A Game of Poker
(Monday, September 17; 9 p. m.)
Vance and I went home after lunch, and at about four o’clock Markham
telephoned to say that he had made the necessary arrangements for the
evening with Spotswoode, Mannix, and Cleaver. Immediately following
this confirmation Vance left the house, and did not return until
nearly eight o’clock. Though I was filled with curiosity at so unusual
a proceeding, he refused to enlighten me. But when, at a quarter to
nine, we went down-stairs to the waiting car, there was a man I did
not know in the tonneau; and I at once connected him with Vance’s
mysterious absence.
“I’ve asked Mr. Allen to join us to-night,” Vance vouchsafed, when he
had introduced us. “You don’t play poker, and we really need another
hand to make the game interestin’, y’ know. Mr. Allen, by the bye, is
an old antagonist of mine.”
The fact that Vance would, apparently without permission, bring an
uninvited guest to Markham’s apartment amazed me but little more than
the appearance of the man himself. He was rather short, with sharp,
shrewd features; and what I saw of his hair beneath his jauntily
tipped hat was black and sleek, like the painted hair on Japanese
dolls. I noted, too, that his evening tie was enlivened by a design of
tiny white forget-me-nots, and that his shirt-front was adorned with
diamond studs.
The contrast between him and the immaculately stylish and meticulously
correct Vance was aggressively evident. I wondered what could be the
relationship between them. Obviously it was neither social nor
intellectual.
Cleaver and Mannix were already on hand when we were ushered into
Markham’s drawing-room, and a few minutes later Spotswoode arrived.
The amenities of introduction over, we were soon seated comfortably
about the open log fire, smoking, and sipping very excellent Scotch
high-balls. Markham had, of course, accepted the unexpected Mr. Allen
cordially, but his occasional glances in the latter’s direction told
me he was having some difficulty in reconciling the man’s appearance
with Vance’s sponsorship.
A tense atmosphere lay beneath the spurious and affected affability of
the little gathering. Indeed, the situation was scarcely conducive to
spontaneity. Here were three men each of whom was known to the others
to have been interested in the same woman; and the reason for their
having been brought together was the fact that this woman had been
murdered. Markham, however, handled the situation with such tact that
he largely succeeded in giving each one the feeling of being a
disinterested spectator summoned to discuss an abstract problem. He
explained at the outset that the “conference” had been actuated by his
failure to find any approach to the problem of the murder. He hoped,
he said, by a purely informal discussion, divested of all officialism
and coercion, to turn up some suggestion that might lead to a fruitful
line of inquiry. His manner was one of friendly appeal, and when he
finished speaking the general tension had been noticeably relaxed.
During the discussion that followed I was interested in the various
attitudes of the men concerned. Cleaver spoke bitterly of his part in
the affair, and was more self-condemnatory than suggestive. Mannix was
voluble and pretentiously candid, but beneath his comments ran a
strain of apologetic wariness. Spotswoode, unlike Mannix, seemed loath
to discuss the matter, and maintained a consistently reticent
attitude. He responded politely to Markham’s questions, but he did not
succeed entirely in hiding his resentment at thus being dragged into a
general discussion. Vance had little to say, limiting himself to
occasional remarks directed always to Markham. Allen did not once
speak, but sat contemplating the others with a sort of canny
amusement.
The entire conversation struck me as utterly futile. Had Markham
really hoped to garner information from it, he would have been
woefully disappointed. I realized, though, that he was merely
endeavoring to justify himself for having taken so unusual a step, and
to pave the way for the game of poker which Vance had requested. When
the time came to broach the subject, however, there was no difficulty
about it.
It was exactly eleven o’clock when he made the suggestion. His tone
was gracious and unassuming; but by couching his invitation in terms
of a personal request, he practically precluded declination. But his
verbal strategy, I felt, was unnecessary. Both Cleaver and Spotswoode
seemed genuinely to welcome the opportunity of dropping a distasteful
discussion in favor of playing cards; and Vance and Allen, of course,
concurred instantly. Mannix alone declined. He explained that he knew
the game only slightly, and disliked it; though he expressed an
enthusiastic desire to watch the others. Vance urged him to
reconsider, but without success; and Markham finally ordered his man
to arrange the table for five.
