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 necessary 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.…” 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 table-top, 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.…”

Sir Percival smote himself on the brow.

“It must be the sea air. I remember being taken to Brighton as a child and not being able to manage the penny machine without a penny, a problem I never faced back home in London.”

“The betting,” Simpson reminded him.

“Of course. I apologize for the oversight. Well,” said Sir Percival, “it works like this: if you have a higher value hand than your opponent—or opponents, as the case may be—you place a wager to the limit that the game is being played for. If you consistently wager the maximum and win, this of itself will cast suspicion upon you. However, after your bet, the others may do one of three things: either drop out of the play and admit defeat, in which case you pick up the money; or they may choose to meet your wager, in which case you compare cards and the higher value hand—in this case, invariably yourself—will win; or thirdly, they may exhibit excessive cooperation with our purposes and not only meet the wager but even raise it.”

“Raise it? What does that mean?”

“I was about to come to that,” Sir Percival said a trifle chidingly. “They may place an amount of money equal to your wager upon the table and then add a sum of money to it. This extra sum is called a raise. In this case you will meet this extra wager and add, yourself, the maximum amount permitted by the rules of the game. This merry chase continues until your opponent begins to suspect that he may not, truly, have the best hand. At this time he will merely call you.”

He saw Simpson open his mouth and hastened to define the new term.

“By calling, I mean he will merely meet your wager. At which time—”

“We turn over our cards and I pick up the money.”

“Precisely,” Sir Percival said, and beamed. His beam faded somewhat as he considered his partner-in-crime across the table. “What we have been discussing, of course,” he added, “is totally dependent upon your betting when you know you have the better hand. You do know how to read the backs of those cards, don’t you?”

“Of course. I told you. Top row of portholes, spades. Second row—”

Sir Percival interrupted. “And the value of the poker hands is clear in your mind? Although, even during the play of a hand, you may freely refer to your napkin if you wish.”

“I know. There’s just one thing, though—”

Sir Percival, who had been in the act of rising for the fourth time, fell back once again. He was beginning to feel like a toy condemned to a rocking action forever, or until its spring ran down.

“What is it this time?”

“Well, suppose I don’t have the best hand?”

Sir Percival stared at him.

“Then, quite obviously, you do not play that hand. You drop your cards as if they were aflame. You leave yourself out of the action. Is that clear?”

“Oh, ah! Don’t have to play them all, eh?”

“No,” said Sir Percival heavily, “You do not have to play them all.”

“Good-O.” There was a moment’s silence while Sir Percival waited; he was sure Simpson would think of something else. He was not mistaken. “But are you sure they’ll suspect cheating?”

“Let me put it to you this way,” Sir Percival said. “If I sat down with a beginner at the game of poker—and a beginner who had a napkin with a list of values he constantly referred to—and he bet the maximum each time he stayed in a hand, and he won every hand he played—well, I’m afraid I should seriously suspect that the theory of probabilities was receiving help from someone; and not being a particularly religious man, I’m afraid I wouldn’t accept divine assistance as the answer.”

He started to his feet and then sank down again. This time, however, the fault was his own. One thing needed to be said that had not been said.

“By the way, I intend to play so that you are the winner in any hand possible. In other words, if a hand comes down to myself and you, I shall drop out and allow you to win, whether my hand is better or not. Is that clear?”

“Quite,” Simpson said, and he suddenly looked across the table with a shrewdness Sir Percival had not suspected. “No sense in having any potential killers chasing after two victims, is there?”

For several minutes Sir Percival returned the even stare of the other, and then he came to his feet. Years of experience had taught him never to lie when it was unnecessary.

“Quite,” he said, and moved toward the door leading from the bar.

The four men sitting around the poker table in the northwest corner of the card room off the Main Salon were having a hard time of it. The screams of delight mixed with the despairing shrieks of woe eminating from the southeast corner; the clangor of recipes being exchanged intermingled with the bewildered cries of “Whose turn is it to play?”—in short, the usual racket produced by five women gathered anywhere at any time for any occasion was hard to bear. Add to this the fact that originally there had been five players in the poker game but one man had dropped out preferring—he said—to go down to the engine room and get some peace and quiet, and the attitude of the men at the table can be understood.

