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.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE GUILTY MAN
(Tuesday, September 18; 1 p. m.)
Vance slept late the following morning, and spent the hour or so before lunch checking a catalogue of ceramics which were to be auctioned next day at the Anderson Galleries. At one o’clock we entered the Stuyvesant Club and joined Markham in the grill.
“The lunch is on you, old thing,” said Vance. “But I’ll make it easy. All I want is a rasher of English bacon, a cup of coffee, and a croissant.”
Markham gave him a mocking smile.
“I don’t wonder you’re economizing after your bad luck of last night.”
Vance’s eyebrows went up.
“I rather fancied my luck was most extr’ordin’ry.”
“You held four of a kind twice, and lost both hands.”
“But, y’ see,” blandly confessed Vance, “I happened to know both times exactly what cards my opponents held.”
Markham stared at him in amazement.
“Quite so,” Vance assured him. “I had arranged before the game, d’ ye see, to have those particular hands dealt.” He smiled benignly. “I can’t tell you, old chap, how I admire your delicacy in not referring to my rather unique guest, Mr. Allen, whom I had the bad taste to introduce so unceremoniously into your party. I owe you an explanation and an apology. Mr. Allen is not what one would call a charming companion. He is deficient in the patrician elegancies, and his display of jewellery was a bit vulgar—though I infinitely preferred his diamond studs to his piebald tie. But Mr. Allen has his points—decidedly he has his points. He ranks with Andy Blakely, Canfield, and Honest John Kelly as an indoor soldier of fortune. In fact, our Mr. Allen is none other than Doc Wiley Allen, of fragrant memory.”
“Doc Allen! Not the notorious old crook who ran the Eldorado Club?”
“The same. And, incidentally, one of the cleverest card manipulators in a once lucrative but shady profession.”
“You mean this fellow Allen stacked the cards last night?” Markham was indignant.
“Only for the two hands you mentioned. Allen, if you happen to remember, was the dealer both times. I, who purposely sat on his right, was careful to cut the cards in accordance with his instructions. And you really must admit that no stricture can possibly attach to my deception, inasmuch as the only beneficiaries of Allen’s manipulations were Cleaver and Spotswoode. Although Allen did deal me four of a kind on each occasion, I lost heavily both times.”
Markham regarded Vance for a moment in puzzled silence, and then laughed good-naturedly.
“You appear to have been in a philanthropic mood last night. You practically gave Mannix a thousand dollars by permitting him to double the stakes on each draw. A rather quixotic procedure, I should say.”
“It all depends on one’s point of view, don’t y’ know. Despite my financial losses—which, by the bye, I have every intention of charging up to your office budget—the game was most successful. . . . Y’ see, I attained the main object of my evening’s entertainment.”
“Oh, I remember!” said Markham vaguely, as if the matter, being of slight importance, had for the moment eluded his memory. “I believe you were going to ascertain who murdered the Odell girl.”
“Amazin’ memory! . . . Yes, I let fall the hint that I might be able to clarify the situation to-day.”
“And whom am I to arrest?”
Vance took a drink of coffee and slowly lit a cigarette.
“I’m quite convinced, y’ know, that you won’t believe me,” he returned, in an even, matter-of-fact voice. “But it was Spotswoode who killed the girl.”
“You don’t tell me!” Markham spoke with undisguised irony. “So it was Spotswoode! My dear Vance, you positively bowl me over. I would telephone Heath at once to polish up his handcuffs, but, unfortunately, miracles—such as strangling persons from across town—are not recognized possibilities in this day and age. . . . Do let me order you another croissant.”
Vance extended