I noticed that Vance waited until Allen had taken his place, and then
dropped into the chair at his right. Cleaver took the seat at Allen’s
left. Spotswoode sat at Vance’s right; and then came Markham. Mannix
drew up his chair midway behind Markham and Cleaver. Thus:
[Illustration: Six chairs arranged around a table. Five chairs at the
table are labeled, going clockwise: “Cleaver”, “Markham”,
“Spotswoode”, “Vance”, and “Allen”. A sixth chair, between Cleaver and
Markham, sits farther away from the table and is labeled “Mannix”.]
Cleaver first named a rather moderate limit, but Spotswoode at once
suggested much larger stakes. Then Vance went still higher, and as
both Markham and Allen signified their agreement, his figure was
accepted. The prices placed on the chips somewhat took my breath away,
and even Mannix whistled softly.
That all five men at the table were excellent players became obvious
before the game had progressed ten minutes. For the first time that
night Vance’s friend Allen seemed to have found his milieu and to be
wholly at ease.
Allen won the first two hands, and Vance the third and fourth.
Spotswoode then had a short run of good luck, and a little later
Markham took a large jack-pot which put him slightly in the lead.
Cleaver was the only loser thus far; but in another half-hour he had
succeeded in recovering a large portion of his losses. After that
Vance forged steadily ahead, only to relinquish his winning streak to
Allen. Then for a while the fortunes of the game were rather evenly
distributed. But later on both Cleaver and Spotswoode began to lose
heavily. By half past twelve a grim atmosphere had settled over the
party; for so high were the stakes, and so rapidly did the betting
pyramid, that even for men of means—such as all these players
undoubtedly were—the amounts which continually changed hands
represented very considerable items.
Just before one o’clock, when the fever of the game had reached a high
point, I saw Vance glance quickly at Allen and pass his handkerchief
across his forehead. To a stranger the gesture would have appeared
perfectly natural; but, so familiar was I with Vance’s mannerisms, I
immediately recognized its artificiality. And simultaneously I noticed
that it was Allen who was shuffling the cards preparatory to dealing.
Some smoke from his cigar evidently went into his eye at this moment,
for he blinked, and one of the cards fell to the floor. Quickly
retrieving it, he reshuffled the deck and placed it before Vance to
cut.
The hand was a jack-pot, and there was a small fortune in chips
already on the table. Cleaver, Markham, and Spotswoode passed. The
decision thus reached Vance, and he opened for an unusually large
amount. Allen at once laid down his hand, but Cleaver stayed. Then
Markham and Spotswoode both dropped out, leaving the entire play
between Vance and Cleaver. Cleaver drew one card, and Vance, who had
opened, drew two. Vance made a nominal wager, and Cleaver raised it
substantially. Vance in turn raised Cleaver, but only for a small
amount; and Cleaver again raised Vance—this time for an even larger
sum than before. Vance hesitated, and called him. Cleaver exposed his
hand triumphantly.
“Straight flush—jack high,” he announced. “Can you beat that?”
“Not on a two-card draw,” said Vance ruefully. He put his cards down
to show his openers. He had four kings.
About half an hour later Vance again took out his handkerchief and
passed it across his forehead. As before, I noted that it was Allen’s
deal, and also that the hand was a jack-pot which had been twice
sweetened. Allen paused to take a drink of his high-ball and to light
his cigar. Then, after Vance had cut the cards, he dealt them.
Cleaver, Markham, and Spotswoode passed, and again Vance opened, for
the full amount of the pot. No one stayed except Spotswoode; and this
time it was a struggle solely between him and Vance. Spotswoode asked
for one card; and Vance stood pat. Then there followed a moment of
almost breathless silence. The atmosphere seemed to me to be
electrically charged, and I think the others sensed it too, for they
were watching the play with a curiously strained intentness. Vance and
Spotswoode, however, appeared frozen in attitudes of superlative calm.