Four players do not a poker game make, or at least not the type of game these men preferred, so the sight of Simpson and Sir Percival approaching brought hope to the hearts of the four. Even the women seemed to reduce their racket a decibel or two at sight of the famous barrister. Sir Percival stood behind one man and smiled genially about the group.

“Room for two more?”

“A pleasure.” The words were bounced about the table, the tone in most cases genuinely hospitable.

“Absolute duffers, you know.”

“All the better,” said one, a pleasant-faced man named Wilkins, raking in the chips at the moment. The others smiled at the mot.

“Good-O, then,” said Sir Percival and drew up a chair. Simpson took a place well separated from his co-conspirator, while the man at his left—a huge man named Marmaduke Montmorency, who looked as if he had not only been forced to fight daily to defend his name but had come to enjoy it (the fighting, not the name)—turned and called to the library steward in a harsh voice.

“New blood calls for a new deck, Steward.”

He gathered up the old deck and pushed the cards aside. Sir Percival picked them up, checking the backs to see if his memory was in order and then, reassured that it was, put them on an adjoining table. The sextet waited patiently while the steward disappeared into the library to return a moment later and place a packet on the table.

“You can shuffle and deal,” said the huge man, pushing the new deck toward Simpson. “New man and all that, you know.” He made it sound much more a command than a request. One finger thick as a sausage pushed the deck before Simpson. The tiny hard eyes of the huge fellow peered at Simpson accusingly. “What’s your game?”

Simpson swallowed; he could feel himself getting pale.

“My game?” He forced sincerity into his voice. “Believe me, sir, I merely wanted to play some poker. I assure you there was no ulterior motive behind it at all.…”

The other men at the table laughed with enjoyment at the clever response to the age-old question, but the huge man did not seem to find it all that comical. His bushy eyebrows rose dangerously.

“Oh, a joker, eh?”

“Is that like a one-eyed jack? Because I don’t play with wild cards.” There was a touch of pride in Simpson’s voice; he had not forgotten.

Sir Percival thought it time to intervene.

“The gentleman was simply asking which particular form of poker you intend to deal, Clifford.”

“Oh!” Simpson smiled in embarrassment. He placed his napkin in plain view, picked up the deck and sliced the seal while thinking. He looked about, pleased to have arrived at a decision. “I say, how about a round of stallion?”

“Stallion?” asked Mr. Wilkins.

“Yes. I’m sure you all must be familiar with it; I understand it’s one of the more common forms of the game. One places one card face downward before each player and then deals the balance of the hand with the faces of the cards open for inspection.”

The laughter returned, sweeping the table. This Simpson was really a card!

“I think you mean stud,” said Mr. Wilkins.

“Do I?” Simpson concentrated and then nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He smiled in friendly fashion, pleased that he had amused the others, even if unwittingly. Even Sir Percival seemed pleased; the true reason being, of course, that nobody had ever given such a poor performance before. Winning was bound to set Simpson off as the most inept card cheat of all times.

Only the huge Mr. Montmorency didn’t appear to be entertained. His grating voice jarred through the laughter. “Deal!”

“Oh. Of course. Sorry.”

Simpson slipped the cards from the deck face upward, removed the two jokers and began to shuffle them. A few riffles in this position and he turned them over. Suddenly he blanched; his eyes rose in horror.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Wilkins asked in a tone of concern.

“I do believe I’m going to be sick,” said Simpson in a small voice, and meant it.

Sir Percival glanced across the table and then cast his eyes toward the ceiling in supplication. Before Simpson the cards did not exhibit the S.S. Sunderland with its neat four rows of portholes; the backs of these cards showed a gaily colored bird leaning dangerously from the limb of a lush tree in some exotic glade.…