by Joan Aiken
He had shrugged. What do you say to a woman whom you once called at three o’clock in the morning—a black and desperate morning—and asked for a million dollars—pledging what ever was left of a shopworn soul as security—and what if that woman had calmly said, “Of course, Wink...cash, I suppose...oh, dear, would eight o’clock be soon enough?” The fact that Edna Mallory was the world’s ninth richest woman—or was it eighth?—was really beside the point. It was also beside the point that, as it turned out, he hadn’t needed the million after all.
In the limousine from O’Hare, Edna had been her usual bland and unruffled self. Her foster sister, Jeanne, had arrived from Paris for an indefinite visit two weeks before. Instead of being pale and depressed as an aftermath of her divorce from the Count, however, she had appeared little short of radiant. True, the Count had kept her money and left her virtually penniless, but then he really needed it more because, after all, he was keeping three separate ménages in different parts of Spain. And there hadn’t been any children, at least not Jeanne’s.
Jeanne’s radiance, it seemed, stemmed from not merely one new interest, but two. One was bridge.
Jake listened resignedly. “And the other was the Prince, whom she lost little time in importing.”
Edna’s tone and expression remained unchanged. “Exactly. He has an even more impressive title than the Count, of course, but I think the real attraction comes from his being, of all things, a bridge expert. Jeanne asked if she might invite him, and of course I agreed.
“Oh, dear,” Edna said. “Did I give a wrong impression? Forgive me. He is personable, extremely attentive, and a very fine bridge player indeed. Of course, Fred...”
When Fred Mallory, third, the utilities baron, had taken Edna Mayberry’s hand—and her distillery millions—it had been more like a merger than a marriage. Jake wondered whether they’d had to get approval from the Justice Department.
“Spare me,” he said. “I can read Fred’s meter without a flashlight. But what’s this about Jeanne being broke? If she’s your sister, she must have got a vat full of dough—more than one lousy Count could siphon off.”
“Oh, my. I do make things so difficult, don’t I? You see, Jeanne was the daughter of my father’s second wife. He provided quite generously for her—a million, I think—but the bulk of the estate came to me.”
They were entering the hallowed confines of the world’s richest community, stately trees framing an array of impressive estates. Even the air, Jake fancied, smelled different—like freshly minted money. “So she’s holding her silver spoon under the spigot for another droplet or two?”
“In a way, I suppose.” Edna wafted her handkerchief. She always gave the impression of being overly warm, but Jake had yet to see her really sweat. “You see, after the divorce, Fred helped me set up a trust fund for her with an ample income, but we didn’t feel—Fred didn’t feel…”
“Like kicking in with the candle-power to light up three more ménages in Spain?” He paused. “Edna, did Fred ask you to call me in—like the adjustment department—to win back the money he blew playing against Jeanne and the Prince, and before he throws the master switch?”
“Of course not, Wink. It’s true, we did lose a little—about thirty-five thousand, I think. But then, Fred and I always play wretchedly together. Besides, I take care of all expenses connected with bridge.”
They had turned through an imposing gateway and were cruising along a curving driveway through what appeared to be a public park—minus the public. “I gather that Jeanne and the Prince like to play set. Who made up the fourth after Fred pulled the pin?”
“Our neighbor, Randy Maxwell. You know Randy. We played the last four nights. We lost—altogether, I think—about twenty five thousand. Not over thirty.”
Randy Maxwell was an electronics engineer who had snowballed a few patents and a gift for finance into a mountain of gold. A widower in his early fifties, Randy now piddled around the house in a three-million-dollar workshop and read books on philosophy. But Jake knew him for a keen and competent bridge player.
Fred Mallory was something else; a strict hatchet man at the bridge table, but the hatchet only worked one way—North and South. Yet each, playing with Edna, had lost about the same amount. The Prince, he decided, must be a hell of a bridge player.
He put a firm but tender hand on Edna’s arm as the car drew up to the front door. “Edna, did you call me from California just to check on whether your game was slipping?” He did not mention that he had canceled a lecture and run out on two new clients in order to come.
