Seth Beckman sat facedown at the poker table. His eyes were wide and unblinking. His mouth was open, his nostrils were flared, yet no breath was coming through. Mr. Beckman was done playing poker for the evening. His cards were on the table in front of him. As were the stacks of chips on which he lay. Due to which, the man presented at least a linguistic paradox. Mr. Beckman had not cashed in his chips because he had cashed in his chips.
In the apartment flashbulbs were going off. The medical examiner hovered, waiting for the detectives to let him at the body. He had already pronounced the man dead. Now it would be up to him to determine why. The froth at the mouth and slight odor of bitter almonds pointed to cyanide. But poison was a woman's weapon. There were no women in the game, just a bunch of good ol' boys, who got together once a month to test their manhood at the poker table. A cross section of Manhattan's elite who had been gambling together over twenty years. Indeed, the game, or some variation, had been going close to fifty, though none of the original players remained. No Rockefellers or Carnegies, as there once were. But there were judges, politicians, and influential businessmen, even if Donald Trump wasn't among them. It was a prestigious game, and an honor to be asked.
I was surprised to find that Richard Rosenberg played in it. Though one of New York City's top negligence lawyers, he was still, in fact, a negligence lawyer, a profession only slightly better regarded than crack whore.
I was even more surprised to find he had asked for me. Richard usually thrived on situations like this. Ordinarily, I would have expected him to have insinuated himself into the case, interrogated all the witnesses, and coerced confessions out of at least half of them. The fact he called for backup was a shock.
The fact the police let me in was a bit of a surprise also. It turned out the cop in charge was Sergeant MacAullif. MacAullif likes my input. It gives him a chance to hone his sarcasm and irony. "Well, well, well, Stanley Hastings. The ace PI. What brings you here?"
"Here" was the apartment of Adam Addington. The stockbroker was either a genius or an inside trader, or some combination of the two. His Park Avenue digs probably cost more than the average Pentagon budget. In wartime. It was in his game room, around his felt-covered octagonal oak poker table, that the crime had taken place. If it was indeed a crime, and Mr. Beckman had not picked that moment to just happen to go belly-up.
What brought me there was a liveried elevator operator and a uniformed cop. The fact we'd stepped straight off the elevator into the apartment was a subtle hint that Mr. Addington had a floor-through.
"Richard called me."
"So I understand. Why do you suppose he did it?"
"Have you considered asking him?"
"Not without a Miranda warning. After all, the guy's a lawyer."
"So read him his rights."
"I'm afraid he'd cross-examine me on them."
"Good point."
We found Richard Rosenberg at a dining-room table that seated twelve. It currently sat six, the remaining poker players who had been in the game.
Richard sprang to his feet when he saw me. A little man with an inexhaustible supply of nervous energy, Richard was always ready to bound up at a moment's notice. I was surprised to find he had the patience to sit still long enough to play poker.
"Stanley. Thank God you're here. This is a hell of a situation. There's been a murder, and I'm a suspect."
"Oh, don't take so much credit," said a middle-aged man with twinkling eyes and a face like the Pillsbury Doughboy. He wore a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt. A stain on the left sleeve and a rip in the collar seemed to attest to its genuine vintage. "We're all suspects. But I didn't do it, and I resent being held a prisoner in my own apartment."
So, the Doughboy had dough. I wondered how much was required to get away with wearing a torn T-shirt. The rest of the poker players seemed fairly well dressed.
MacAullif and I marched Richard out of earshot of the others. Amazingly, that left them still in sight. It was a very large apartment.
"Okay," MacAullif demanded, "what's the deal?"
Richard shrugged. "I have no idea. The guy just fell over dead."
"I don't mean that." MacAullif jerked his thumb. "Why'd you call him?"
"Well, I couldn't call a lawyer, I am a lawyer. But I do have a vested interest in the outcome of this case. Not to disparage your investigative abilities, but you are not my investigator. You are not reporting to me what you find. Stanley, on the other hand, would lose his job if he didn't."
"Now there's a recommendation," I observed.
"Besides, you know him and you won't throw him out."
"Anytime you get done praising my abilities..."
"Don't be dumb. Sergeant MacAullif won't let me sit in on the interviews because I'm a quote suspect unquote. I need to know what's said. So I'm counting on you to listen in."
"Assuming anyone talks," I said. "They have the right to remain silent, as I'm sure you pointed out."
"Are you kidding me? With my interests at stake? I advised them all to tell everything they know."
MacAullif cocked his head. "You actually think I'd let him sit in on the interviews?"
"Absolutely. You guys have helped each other in the past. There's no reason not to. And these are prominent people. You want this cleaned up as quickly as possible before the commissioner gets involved. If I were you, I would look on this as a godsend."
MacAullif sized me up. If he considered me a godsend, I wouldn't have known it.
"In return for doing me this huge favor, I'll continue to urge all my friends to spill their guts. Which can only help me, since one of them's a killer. Or you can reject this suggestion, and I'll advise all of them to clam up and hire their own lawyers."
If it was a bluff, it was a good one. It occurred to me I wouldn't want to play poker against Richard.
"All right." MacAullif said it with all the good grace of a tree slug.
We walked Richard back to the table. His friends greeted him as if he was the waitress in a topless bar.
"So, what's it gonna be?"
"Did you ask him?"
