,” he said at last, “that having committed one murder, your normal killer hesitates not at all at committing a second. It rather becomes routine, if you see what I mean. The one who killed the Carpenters for cheating wouldn’t have the slightest compunction in killing the next one who cheated. Now do you see?”
“Oh, ah! Now I see! Brilliant!” Simpson smiled all over his face. “And I’m sure it would get by Billy-boy’s infernal sense of propriety, as well. We only cheat the killers to get them to try and kill us, eh? Make them uncover their hand, so to speak, what? An excellent idea! Make them blot their copybook, eh?” For once Sir Percival had a chance to respond to a question. “Right!”
“And if they kill us, of course,” Simpson charged on, his brain clicking furiously, “why, we’ve got them, what?” He paused as his own words came back to him. “By the way, what about that angle, eh? Have you considered it at sufficient length? Their killing us, I mean?”
“I hadn’t thought of carrying our experiment to quite that degree of thoroughness,” Sir Percival said gently. “I thought that once we had a good idea who the killer or killers were, we might bow out of the picture, giving our information to the Captain. Let him carry on. As long as Carruthers and Briggs were freed. . . .”
“Oh, ah! Of course, of course! It wouldn’t do to be victims ourselves, would it? Lose the whole point of the thing.” One final question occurred to Simpson. “What about the proceeds?”
“The proceeds?”
“Well, if we cheat, we’ll be bound to win, won’t we?”
Sir Percival stared across the table in silence for several moments. Simpson leaned forward.
“Well, we will, won’t we? It wouldn’t make much sense if we lost, would it? Couldn’t very well trap anyone that way, could we?”
“No, we couldn’t.” Sir Percival sighed deeply as he considered the question. He had hoped that this point would have been overlooked by his tall companion, but apparently it hadn’t. “For the purposes of this demonstration,” he said sadly, “and if you feel that strongly about it, the proceeds of our first gambling venture can be donated to the Seaman’s Fund, I suppose.”
“Oh, I don’t think we have to go as far as all that,” Simpson said hastily. He sipped his drink and then looked up, his eyes gauging his companion. “I imagine splitting them right down the line would serve the purpose just as well. After all, as you said, it is all in the cause of Justice. . . .”
10
Mr. Clifford Simpson, dispatched by Sir Percival Pugh to the card room adjacent to the main salon in order to locate primary targets for their unfortunately n
ecessary chicanery, returned in an inordinately short time, his long face even longer. Sir Percival frowned as he watched the thin man fold himself unhappily along one side of the wide chair and reach for the Corona he had left smoldering in an ash tray to one side.
“What’s the trouble?”
Simpson shook his head dejectedly. Freeing his friends was proving more of a problem than he had anticipated.
“The women are having something called a canasta tournament. No bridge today.”
“Oh?” Sir Percival was disappointed. The urge to put his knowledge of Burmese solitaire into use, while not overwhelming—since nothing exactly overwhelmed him—was still strong. “What’s canasta?”
“Some form of rummy as far as I could tell, just giving it a quick glance in passing,” Simpson said disconsolately. “I think it’s a Spanish game, or something. Something to do with baskets.”
Sir Percival was quite ready to agree with this.
“Yes. Only a basket would have blocked our bridge game today.” His one hand brought his glass to his lips; the fingers of the other hand, remarkably independent in operation, drummed the table in irritable restlessness at this hiatus in their schedule.
“Yes,” said Simpson, and sighed. He puffed his cigar a few moments, bringing it back to life, and then remembered something else. He tossed it in more to keep the conversation from flagging than for any other reason. “Can’t even get up a bridge game with the men.”
“No? Why? What are they playing? Squat tag?”
“No,” said Simpson. “They’re over in the other corner of the card room playing poker.”
Sir Percival, in the act of swallowing a bit of his champagne, coughed and sprayed a-fair quantity in the general area. A waiter, eyeing him coldly, arrived and wiped about a bit with a towel, after which he removed himself, shaking his head. Sir Percival put aside his glass and stared at Simpson as if wondering how the doddering old idiot had ever managed to get through this vale of tears without a keeper well equipped with handkerchiefs.
“Poker?” he said sarcastically. “And you didn’t consider this fact important enough to mention earlier? Let’s go. Poker is even better for our purpose than bridge.”
“Except that I don’t play poker,” Simpson said sadly.
Sir Percival, who had been in the act of rising ready to trot down the deck to the card room, settled back again, reaching for his glass. He poured himself a fair dollop and looked up.
“Well,” he said, “fortunately, I do. And you will, in about five minutes, which is as long as it would take a three-year-old child, not unduly retarded, to learn the game. Knowing the cards as well as we do, I should judge a two year old could handle the job after a bad head injury.” He leaned forward, concentrating on his tutoring task. “The game is played by any number up to seven, generally, although there are forms which, since they involve the use of fewer cards per player, can allow an even greater number to play. The exact form of the game played each hand is usually chosen by the dealer. Is that clear?”
“No,” Simpson replied honestly.
“No, I suppose not. Well, let’s let that go by for the nonce. Let’s stick with the vital statistics, shall we? The game is played with five cards per player, although in some forms these five are selected from seven, while in other forms these five are made up of the number you hold the first time around plus whatever number you take to make up for the ones you discard.” He studied his companion anxiously. “How did we score on that one?”
“Completely bowled out,” Simpson admitted unhappily.