She was looking straight ahead. “I realize it was selfish of me, Wink. I—just wanted to make sure. You’re the only one…”
He looked at her, this middle-aged, bovine-faced woman with her potato-sack shape, and wondered whether any passion could transcend the fondness and admiration he felt toward her. She could have bought and refurbished a destroyer for a private yacht and filled it with the sycophants of her choice, people who would toady and grovel twenty-four hours a day to assure her that she was both beautiful and brilliant, or even—God forbid—sexy. Instead she chose to spend a fortune traveling month after month to major bridge tournaments, subjecting herself to the rigors of the pasteboard jungle and the grueling discipline of crossing swords with the sharpest wits in the kingdom of competitive sports. She paid the price in blood and guts and paid it like a lady because, deep down, it was more important to her to be a “do-er” than a mere “be-er.”
With the footman holding the door and staring stonily, he leaned over and kissed her...
At dinner, the Prince orchestrated the table talk like a maestro, remarking on how he had followed Winkman’s exploits for years, both at and away from the bridge table, and scattering the names of European bridge luminaries like a flower girl as he tripped from chalet to chateau with a sprinkling of discreetly spiced anecdotes.
Clearly outgunned, Jake took a leaf from Edna’s book and went along quietly. The famous Winkman wit, he knew, was chiefly notable for its backfires, and he sensed an undercurrent that was already combustible enough. He patted Edna’s plump knee under the table to express solidarity among the minority, and they repaired to the card room for liqueurs.
After two hours, Jake was convinced that Edna was not fighting a slump, and the idea that her game might have slipped he had considered ridiculous from the first, She had been his client for more than a dozen years—second oldest to Doc McCreedy—and her game was still growing, maturing, becoming stronger both technically and tactically. But had she thought so? With Edna you could never tell. They had won two small rubbers and lost a larger, slowly played one, and her errors, judged analytically, were minimal. She went down on a small slam that could have been made, but Jake, following the fall of the cards, endorsed her misguess.
“Oh, dear,” Edna said. “I was afraid I should have taken a different view. I just can’t seem to bring home the close ones.”
“Pretty hard,” Jake shrugged. “So far the defense around here has operated like its legs were crossed and wired.”
It was true. From the moment the cards were dealt, the Prince had put away his cultured pearls of patter and begun to play with an almost mechanized concentration. Moreover, his game was strictly engineered for high-stake rubber bridge, a style often difficult for the matchpoint tournament-oriented player to adjust to. His bidding was both daring and disruptive, pushing distributional hands unconscionably; while on defense he keyed solely upon defeating the contract. In high-class tournament competition his style would have earned a reputation for unreliable and erratic bidding, imprecise defense, and fetched him below average results. But he had coached the Countess well, and they made a formidable combination where the payoff was in big swings. Nevertheless, when the session ended, Jake and Edna had a small but tidy plus.
“Oh, dear,” Edna said, meticulously dating the score sheet and passing it to the Prince and Jeanne for their initials. “It was such a pleas
ant session, wasn’t it? I’m sure we all thoroughly enjoyed it.”
The Countess, relieved of her quiet intentness, yawned prettily and stretched. The moment was perilous, but her bodice held together. There was a faintly calculating glint in her eye as she stood up and tucked her arm under Jake’s.
“I’m only sorry,” she said, “I didn’t take Edna up on those lessons from you long ago.” She squeezed his arm and emphasized it with a little pressure from her thigh as they moved toward the stairs. Her manner was obvious enough even to put a crack in the Prince’s faultless façade, particularly when she stood aside and insisted that the Prince and Edna precede them up the stairs.