"Yeah, did you ask him?"
"What did he say?"
"Yes, or no?"
Five men could not have looked more anxious. My god, did they all do it?
"Actually, we were discussing the other matter," Richard said. "You know. About Mr. Beckman."
Richard's friends didn't want to hear it.
"What's to discuss?"
"Guy has a heart attack and dies."
"It's sad, but life goes on."
"Yeah, life goes on."
MacAullif frowned. "Ask me what?"
"Well," Richard said. "We assume you're going to keep us here awhile?"
"That's your question?"
"No, I think that's a fairly safe assumption. And I know you don't want to disturb the crime scene."
"Speaking of safe assumptions. So, whaddya want?"
"Could we get a deck of cards?"
We conducted our questioning in Adam Addington's study, which was bigger than a breadbox and smaller than your average basketball court. One wall had a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which was quite something, when you considered the height of the ceiling—suffice it to say one of those sliding ladders on a track went along with it. There was a mahogany desk, a large-screen TV, a bar, a stereo system, and a small pool table for when Mr. Addington was too busy to walk down the hall to the billiard room.
The conference table in the corner was large enough for the Green Bay Packers. It was covered with toys and knickknacks, just in case meetings got boring.
Richard was first up. He sat on one side of the conference table. MacAullif and I sat on the other.
"All right," Richard said. "I'd like to remind you that anything I say could be used against me in a court of law. And while this interrogation is not being taken down, it is in the presence of a witness."
"Thank you," MacAullif said dryly. "I'm glad that's taken care of. Do you intend to ask the questions, too?"
"If you like."
"Why don't you just tell us what happened? We can fill in the blanks later."
"What happened was Seth up and died right in the middle of a rather large pot."
"Absolutely. He'd just raised. He threw his chips in the pot and fell flat on his face."
"Could it have been the excitement of the hand?"
Richard made a face. "Please."
"You said it was a large pot."
"That's relatively large. Not worth dying over."
"I'll be the judge of that. What were the stakes?"
"Gonna bust us for gambling?"
"It's not a high priority."
"That's not the answer I was looking for."
"Cut it out. No one cares about gambling. You wanna speed this along?"
"We were playing quarter-half."
"That's all?"
"With a dollar on the last card. Certainly not enough money to induce a heart attack."
"What's the point?"
"What do you mean?"
"Of the game?"
"It's an old game. Been going on for over fifty years. In one or another variation. Quarter-half is actually big time. It used to be nickel-dime. Back when there was a Rockefeller playing."
"You're kidding."
"You think they got rich throwing their money away in card games?"
"How'd you get in the game?"
"You remember a few years back when Danny Felson died?"
"Who?"
Richard looked pained at MacAullif's ignorance. "The musical-comedy director? Guy had three Tonys. Anyway, when he died, I got his seat. It was quite an honor to be asked."
"But just an honor," I said.
Richard frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well, no one's going to get rich playing quarter-half."
"Of course. That's not the point. The thrill is playing with the big boys. The camaraderie. The connections. All financial considerations aside. Not that there aren't any. If our host threw a case my way, I could retire."
I always have to restrain myself when Richard says things like that. The guy makes money hand over fist. He could retire tomorrow, if he wanted to.
"Who got you in the game?" MacAullif asked.
"Judge Granville put in a word for me. I appear before him a lot. He thinks I'm funny." Richard raised his finger. "If you quote me on that, I'll deny it. I'd hate for the old boy to have to recuse himself the next time I get a juicy malpractice case."
"I wouldn't worry about it," MacAullif said. "You want to walk me through this? How long had you been playing before it happened?"
"We started around eight. Seth bit the big one at eight forty-five."
"Going around the table. Where was everyone sitting?"
"Okay," Richard said. "Say I'm sitting here. Then Seth was sitting here."
MacAullif raised his eyebrows. "Next to you?"
"Yes," Richard said ironically. "I was sitting right next to him. Where I'd make sure to sit if I was going to do him in."
"Where was everybody else?"
Richard snagged an ornate crystal ashtray that probably cost more than my car and placed it on the table to his right. "Here's Seth. I'm me." He slid one of those silver-balls-on-strings-that-swing-into-each-other doohickeys to his left. "This annoying toy is Benny—that's Benjamin Driscoll to you. He's a banker. By that I mean he owns a bank. A chain of banks, actually. Can we avoid saying which one? I wouldn't want to affect the prime lending rate.
"To his left is our host, Adam Addington. Horatio Alger story. Self-made man. Parlayed a small inheritance into a small fortune in the stock market." Richard slid a Magic 8-Ball into Addington's spot.
"The hawk-faced gentleman next to him is Judge Granville." Richard marked his place with what was either a large letter opener or a small samurai sword. "I wish I had a gavel."
Richard pointed to MacAullif. "In your seat is Dan Kingston. He's Addington's tax accountant. Like to be mine, if he could talk me into it. He's not a regular. He fills in when someone can't make it."
MacAullif jerked his thumb at me. "Who's in his seat?"
"No one. If's an octagonal table. We play with seven. Because there's so many games you can't play with eight. Draw, in particular, never works unless you shuffle discards. So we keep it to seven. Stanley's in the empty chair."
"Why am I not surprised? So who's next to me?"