“Well,” said Sir Percival, reviewing his own words, “I can’t say that I blame you. Let me see. . . .V He drummed his fingers a moment and then decided to try a simpler version. “Look; the chances are they will play one of two forms: draw or stud. In draw poker the dealer deals five cards to each player; they select the ones they want to keep and discard the balance. After a round of betting that is. At this point the dealer proceeds to give each player enough cards to bring his total back to five, at which point everyone bets once more. Is that clear?”
“As far as it goes. But on what basis does one hold or discard cards?”
“We’ll come to that. Now; the other form is stud poker. Here one card is dealt face downward to each player and another then dealt face upward. The betting then begins, after which a second card is dealt to each player face up. There is alternate betting and dealing until each player has five cards, when the final bets are made. Clear?”
“I believe so. But what about spit-in-the-ocean and one-eyed jacks?”
Sir Percival stared at him. “Where did you even hear those terms?”
“Mrs. Carpenter mentioned them when she asked if we played poker.”
“Well, forget them. Spit-in-the-ocean!” Sir Percival sounded as if whatever fate had overtaken Mrs. Carpenter was deserved for even faintly considering playing the game. “In any event, if any form of the game is chosen by the dealer other than stud or draw, you merely sit out that hand.”
“Right-O.”
“Good. Now let’s get down to brass tacks. You do know what a pair is, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Simpson said, happy that they were speaking the same language once again.
“I’m pleased. Well, add one to a pair—the same number of pips, of course—and you have what is known as three of a kind.”
“I must say,” Simpson said, intrigued, “it sounds quite logical.”
“Yes. Descartes would have reveled in it, and, for all I know, he did. Where were we? Oh, yes. To continue; if you happen to hold all four of any card, you have what is known in the trade as four of a kind.” He peered across the table. “Can you follow that line of thought?”
“Quite.”
“Fine,” said Sir Percival with satisfaction. “You see? Scarcely thirty seconds and you have fully half the game at your complete command. Now, let’s move along, shall we?”
“Carry on,” Simpson said bravely.
“I shall. Well, the next thing I suppose you ought to remember is that, contrary to bridge, one suit has no particular precedence over another. That is, spades are no more valuable than clubs. However, if one should hold all five cards in the same suit, one has what is known as a flush.” He saw the frown beginning to crease Simpson’s forehead. “I say, why don’t you try repeating some of these things after me, just to fix them in your head, eh?”
“Five cards in the same suit constitute a flush.”
“You see? I told you. Any three-year-old. . . . Now; a sequence of cards—say a six, seven, eight, nine and ten, or any other sequence regardless of the suit of each card, is called a straight. And for the purposes of poker, the ace can be either high or low; either beginning the smallest straight, or ending the highest. Got that? Five in a row, like Mrs. Carey’s something-or-others—or was it Mrs. Wiggs? Well, no matter.” He beamed expectantly at his pupil. “I say, why not try it for echo, eh?”
Simpson obediently tried it for echo. “A sequence of five cards is called a straight.”
“Excellent!” Sir Percival was pleased and showed it. “Naturally, under these circumstances, a sequence of five cards in the same suit would be called—?”
“A flushed straight?”
“A reasonable assumption, but—like so many reasonable assumptions—wrong, I’m afraid. A straight flush.”
“A straight flush.”
There was a moment’s silence while Sir Percival put down his glass and studied the man across from him evenly.
“You see?” he said. “That’s the entire game of poker. I told you; extremely simple. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if, upon returning to London, you might not even set up as an instructor in the game to those who lack your knowledge.” He started to come to his feet. “Well, let’s go. There are worlds to conquer. To pluralize Robert Frost, ‘For we have promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep.’ ”
“But I still don’t know the value of one hand against another,�
�� Simpson objected.
“Oh.” Sir Percival sank down again. “Yes, I overlooked mentioning that, didn’t I?” He withdrew a pencil from a pocket, turned over a napkin and commenced writing in his neat fist. “Well, as to the value of the hands, I’ll set them down in ascending order for you. There’s no rule against having a table of comparative values at your elbow while you’re playing.”
Simpson watched in owlish admiration as Sir Percival went down the list; as he wrote the baronet repeated himself under his breath.
“One pair, two pair—two pairs, actually, if one wishes to be grammatically correct—then three of a kind, followed in order by a straight, then a flush, after which we have a full house—”
“A what?”
Sir Percival looked up. “A full house. Didn’t I enunciate?”
“What’s a full house?”
Sir Percival appeared more interested than upset.
“Did I forget that, too? Oh, dear. Well, I suppose I did. I’ll have to revise that estimate of a three-year-old to a four-year-old at this rate. In any event, a full house is a three of a kind together with a pair in the same hand. If two players each have full houses (or would it be fulls house, like cups? No, I suppose not), then the player with the three of a kind with the higher value wins. The pair has nothing to do with the value of a full house. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good,” said Sir Percival, relieved. “Then please don’t interrupt anymore.” He returned to his listing. “Where was I? Oh, yes: a full house, then four of a kind, a straight flush and finally a royal flush, the higher the better. And you’re home free.”
He finished his writing, put his pencil back into his jacket pocket with a slight flourish and handed over the napkin. Simpson accepted it gratefully.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Sir Percival placed his hands upon the tabletop, preparatory to pushing himself erect, and then paused in surprise at the woebegone expression on Simpson’s face. “Now, what’s the trouble?”
“I don’t know the first thing about betting—” Simpson squared his shoulders, confident that his complaint was a just one. “After all, I don’t believe I can be caught cheating—which is the object, remember—by simply watching others play. Unless, of course, they are also cheating. In bridge it was quite simple to cheat the Carpenters, but in a new game with all types of odd hands and inverted values. . . .”
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