Jake, whose reputation with the fair sex was considered by many to exceed even his prowess at the bridge table, recognized that he was being operated upon, but was unclear as to just how extensive a program the Countess might have in mind. He returned the pressure to let her know the game was on, and prepared to await developments, the Prince’s darkly clouded face notwithstanding. He didn’t think he’d overdone it, but the Countess lost her balance slightly, causing him to glance down. Stepping from tread to tread revealed her slippers beneath her floor-length gown. To his surprise, they were neither needle-heeled nor next-to-nothing sandals, but quite substantial affairs with sensible Cuban heels.
She covered the moment with a gay little laugh. “I’m afraid my balance is a trifle off, Jake. Fallen arches. My doctor in Paris has me taking special exercises and even insists on my wearing clumsy shoes. Swimming tomorrow? Elevenish?”
“That should do it,” Jake said, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I ought to be braced for you in a bikini by then.”
The next day, however, brought one of those quick changes in weather for which the Windy City and its suburbs are noted. Thunderstorms and a stiff breeze and angry white-capped rollers invaded the beach, and Winkman passed the morning losing a few dollars to Polensky at billiards.
Jeanne appeared for lunch wearing an avocado sweater, cerise stretch pants, and dark green boots, while Edna wore a hand-crafted holomu that looked like a hand-me-down from the washer-woman. Jake could feel the impact like a thud in the brisket, but Edna seemed unaware of the beating she was taking on the fashion front. Luncheon over, they turned as one to the card room.
During the first rubber, while Jake was continuing his appraisal of the Prince’s game, Edna pulled to a five club contract—when three no trump was cold.
Jeanne led the spade five, with Edna capturing the king with the ace to lead the ace and a small club to dummy’s ten. She then made the only play which would give her a chance for the contract—a small diamond—and one that would have prevailed far more often than not. The Prince took his time and then produced the killing play—up with the king. When Edna later tried a ruffing finesse with the diamond queen to dispose of her losing heart, Jeanne produced the diamond ace for a one trick set.
“I’m terribly sorry, Wink. I shouldn’t have pulled.”
He shrugged. “Polensky just pulled another devastator on you. We still get the hundred honors.”
The Prince’s eyes flashed. “Thank you, but it was elementary. If Mrs. Mallory had the ace of diamonds, the hand was cold. I had nothing to lose.”
Jake let it pass. The world was full of bad analyses, including, sadly, many of his own. But switch the singleton jack of diamonds for the singleton ace, and give Jeanne the spade jack for the seven, and the Prince’s play would have looked pretty silly.
But there was no denying the effectiveness of his dashing style. He and Jeanne hit a small slam that was cold but hard to reach, and followed it up with a grand slam that was tighter than an actor’s girdle. But it wiped out Winkman’s winnings and put the icing on the session. They abandoned the table for cocktails, and then went upstairs to change for dinner.
The evening session got underway with Jeanne, ravishing in another floor-length creation, producing an unexpected defense.
Jake opened with a club, over which Jeanne bid a Michaels two clubs, showing a weakish hand length in the majors. Edna called two diamonds, and Jake reached for three no trump, promptly doubled by the Prince.
Jeanne led the heart king, which held, and continued with the queen, taken by Jake, the Prince discarding the diamond four. This play virtually marked Polensky with five diamonds, and Jake’s lead to the diamond king confirmed the situation when Jeanne showed out. Jake then cashed three rounds of clubs, and when Jeanne followed to all of them, be had a pretty solid inferential count on both defenders’ hands—West 5-5-0-3, East 3-1-5-4. He judged further that the Prince might well have a spade trick, as well as minor suit stoppers, for his double. If so, the forceps were in position for a suicide squeeze, and he threw Jeanne in with a heart. She promptly cashed another heart, the Prince discarding first the spade eight and then the diamond nine, to bring about this position:
If Jeanne now cashed her last heart—as Jake confidently expected—the Prince would be ground in the teeth of a progressive squeeze. But after looking long and wistfully at her good heart, the Countess reluctantly led a spade, and there was no way to keep Polensky from taking two tricks.
The Prince dabbed a handkerchief to his forehead. “Pretty play, petite.”