"The rather smug gentleman is Harvey Poole. He's a pharmacologist. Has a patent on one of those Viagra knockoffs." Richard cocked his head at us. "Just in case you're interested. I think he also handles allergies and acid reflux."
"And he was sitting next to the dead man?"
"Yes."
"And no one was sitting on the other side of him?"
"Harvey's right-handed. likes his elbow room."
"So, assuming you didn't do it, he's the most likely suspect?"
"Don't be silly. There is no most likely suspect. The idea that any of us killed him is absurd. Despite all appearances, Seth probably died of natural causes."
The doctor poked his head in right after Richard left. "I think I got the cause of death."
"Really? What was it?"
"This was in his throat." The doctor produced a plastic evidence bag. In it was something that looked like it could well have been lodged in a dead man's esophagus. A tiny, mushy, nondescript piece of god-knows-what.
"What makes you think that's the murder weapon?"
"I'm suspecting cyanide poisoning, and this was the last thing he ate. Unless I'm mistaken, it's one of these."
The doctor held up something between his thumb and forefinger. It was a brown, cylindrically shaped object, about a half inch in diameter and twice as long.
"What the hell is that?"
"It's a pretzel. There was a basket of them on the table."
"He was killed with a poisoned pretzel?"
"You don't like the idea?"
"Can you put poison in a pretzel?"
"I could if I wanted to. I don't know whether it was done in this case. But it looks like cyanide, which is very fast acting. If he died from cyanide, it was something he ingested while sitting at the table. The choices are rather limited. The guy was eating pretzels and drinking Diet Coke. For my money, it wasn't in the Coke."
"Why do you say that?"
"The pretzel in his throat. If he drank the Coke first, it would kill him before he got to the pretzel. If he ate the pretzel first, I'd expect him to chew it some before taking a sip."
"That's assuming it was in the Diet Coke."
"Right. So, unlikely as it might seem, it looks like that guy was killed with a pretzel."
"You don't look happy, MacAullif," I said as the medical examiner left.
"No kidding. How do you poison someone with a pretzel? It's like a magician forcing a card. 'Pick a pretzel, any pretzel.' How do you make sure he picks the right pretzel?"
"Maybe more than one was poisoned."
"Then why aren't more people dead?"
"You sound disappointed, MacAullif. These aren't your favorite people?"
"Give me a break. They're out there playing cards while their friend's on his way to the morgue."
"Evidently, he wasn't really their friend."
"My point exactly. Say there's only one poisoned pretzel. Say you want this turkey to eat it. How do you get him to do that without someone seeing?"
"Maybe someone did."
Adam Addington sat down at the table, said, "My attorney has advised me to cooperate."
"You consulted an attorney?" MacAullif asked.
"Of course I did. Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No, sir. I just wondered why you felt the need to do so."
"This is my apartment."
"That doesn't make you any more suspect."
"Really? I would think it should. I had access to whatever it is that killed him. Unless it's something someone brought in. If you can show it's something someone brought in, I'd be very grateful."
"So you think you'll be suspected of this crime?"
"I certainly hope not. It would spoil the whole evening." When MacAullif didn't crack a smile, he added, "That was a joke."
"Better work on your delivery," MacAullif said dryly. "I'd still like to know why you felt the need to call a lawyer."
"Actually, Mr. Rosenberg convinced me."
MacAullif frowned. "Really? I was under the impression he advised everyone to cooperate."
"Oh, he did. It's nothing he said. It's who he is. A negligence lawyer. I have money. It doesn't matter who killed him if some shyster tries to prove I was negligent. What if Seth has greedy relatives who decide to take me to the cleaners? Frankly, I wouldn't put it past them."
"That's very interesting. You think relatives of Mr. Beckman would tend to be greedy?"
"I find people in general tend to be greedy. This is a fairly nice apartment. If pictures of the crime scene wind up in the daily press, someone's going to take a look and say, 'Whoa! I'd like a piece of that!'"
"I did."
"What did he advise you?"
"He said I should cooperate with the police in every way. He said as remote a possibility as a lawsuit was, the best defense against it would be to have someone found guilty of the crime. So, how can I help you?"
"What was your relationship with the decedent?"
"I saw him at the poker games."
"And nowhere else?"
"That's right."
"Why not?"
"We weren't friends."
"You didn't like him?"
"I didn't know him well." Addington put up his hand. "But let's not go around again. I had no wish to know him well. Seth had a rather arrogant personality, in my opinion."
"What did he do?"
"Not much. He never did anything for his money. His family hasn't as long as anyone can remember. They just have it. But whether it comes from steel, gold, or rooking the Indians is anybody's guess."
"Can you think of anyone who had a reason to dislike him?"
"Not in particular. But I can't think of anyone who had a reason to like him, either. Was there anything else?"
"Could you tell me what people were eating and drinking?"
"So, it was poison. Everyone's speculating poison."
"We don't know yet. Can you help us out?"
"People were eating pretzels and drinking seltzer and Diet Coke."
"Who brought the pretzels?"
"I did. Ever the gracious host."
"And the drinks?"
"That's right."
"You provided everything?"
"That I did."
"And no one brought anything in from outside?"
"If they did, I wasn't aware of it."
"Nothing else was served at the table except pretzels and the drinks you mentioned?"
"Yes. If he was poisoned, I provided the means. Would that be negligence?"
