THE SHERIFF TAKES SOME LESSONS IN POKER-PLAYING
A dead silence followed the Sheriff’s withering command. But it was broken, at last, by the man addressed.
“All right,” he said gruffly. “You win, Sheriff!”
“The Law all’us wins,” proclaimed the Sheriff exultantly. “At least when it comes to gittin’ its man.” Now he surveyed the other sadly and wonderingly. “And so—in some newspaper shop whar they was settin’ up stories about you an’ Blake—to run in th’ same edition—yo’re picture and his got transposed, eh? And—”
“No.” The answer was curt.
“No? No case o’ transp’sition atter all, eh? Well then, ef’n the Law mought beg to inquire, in a post-mortem sech as thi—”
“Ante-mortem, don’t you mean?” put in the other cuttingly. “Because there’s nobody dead yet.”
“A pure technycality,” pointed out the Sheriff, equally as cuttingly. “Sence there will be somebody dead, as soon as you git up thar on the island p’int—well out’n the way of us who’ll hatter take off in our belts an’ blow-up vest—and swallow the hundred thousand tons or so of water that’ll come down when that dam busts!” He surveyed the other sadly. “And so—and so you come acrost, in some newspaper, a picture of a man who was yo’re double, and promp’ly t’uk a scissors and cut it out so’s—”
“No—to both of those guesses.”
“No? What the hell do you mean? Sence you hain’t no glass eye in yo’re haid, then this picture what’s Blake must be yo’re doub—”
“It isn’t Blake.”
“Ain’t Blake? Then, you stubbo’n mule, we git right back to whar we started; it’s b’en transposed, jest as I fu’st said, and—”
“No pictures have been transposed. No electro-cuts have been transposed. No—”
“Then yo’re going to maintain, Hart, that yo’ve b’en working in Indianapolis as Blake from the day you escap—”
“No. So far as that goes, I’ve never been in Indianapolis in my life.”
The Sheriff threw up his hands.
“E-nough! It shore takes a filthy worm to wiggle when the hook goes into his guts. And I’m not on’y wasting my time listening to you, but wasting yo’re time as well—sence right now you should be up on the p’int o’ this island by yo’rese’f, gittin’ clost to God’s ear, and prayin’ yo’rese’f a place on His threshold atter you’ve sarved the 10,000 years in hell you ought to should. So—”
“Wait! Why, I’d like to ask, should I go up there—and pray? I’m not Actor Hart.”
Only the three men facing the Sheriff knew how ludicrous he looked at that moment. He himself simply could not have known. For his lower jaw hung ridiculously open, and his eyelids were raised so far heavenward that his blue eyes popped definitely forward in his head.
“I’God!” he managed to say, “but yo’re good, Hart! When I run ye plumb to ’arth an’ prove you up, you still den—but jest how, mought I hombly ask, sence you seem to be in the way, right now, o’ freely answerin’ questions!—jest how, Mist-er Not-Hart, did you know today as you could talk into the fucus o’ that thar goldarned all-metal raddio we had out hyar, an’—”
“And have entirely different voices—reflect back? Why—by having seen an—an advance proof of—of some newspaper science article sent to me by—by a friend. Some science article credited, if I recall it rightly, to—to some science magazine. And—”
“Advance pruff my behind!” bit out the Sheriff angrily. “And sent by some friend—the same! That Barnes woman she t’uk ev’ry goddanged New York newspaper they wuz—and by air mail to boot, via Boggtown—had bulldog editions in her lap, b’God, afore they ’uz readin’ the reg’lar ’ditions on Broadway. Easy to see whar you seed sich an article—ef, that is, you did! And sence ’twas her raddio what was so kindly do-nated to go out hyar with McCo’niss’ body, you had one fine chanct in her qua’ters to check up on any monkey-whillikans as could be pulled with it. And—”
“All not so,” retorted the other desperately. “For I don’t know the woman—and I’m not Hart.”
“I give up,” said the Sheriff helplessly. “Except to say yo’re good! For when I run you plumb to ’arth and prove you up—you still deny—i’God!” He shook his head. “I ’spose,” he commented caustically, “that Hick hyar—or Mex—or tenBrock’ville sleepin’ ahind you—is really Hart, eh?”
“Well—all three can’t be, naturally. For—”
“Hardly! Onless this hyar affair is degen’rating into a burlesque on one o’ them Uncle Tom burlesques whar they’s two of ever’thing. On’y—this ain’t no play nor play-act even if they is a slick actor playin’ in it. So all three ‘cain’t be Hart,’ eh? And—‘natur’lly’! Hm? Well, this affair, while it ain’t no play-act, seems to be a poker-game all right. And having allus b’en a po’re hand at that game myse’f, and wantin’ to 1’arn a few princ’ples today, from a great player like yo’rese’f, I’d like to ask, meek-like: Sence all three men cain’t be Hart, would you care to name which, in yo’re humble estimation, is Hart?”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Good! And I mean by that that I jest l’arned the poker move to make when holding nothing—and knowing I might be facing one weak hand and one strong hand. In this case, two strongly confirmed stories—and mebbe a po’rely confirmed one. Well—which one o’ them three men’s stories ain’t b’en—so far’s yo’re reasoning goes—b’en confirmed?”
“None of their stories have.”
“None’s has? Why, goddang you, Hart, air you tryin’ to make a monkey out’n me? You ain’t even playin’ poker now—as I’ve seed it played. Fur yo’ fu’st checked a bet around the table—and now yo’re trying to check it again—a poker-playing procedure I’ve never seed permitted in my lim’ted life.”
“You’re right, of course. I mean that a bet can’t be checked more than once around. But this isn’t poker; it’s—”
“It’s either not poker,” pointed out the Sheriff, meaningfully, “or the cunningest kind o’ poker—whar a man who knows all the moves pretends he don’t know one card from another! So play on, Hart! I figger someday to cash in on yo’re psychology—even if I cain’t cash in on you. Now you say, blandlike, that none o’ them three stories has b’en confirmed? I say I confirmed all of ’em myse’f. So—”
“Wait a minute! We both heard three stories given here today that sounded as credible as anything I’ve ever heard in my life. The kind of story that Hart, evidently a master liar, would have rendered in any kind of a jam. And I see by your half grin there that you’ve just mastered another play. The idea of a holder of no cards admitting to the other players that he knows they hold high hands. So that, when he does start to bluff, they’ll never suspect his bluff. You may make a few pennies out of that one someday, Sheriff. Only—it’s not a poker play here today—on this island. It’s a mere statement of mere fact. And—but here’s the point I’m driving at. All three of those stories, Sheriff, could have—now wait, Sheriff!—and you two men, don’t look at me as though you want to strangle me—I’m talking for my life, don’t forget!—well, all three of those stories you heard today, Sheriff, could have been built about the very points which you were personally able to corroborate!”