“I’ve had it done to me before,” Jake sighed. “By someone like Sheinwold and Kaplan. But one of you is better looking, and the other makes it literally royal.”
Jeanne laughed gaily, but as one close contract after an other fell to a withering defense, and as she and the Prince piled up the score, she finally turned to Edna. “I’m really sorry, dear sister. I know how you must feel—when you take your game so seriously.”
“On the contrary,” Edna responded easily. “I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself so much. Wink has proved a marvelous catalyst. Your and the Prince’s game has grown so much stronger since he came. It’s become almost exquisitely relentless.” She sighed and waved her handkerchief. “I do hope I’m learning something.”
The Prince was nimble. “Mrs. Mallory is too modest much. Your game superb is. We have been very lucky. It is of a certainty that about our cards complain we cannot.”
Jake bit down on his tongue. This savored of the patronizing pap used to console pigeons in a high-stake game where they did not belong. He had spotted far too many flaws in the Prince’s game to warrant any such condescension toward Edna. “Is it possible but,” he asked dryly, “to deal while one the manure spreads? I have the feeling that our luck about may later turn.”
And turn it did, but only for the worse. It seemed as if the Prince, resenting Jake’s drollery, had determined to turn it on in earnest. The cards cooperated, and Jake and Edna took a merciless flogging. But Jake, as with almost everything else, had a technique for dealing with such situations. Having ruthlessly exorcised all superstition, he knew that judgment could be a chemical fugitive, and that once depression replaces perception at the bridge table, the victim will be contributing far more to his beating than the opponents. His answer was to forget the score, wipe out all previous hands, and to concentrate on each new hand as a fresh and isolated problem. And shuffle the hell out of the cards. He did not say it was easy, and he was grateful that Edna had learned the lesson well.
Her stability in the face of repeated debacles allowed him to keep his analytical searchlight cool and probing.
Against Jeanne’s three no trump, Edna opened the heart trey. Jake was up with the ace and switched to the diamond jack, with Jeanne making a well-guessed duck. He continued the diamond nine, Edna taking her ace and exiting with the heart deuce. This was technically correct but strategically dubious, since it gave declarer too good a count on the hand. For Edna was now marked with five hearts and two diamonds. Her black cards, as well as her partner’s, would almost surely break 4-2 or 3-3. If the latter, declarer had the rest; if the former, and Edna held four spades, the contract was a latch.
Jeanne won in her hand and rapidly played the spade king, followed by the ace and king of c
lubs, playing dummy’s seven and nine. Eyes bland, Jake now inwardly relaxed. The hand could still be made, of course, by cashing dummy’s top spades, and leading a fourth spade to squeeze Winkman on Edna’s forced heart return. But a player who would fail to unblock the club ten-nine for a simple proved finesse was not about to find the more intricate and unnecessary play. She didn’t, and struggled to a one-trick set. Cashing dummy’s top spades would have ruled out Edna’s holding a third club.
The Prince was gentle. “So fast, cherie, you play. Two different ways but you could have made the hand. Unblock the clubs, or save the heart entry your hand to.”
Jake said nothing, but he noted the Prince underbid the next hand the Countess played, settling for a comfortable four hearts when six was there for the price of a little skillful manipulation. But the Prince, too, was having his problems.
Against four hearts, Jake led the spade queen, ducked in dummy by the Prince, Edna following with the nine. Since this marked declarer with the spade ten, Jake switched to the jack of clubs. Polensky won and immediately shot a low heart toward the board, Jake calmly playing the seven. When Edna showed out, the jig was up and another ice-cold contract went down the drain. Even one of Jake’s beginner clients would have been sitting on toothmarks for a month, had he made such an error.
“Tough luck, partner,” Jeanne consoled, thus marking herself as either a diplomat or a dolt. “All four trumps in one hand…”
But the Prince, enjoying belated hindsight, knew better. Had all four trumps been in the East hand, nothing could prevent the loss of two trump tricks. Therefore, it could cost nothing to insure against their all being in the West hand by simply leading the jack.