"Well, it wouldn't win you any medals."
Addington nodded approvingly. "Your delivery is just fine."
Dan Kingston was a nervous little man who looked as if at any moment he might be audited by the IRS. Since he was Addington's tax accountant, that could be quite a blow. The poker game might not involve big bucks, but in his line of work, fortunes could be won or lost by the simple manipulation of a decimal point.
"It's so awful," he said. "So awful."
"Yes. If you could just help us straighten things out."
"Could you hurry it up? I'd like to get back to the table."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm sorry. I don't get to play all that often. Tonight's game will be short as it is."
MacAullif rolled his eyes, shot me a look. I ignored him, said, "So, you're not a regular in the game?"
"No. I fill in when someone can't make it."
"That's what happened today."
"Yes. Adam Addington called me, said Kevin couldn't play."
"Kevin?"
"Horowitz. The congressman. He was supposed to play, but something came up."
"What?" I asked.
MacAullif and Dan both looked at me.
"I have no idea. Adam just said he couldn't make it, and could I fill in?"
"What time was that?" MacAullif asked.
"I don't know. Four-thirty, five."
"So, you had no idea you were going to be here until late this afternoon?"
"That's right. I didn't know till Adam called me."
"He called you at work?"
"Yes."
"You came right here from the office?"
"No. The game didn't start till eight. I went home and changed first."
Dan was wearing a tweed jacket and tie. I had to wonder what he'd changed out of.
He got up to go.
"Could I ask a question?"
Dan looked like I'd just offered to extract his wisdom teeth without novocaine.
"This guy you filled in for today. He's not the only guy you've ever played for?"
Dan couldn't believe I'd stopped him to ask that question. MacAullif seemed to share his sentiment.
"Of course."
"So you've filled in for other players?"
"Sure."
"So the guy you filled in for tonight—this Kevin—you've played with him, too. He's been there when you were. You know him fairly well?"
"I wouldn't go that far."
"But you've played cards with him?"
"Yes."
"And how did he get along with the decedent?"
Dan blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"They have any history? Any particular friction?"
As if explaining to a rather dull child, Dan said, "Kevin wasn't here."
"Yes, because you were. But if he had been. How would they have got along?"
"I don't think they liked each other. But nobody liked Seth much."
"What the hell was that all about?" MacAullif demanded, when Dan was safely gone.
"Just asking the questions you overlooked."
MacAullif made a few choice remarks such as might be heard in a rap song, suggesting I was a person of limited intelligence but impressive sexual abilities.
I explained patiently, "You have an unpleasant man, killed in the presence of a bunch of guys who didn't like him. None of whom have an alibi. Wouldn't you wanna look at the lone guy who has a perfect alibi? Who has arranged to have a perfect alibi?"
MacAullif groaned. "You've been reading murder mysteries again. Where the plot is so damn convoluted only a genius could have thought it up, and only a genius could figure it out. Real life is a little more straightforward. People kill someone because they want him dead, and their brilliant strategy for not getting caught is to say they didn't do it. Which is what we have here. There were six guys who could have committed the crime. Five, if you want to exclude Rosenberg. Which I'm sure you do, since he pays your salary."
"I'm self-employed. He hires my agency."
"Save it for the IRS. Anyway, if you wanna come up with some theory how a guy who wasn't here managed to slip the guy a poisoned pretzel, be my guest."
Judge Granville sat down at the table, folded his hands, and aimed his hawk-nose in our direction. The elderly jurist seemed completely at his ease. "I'm Judge Granville. I didn't do it, and I'd be happy to assist you in putting away whoever did."
"You have your own suspicions?" MacAullif asked.
The judge shrugged. "I have no grounds on which to base them. Unless you'd care to put some evidence before me."
"I really have no evidence."
"Who do you think killed Seth Beckman?"
The judge grimaced. "I didn't mean ask me that. I haven't a clue."
"Would you care to speculate?"
"Lord, no. I hear enough of that in court. If you want to ask me anything factual, I'd be glad to answer. That I hear too little."
"Did you like him?" I asked.
The judge frowned irritably.
"I'm not asking you for speculation," I told him. "Just a simple statement of fact."
"That's not a fact, it's an opinion."
"Whether or not you liked him may be an opinion, but that opinion is a fact."
Judge Granville squinted his eyes, cocked his head, looked more hawklike than ever. "And you are?"
"Stanley Hastings. I'm a private investigator."
"And you'd like to debate me on semantics?"
"Not really. I was hoping for a direct answer. It's not often we get a witness as evasive as you."
The judge chuckled ironically. Shook his head. Chuckled again. "You're a friend of Richard Rosenberg?"
"An employee, actually."
"Do you think you're helping him here?"
"As much as you are."
He frowned. "Why do you say that?"
"I understand you were instrumental in getting him into the game."
"He told you that?"
"Is it true?"
"I put a word in. Why?"
"So you're a long-standing member of the poker game?"
"Yes, I am."
"You've seen them come and go."
"What's your point?"
"Some of whom you liked, and some of whom you disliked."
"You're back to that?"
"Clearly it matters to you who plays in the game. You'd rather have compatible people, people you get along with."
"So, I murdered Seth Beckman to get a seat for a more compatible member?"
"You don't think much of that theory?"