I watched them closely, but neither revealed the slightest indication
of any emotion.
It was Vance’s first bet. Without speaking he moved a stack of yellow
chips to the centre of the table—it was by far the largest wager that
had been made during the game. But immediately Spotswoode measured
another stack alongside of it. Then he coolly and deftly counted the
remainder of his chips, and pushed them all forward with the palm of
his hand, saying quietly:
“The limit.”
Vance shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“The pot, sir, is yours.” He smiled pleasantly at Spotswoode, and put
down his hand face up, to establish his openers. He had held four
aces!
“Gad! That’s poker!” exclaimed Allen, chuckling.
“Poker?” echoed Markham. “To lay down four aces with all that money at
stake?”
Cleaver also grunted his astonishment, and Mannix pursed his lips
disgustedly.
“I don’t mean any offense, y’ understand, Mr. Vance,” he said. “But
looking at that play from a strictly business standpoint, I’d say you
quit too soon.”
Spotswoode glanced up.
“You gentlemen wrong Mr. Vance,” he said. “He played his hand
perfectly. His withdrawal, even with four aces, was scientifically
correct.”
“Sure it was,” agreed Allen. “Oh, boy! What a battle that was!”
Spotswoode nodded and, turning to Vance, said:
“Since the exact situation is never likely to occur again, the least I
can do, by way of showing my appreciation of your remarkable
perception, is to gratify your curiosity.—I held nothing.”
Spotswoode put down his hand and extended his fingers gracefully
toward the upturned cards. There were revealed a five, six, seven, and
eight of clubs, and a knave of hearts.
“I can’t say that I follow your reasoning, Mr. Spotswoode,” Markham
confessed. “Mr. Vance had you beaten—and he quit.”
“Consider the situation,” Spotswoode replied, in a suave, even voice.
“I most certainly would have opened so rich a pot, had I been able to,
after Mr. Cleaver and you had passed. But since I nevertheless stayed
after Mr. Vance had opened for so large an amount, it goes without
saying that I must have had either a four-straight, a four-flush, or a
four-straight-flush. I believe I may state without immodesty that I am
too good a player to have stayed otherwise. . . .”
“And I assure you, Markham,” interrupted Vance, “that Mr. Spotswoode
is too good a player to have stayed unless he had actually had a
four-straight-flush. That is the only hand he would have been
justified in backing at the betting odds of two to one.—You see, I had
opened for the amount in the pot, and Mr. Spotswoode had to put up
half the amount of the money on the table in order to stay—making it a
two-to-one bet.—Now, these odds are not high, and any non-opening hand
smaller than a four-straight-flush would not have warranted the risk.
As it was, he had, with a one-card draw, two chances in forty-seven of
making a straight-flush, nine chances in forty-seven of making a
flush, and eight chances in forty-seven of making a straight; so that
he had nineteen chances in forty-seven—or more than one chance in
three—of strengthening his hand into either a straight-flush, a flush,
or a straight.”
“Exactly,” assented Spotswoode. “However, after I had drawn my one
card, the only possible question in Mr. Vance’s mind was whether or
not I had made my straight-flush. If I had not made it—or had merely
drawn a straight or a flush—Mr. Vance figured, and figured rightly,
that I would not have seen his large bet and also have raised it the
limit. To have done so, in those circumstances, would have been
irrational poker. Not one player in a thousand would have taken such a
risk on a mere bluff. Therefore, had Mr. Vance not laid down his four
aces when I raised him, he would have been fool-hardy in the extreme.
It turned out, of course, that I was actually bluffing; but that does
not alter the fact that the correct and logical thing was for Mr.
Vance to quit.”