"I have the disadvantage of knowing it isn't true. So it's hard for me to assess it objectively."
"Uh-huh. And what about the congressman?"
Judge Granville frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"Kevin what's-his-name. The guy who isn't here tonight. Was supposed to play but canceled. How do you feel about him?"
He looked at me for a moment, then smiled. "Well, I must say I am impressed. Let me be sure I understand this. Are you exploring the possibility the killer was actually Congressman Kevin Horowitz, who gave himself a rock-solid alibi by canceling at the last moment and not coming to the game?"
"What do you think of that theory?"
"I like it immensely."
"You do?"
"Oh, yes." The judge steepled his fingers on the table. "It means the theory that I killed him to open up a spot for another player is no longer the stupidest idea I ever heard."
Benjamin Driscoll came right in on the defensive. "All right. There's no use hiding it. My wife was involved with Seth, as I'm sure everyone told you."
"Well, that's interesting news," MacAullif said. "What makes you think that?"
The banker fell all over himself trying to backtrack. "Nobody mentioned it? Then maybe it isn't true."
"And yet you blurt it out during a murder investigation. It may not be true, but it's certainly on your mind. You might as well tell us."
"Well, maybe they weren't involved. But he was certainly hitting on her. I guess that makes me a suspect. Which is so unfair. Kind of like getting kicked twice, you know what I mean?"
"How did the decedent know your wife?"
"That's just it. He didn't. He made a point of seeking her out."
MacAullif frowned. "What are you saying?"
Driscoll made a face. "Seth and I never got along. One night we had a huge disagreement over a hand. Almost came to blows. Next day he staked out my apartment building. Followed my wife. Arranged a chance encounter."
"Now you're being paranoid."
"Oh, yeah? You know how many 'chance encounters' he arranged that month? Then, at the next game, he started dropping hints. Cryptic little insinuations. Drove me nuts."
"What did your wife say?"
"She stopped mentioning him. When I asked, she said she hadn't seen him. Just what she would say if there was something going on."
"Or if she hadn't seen him," MacAullif pointed out.
"Exactly," Driscoll cried in exasperation. "See what he did? Put the idea in my head, and then toyed with me. Was he pretending he was seeing my wife, or was he actually doing it? I had no way of knowing. But the son of a bitch needled me about it at the card table. Right in front of the others. You sure no one mentioned it?"
"When did this happen?"
"It was months ago. But he wouldn't let it drop. Bugged me all the time. Of course, he bugged everyone."
"I get the impression nobody liked him."
"I don't think anybody did."
"Then why didn't you guys kick him out?"
Driscoll seemed shocked at the thought. "Are you kidding? He was a regular."
The smug pharmacologist also had a bone to pick. "Was it poison?" Harvey Poole demanded.
MacAullif frowned. "Why do you ask?"
"Seth keeled over and died. I thought it was a heart attack. Now I hear it's poison."
"So, that rumor's getting around?"
"It's just a rumor?"
"Nothing's been confirmed."
"Well, I wish people would wait before making accusations."
"Accusations?"
"You know what I mean. People hear poison, and everyone thinks of the pharmacologist."
"Of course," MacAullif said.
I suppressed a smile. Clearly, he hadn't thought of the pharmacologist. The fact I hadn't either did not diminish my glee.
"You don't make cyanide, do you?" MacAullif asked.
"I most certainly do not!"
"Well, you say everyone is looking at you as the killer. What motive did you have?"
"Same as everybody else. I didn't like him. He was a nasty son of a bitch, and the world is better off without him."
"Is that supposed to be refreshingly candid?" I asked.
Harvey frowned. "It's not supposed to be anything, it's the truth. The man was unpleasant. I can't imagine that's why he was killed, but it happens to be the case."
"Did you have any personal dealings with him?" MacAullif asked.
"None. Never saw him socially, never met him outside the poker game."
"How about the other players?"
"I never saw them, either."
"I mean did any of them know him socially?"
Harvey shrugged. "I have no idea. Why don't you ask them?"
"The thought had occurred to me," MacAullif said dryly. "You happen to hand the decedent anything to eat or drink during the game?"
"Ah, we're back to poison. I like the way you did that, leading the conversation in another direction, and then sneaking that question in. The answer is no, I did not."
"You never handed him the pretzel basket?"
"I may have passed the basket. That's a far cry from giving him a pretzel."
"You mean because he chose it himself?" I asked.
As before, Harvey resented the interruption. "If I actually passed the basket. I have no recollection of having done so."
"So you might have?"
"It wasn't important. No one pays attention to stuff like that when it isn't important."
"It's important now."
"Yes. And I don't remember. When you're playing cards, you're not concentrating on the food. You're concentrating on the hand."
"You were in the hand?"
"Damn right, I was. It was a big pot. Seth just bet, and I had him beat. Before I had a chance to raise him back, he's dead."
"How do you know you had him beat?" MacAullif asked.
"How do I know anything? It's seven-card stud. I got a flush. He's got two pair. And he's drawing dead. That means the cards he needs to improve are all gone."
"I know what drawing dead means," MacAullif said.
"Refresh my memory," I said. "How'd you know he was drawing dead?"
"He's got kings showing. And a two and an eight. Kings and eights are dead. That means we've seen them already. They're not in the deck. They were in other people's hands. And there's only one deuce left. If he has it, which he probably does, he's got kings up. But he can't improve. His only chance of winning is if he's got a pair of god-knows-what down, catches another one, and has trips in the hole for a full house. If he's betting on that to happen, he's the type of guy I love to play cards with."
"What about the other people in the hand?"
"They all folded. The judge was out from the beginning. The others stuck around for the sixth card, went out when Seth bet."
"I thought he threw his money in the pot and died."
"Yeah, but not like that. A couple of guys folded first. I was getting ready to reach for my money when he took the header."
"Everyone folded to you?"
"Except Dan. He had garbage showing. He tends to chase too many pots. Probably had a four flush or a four straight, or was looking for trips. I think he went in before me. He wasn't going to be happy when I raised."
"Neither was Seth Beckman," I pointed out.
"No kidding. Believe me, if I was gonna kill him, I'd have waited until after the hand."
"What was that all about?" MacAullif demanded, when the pharmacologist had gone out.
"That was very interesting. Of all the players, he's the first one who wanted to talk about the hand."
"Because he had a flush."
"Granted. And look how he played it. Guy kept track of cards right down to the last deuce. Knew that Beckman couldn't hurt him. He also had the accountant sized up. He doesn't just play the cards, he plays the man."
"The accountant?"
"No. The druggist. He counts cards, reads personalities, probably keeps track of people's tells."
"You mean he's good at multitasking?"
"Like slipping a guy a pretzel in the middle of a poker game?" I shook my head. "I don't know. Is that all of them?"
MacAullif consulted his notes. "Yeah, that's it. Wanna check out the crime scene?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
The poker table was just as they had left it, with the exception of Mr. Beckman, who had been cleared away. In the middle of the green felt was a messy heap of red, white, and blue chips, the thick clay ones in fashion since TV poker caught on. In front of each seat chips were stacked in piles, some large, some small. The ones that had been in front of Seth Beckman were smushed over from the gentleman lying on them. The others were neat and orderly, sorted into colors. Apparently Judge Granville and Harvey Poole were doing well. Banker Benjamin Driscoll and accountant Dan Kingston were down. Attorney Richard Rosenberg, host Adam Addington, and the dear departed Seth Beckman were close to even.
Of course, there was a large pile of chips in the center of the table which were yet to be distributed. If the chips were Harvey Poole's, they would put him way ahead. If the chips were Dan Kingston's, they would put him close to even.
If the chips were Seth Beckman's, they weren't going to help him much.
The cards were exactly as Harvey Poole had described them. Seth Beckman had two kings, an eight, and a deuce, all of different suits. Dan Kingston had queen, ten, six, five showing, with a straight or flush draw possible, as well as three of a kind or two small pair. Harvey Poole had three clubs, including one of Seth Beckman's dead kings.
All other hands were folded in front of the players.
The rest of the deck was in front of Adam Addington's chair. Evidently he'd been dealing.
"Just like he said," MacAullif observed.
"Yeah. Wanna peek?"
"Huh?"
"At the down cards?"
I turned over the hole cards.
Seth Beckman did indeed have a deuce, giving him kings up.
Dan Kingston had a pair of queens, was hoping to catch trips, which would lose to Poole's flush, assuming he had it.
He did. Harvey had two clubs in the hole, including the ace. Even if Dan Kingston had hit a flush, which he couldn't, it would have lost to Harvey's ace-king high flush.
"So," MacAullif said. "The druggist wins."
"Not necessarily. Let's see what they would have caught."
"They can't catch anything. The accountant's got nothing, and the corpse is drawing dead."
"According to Harvey Poole. But he could be mistaken. Or lying. Killers sometimes do that."
"Killers?"
"It doesn't hurt to check."
It didn't help, either. Harvey Poole's hand held up. The chips were his.
I looked around. On a sidebar near the poker table was a telephone and an answering machine. I walked over, looked. There was one message. I pressed the button.
"You can't do that," MacAullif said.
"Sorry."
The machine played. "Adam, this is Kevin. Something came up. I can't make it. I know it's short notice, but try Dan. He always wants to play. Oh, and catch a boat for me. See you next month."
I looked at MacAullif.
He gave me the evil eye. "Are you going to start that again?"
"I didn't say a word."
"You don't have to. You hear the guy's voice on the answering machine, I can see you measuring him for handcuffs."
"Relax, MacAullif. I don't think the congressman did it."
"Do you know who did?"
"I got a pretty good idea."
"Me, too. But I can't prove a thing."
"Well, it's a poker game, isn't it?"
"So?"
"Wanna run a bluff?"
No one was happy when MacAullif and I came into the dining room to report. If anything, they seemed annoyed we were holding up their hand.
"You needn't recapitulate," Judge Granville said. "I know what you're going to say. You've gone over our statements. None of them were particularly useful, but you feel you're making progress. Which is a euphemism for we-haven't-got-a-clue."
"I wasn't going to say that," MacAullif assured him.
"Oh? Why not?"
"It isn't true. We're not making progress. We've made no progress at all."
Judge Granville raised his eyebrows. "You have nothing?"
"Give him a break, Judge," I protested. "You're the one who said he has nothing. You gonna knock him for agreeing with you?"
"You're swapping words with us while there's a murderer sitting at our table," Adam Addington said irritably. "That is your contention, isn't it? That one of us killed him?"