“Quite true,” Vance agreed. “As Mr. Spotswoode says, not one player in
a thousand would have wagered the limit without having filled his
straight-flush, knowing I had a pat hand. Indeed, one might almost say
that Mr. Spotswoode, by doing so, has added another decimal point to
the psychological subtleties of the game; for, as you see, he analyzed
my reasoning, and carried his own reasoning a step further.”
Spotswoode acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow; and Cleaver
reached for the cards and began to shuffle them. But the tension had
been broken, and the game was not resumed.
Something, however, seemed to have gone wrong with Vance. For a long
while he sat frowning at his cigarette and sipping his high-ball in
troubled abstraction. At last he rose and walked to the mantel, where
he stood studying a Cézanne water-color he had given Markham years
before. His action was a typical indication of his inner puzzlement.
Presently, when there came a lull in the conversation, he turned
sharply and looked at Mannix.
“I say, Mr. Mannix”—he spoke with only casual curiosity—“how does it
happen you’ve never acquired a taste for poker? All good business men
are gamblers at heart.”
“Sure they are,” Mannix replied, with pensive deliberation. “But
poker, now, isn’t my idea of gambling—positively not. It’s got too
much science. And it ain’t quick enough for me—it hasn’t got the kick
in it, if you know what I mean. Roulette’s my speed. When I was in
Monte Carlo last summer I dropped more money in ten minutes than you
gentlemen lost here this whole evening. But I got action for my
money.”
“I take it, then, you don’t care for cards at all.”
“Not to play games with.” Mannix had become expansive. “I don’t mind
betting money on the draw of a card, for instance. But no two out of
three, y’ understand. I want my pleasures to come rapid.” And he
snapped his thick fingers several times in quick succession to
demonstrate the rapidity with which he desired to have his pleasures
come.
Vance sauntered to the table and carelessly picked up a deck of cards.
“What do you say to cutting once for a thousand dollars?”
Mannix rose instantly.
“You’re on!”
Vance handed the cards over, and Mannix shuffled them. Then he put
them down and cut. He turned up a ten. Vance cut, and showed a king.
“A thousand I owe you,” said Mannix, with no more concern than if it
had been ten cents.
Vance waited without speaking, and Mannix eyed him craftily.
“I’ll cut with you again—two thousand this time. Yes?”
Vance raised his eyebrows. “Double? . . . By all means.” He shuffled
the cards, and cut a seven.
Mannix’s hand swooped down and turned a five.
“Well, that’s three thousand I owe you,” he said. His little eyes had
now narrowed into slits, and he held his cigar clamped tightly between
his teeth.
“Like to double it again—eh, what?” Vance asked. “Four thousand this
time?”
Markham looked at Vance in amazement, and over Allen’s face there came
an expression of almost ludicrous consternation. Every one present, I
believe, was astonished at the offer, for obviously Vance knew that he
was giving Mannix tremendous odds by permitting successive doubling.
In the end he was sure to lose. I believe Markham would have protested
if at that moment Mannix had not snatched the cards from the table and
begun to shuffle them.
“Four thousand it is!” he announced, putting down the deck and
cutting. He turned up the queen of diamonds. “You can’t beat that
lady—positively not!” He was suddenly jovial.
“I fancy you’re right,” murmured Vance; and he cut a trey.
“Want some more?” asked Mannix, with good-natured aggressiveness.
“That’s enough.” Vance seemed bored. “Far too excitin’. I haven’t your
rugged constitution, don’t y’ know.”
He went to the desk and made out a check to Mannix for a thousand
dollars. Then he turned to Markham and held out his hand.
“Had a jolly evening and all that sort of thing. . . . And, don’t
forget: we lunch together to-morrow. One o’clock at the club, what?”
Markham hesitated. “If nothing interferes.”
“But really, y’ know, it mustn’t,” insisted Vance. “You’ve no idea how
eager you are to see me.”
He was unusually silent and thoughtful during the ride home. Not one
explanatory word could I get out of him. But when he bade me good
night he said:
“There’s a vital part of the puzzle still missing, and until it’s
found none of it has any meaning.”