"Actually, he thinks Kevin did it," Judge Granville said ironically.
All stared at me with the contempt which a person who professed so dubious an opinion deserved.
I shrugged. "Well, wouldn't that be nice? Better him than you, right? Wouldn't you all like to be cleared?"
Even Richard Rosenberg was having trouble swallowing that. "Stanley? Are you serious?"
"I'm not ruling him in, and I'm not ruling him out. The problem is, as I'm sure you all heard, it looks like Seth was killed with a poisoned pretzel. And Kevin wasn't here to give it to him."
"Isn't that rather convincing?" Judge Granville said dryly.
"It's certainly a point in his favor. We're examining possibilities here. To narrow things down, I'd like to try a little experiment."
Judge Granville frowned suspiciously. "What kind of experiment?"
"Let's play some cards."
The six men milled around the poker table. No one sat down. I got the feeling they couldn't quite believe they were there. Which was understandable. MacAullif had to move the crime-scene ribbon to let them in.
"If you would please take your seats," I invited. "Your original seats, of course."
"Are you going to reenact the crime?" Judge Granville's tone was mocking.
"I would, but we don't have Seth."
I sat in the dead man's seat. The players sat in theirs. MacAullif stood looking on.
"Okay, let's get the chips off the table. Mr. Poole, you won, you take the pot."
"Hey, wait a minute," Dan Kingston said. "What do you mean, he won?"
"He had a flush," I explained. "Even if you hit, you wouldn't have beat him. And you didn't hit. Go on, Harvey, take die chips."
The pharmacologist raked in the chips, stacked them up.
"I'd love to pass around the basket of pretzels, but the cops snatched 'em up. Instead, I'm going to deal the cards."
I picked up the deck, which was on the table in front of Beckman's seat.
"Are you going to re-deal the last hand?" Judge Granville said.
"I can't do that. I don't know what everyone had, or when they folded. I suppose I could have taken the time to work it out, but that would have been a lot of trouble. So let's do something else."
"What?" Dan Kingston said. "What are you going to do?"
"You ever have a deal-off at the end of the night? Everybody antes a couple of bucks, and you deal a hand of showdown to see who takes the last pot?"
"Yeah. Sure. Why?"
"I thought we'd deal a hand of showdown to see who killed Seth."
Everyone stared at me incredulously.
"Stanley," Richard said. "Have you lost your mind?"
"No, but I'm low on options. And we need to get this settled. Let's play one hand of showdown for it. That's fair, isn't it? Everybody's got an equal chance. Okay, here we go."
Before anyone could protest, I dealt out the cards faceup.
"Nine for Richard Rosenberg, deuce for banker Driscoll, king for our gracious host, jack for the judge, six for accountant Dan Kingston, three for Mr. Poole, and an eight for the dealer."
"Hey," Harvey Poole said. "You dealt yourself in."
"Not me. I dealt Seth in. After all, he could have committed suicide."
I wouldn't have thought their faces could have looked any more incredulous. I was wrong.
"Okay," I said. "King is high. So far it's you, Mr. Addington."
The billionaire in the torn T-shirt looked up at MacAullif. "Do we have to put up with this?"
"No. I can take you all downtown and we can do everything by the book."
The men thought that over.
"Deal!" Addington snapped.
I dealt another round. "Okay, ace for Richard, queen for the banker, king gets a nine—you're no longer high, Mr. Addington, ten for the judge, deuce for Mr. Kingston, nine for Mr. Poole, and the dealer gets a six."
"Wait a minute," Benjamin Driscoll said. "Is this five-card or seven-card showdown?"
The others stared at him. No one could believe he'd asked.
"Seven-card." I answered with a straight face, as if it were a perfectly natural question. "That's what you were playing, wasn't it?"
"You're certifiable," Addington said.
"Maybe. But it's dealer's choice. And I'm the dealer. Here they come again, and, oh! Look! Judge Granville pulls into the lead with a pair of jacks. Is it possible, Your Honor, that you decided to mete out justice at the poker table?"
The judge favored me with a superior smirk.
"Here's a five for Mr. Kingston, and, ah, Mr. Poole, three hearts. Possible flush. And you had a flush when Seth Beckman died."
"So what?"
I held the deck up, didn't deal the next card. "Well, we have a bit of a problem here. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but apparently Seth Beckman was not a nice man. Everyone here had a motive to kill him. Some more than others."
"Come on, deal," Driscoll said irritably. I understood his apprehension. His motive was better than most.
"Yes," I agreed. "Let's see who improves. No apparent help, no apparent help, no apparent help, no help for the judge's jacks, no apparent help." I dealt Poole a spade. "Off the flush. And no help for the dealer. Jacks are still high."
"Side pot on low," Dan Kingston quipped. He had four cards to a seven, an excellent low hand.
I pointed at the cards in front of me. They were four to an eight, not quite as good a low, but competitive. "Seth might take you up on that. Too bad he's dead."
I held the deck again, looked around. "See, here's the problem. How do you force the pretzel? You can't pick it up and hand it to him. The guy reaches in the basket. Takes a pretzel or two. How do you make sure he takes the right one?"
"You can't," Richard Rosenberg said. "There's no way to do it. At least, none I know of."
"How about it, guys? Anyone know how to force the pretzel?"
There was no answer.
This time it was Judge Granville who said, "Deal."
I dealt the fifth round. "Here we are, and ... aces for Richard Rosenberg! Sorry about that. Try not to take it personally. Pair of queens for Mr. Driscoll. No help for our host. Oh! Jacks and sevens for the judge!" I dealt Dan Kingston a four, giving him ace, three, four, six, seven. "And a seven low made. You're in the wrong game. No help for the flush. And a ten-high for the dealer."
Benjamin Driscoll threw his hands in the air. "I can't believe we're sitting here doing this!"
"That pair of queens got you nervous? Relax. Rosenberg's got aces, and the judge has jacks up. Right now you're a long shot to win."
I paused again. "So. We got someone who wants to give Seth Beckman a poisoned pretzel. How does he do that without being seen? Particularly during a big hand that Mr. Beckman is in, where everyone will be looking at him? No theories? Okay, let's see another card."
I dealt the sixth card. "No help for the aces. No help for your queens, Mr. Driscoll. See, you were worried for nothing. No help for our gracious host. No help for the jacks and sevens. Low hand pairs the threes."
"We're not playing low hand," the banker said irritably.
I dealt a heart to Harvey Poole. "Ah. Back on the flush. And a pair of deuces for the decedent."
I held the deck in my hand, looked around the table. "See, here's the thing. It's easy to poison a pretzel, next to impossible to guide it into the right hand. When you think along those lines, you're in trouble. Once you accept the assumption it couldn't be done, everything falls into place."
They stared at me incredulously.
"Okay, moment of truth. Big all-or-nothing card. So far the judge is in front with jacks up. Can Richard Rosenberg unseat him with aces up? No. No help for the aces. Mr. Driscoll ... no help for the queens."
I swear the banker let out a sigh. "No help for Mr. Addington. No help for Judge Granville, but he's still high with jacks up."
I dealt Dan Kingston a five. "The seven low improves to a six low." Dan also had three, four, five, she, seven. "Oh! Small straight!" Dan looked sick. As if the hand actually meant anything. "Judge, you're off the hook. Everyone's off the hook."
I turned to Harvey Poole. "Except you. It all comes down to you, Mr. Poole. The four flush. You, who can hit a heart and win the whole thing. Just like you did when he died."
Adam Addington frowned. "Hey. What are you saying? Are you saying Harvey did it?"
"Well, let's think about that. The killer couldn't force the pretzel. Therefore the killer didn't know who he was going to kill; therefore the killer didn't care. The killer wanted to kill someone at the table. Not anyone in particular. Just anyone at all. Does that profile fit any of the suspects?"
I turned the card over.
Ace of spades.
Busted flush.
"And we have a winner! Dan Kingston, with a small straight. Dan Kingston, who doesn't quite play in the same league, but who'd like to. Who isn't a regular, and only gets called now and then. Who needs the connections and associations this game affords, but who can't network effectively unless he's playing every month. Who needs to knock out a player—any player—to create a seat. I have bad news, Mr. Addington. The killer is your tax accountant. I hope he finished your return."
Dan's face had drained of color. "That's ridiculous. So I got a straight. It's just a stupid hand of cards."
"That's not what proves you're guilty," I explained. "You left your fingerprints on the pretzel."
"The hell I did!" Dan cried. "You can't get fingerprints from a pretzel! I—"
Dan Kingston broke off in mid-sentence. He stared at me in horror. Then down at his cards. Then up again. He looked so crushed, I almost felt sorry for him.
"No, you can't," I told him. "I was bluffing. But sometimes you can win with a bluff."
MacAullif stepped forward and told Dan Kingston he had the right to remain silent. MacAullif needn't have bothered. The little accountant had nothing to say.
"So," Judge Granville said, after MacAullif had hustled the suspect off to the hoosegow. "All that dealing showdown was just a distraction to get Dan confused so he'd blurt out an admission."
"Yes, and no. I wanted to get him confused, but I also wanted to accuse him of the crime. That's why I stacked the deck to let him win. Did you see his face when he caught that five? I've never seen a gambler so unhappy to catch an inside straight."
"How'd you know he did it? Please tell me there wasn't any fingerprint."
"Of course not. That was a bluff."
"So, how'd you know?"
"Actually, you got me thinking in the right direction. When you suggested ironically that you killed him to make way for a more harmonious player. Ridiculous, of course. But not that far from the truth. What if someone knocked out a player to create a seat?"
"That's absurd."
"It's not absurd, it's pathetic. But understandable. Particularly when you see the guy. He's like a little kid looking through the window of a candy store, wanting to be invited to the grown-ups' table."
"You're mixing metaphors."
"Sue me."
As if on cue, Richard Rosenberg said, "Come on, guys, don't give him a hard time. After all, he solved the murder."
The others mumbled their thanks. Considering the circumstance, I couldn't help noticing a decided lack of enthusiasm.
"I don't expect you guys to be grateful, or anything, but you don't look all that happy."
"Well," Harvey Poole said. "You gotta remember. We're playing with she people, what with Seth getting killed. With Dan arrested, we're down to five. That's not such a good game."
Talk about obsessive. Of course, I could understand it. I've played poker myself.
"You're playing quarter-half?"
"Yeah."
I pulled out my wallet. "Deal me in."