“That’s all,” LeRoy said, curtly.
The Captain had pressed the starter of his car when Stan laid a hand on his arm. “Hold it, Vince. I want to go back to that poker room for a minute. There’s something screwy there. Come along.”
“What’s the matter now?” LeRoy grumbled. “We’ve been up there forty-five minutes. I’m sick of the place.” “I saw something up there that wasn’t quite right. Damned if I can remember what it was. I’ll know if I see it again. Coming?”
Stan was already out of the car. LeRoy grudgingly followed. Just inside the door of the poker room, Stan stopped. Slowly, he scanned every portion of the room, impatiently snapping his fingers as he did so. The Captain was about to remark ironically about Stan’s speed, when Stan said, softly: “Look at the cards, Vince!”
“For God’s sake, Stan. What have the cards to do with Fowler? They’re still in the original packs. The revenue stamps haven’t even been broken.”
“I know that.” Stan took the four packs from the chip rack and laid them face down, side by side, on the table. On the back of each pasteboard package was a sample card, showing the type contained in the box. The sample cards were slipped into a slit cut in the pasteboard, so that only half of them was visible.
The Captain gazed at them curiously, more interested than he cared to admit. “They look oke to me.” He started to pick one up.
“Wait, Vince. I may be all wet. On the other hand you may want to get some finger prints. Don’t you see what’s wrong? There are three blues and a red. Bridge cards, and cards for poker are bought two packs at a time—a red backed pack, and a blue backed pack. In a big game—such as was planned last night—there should be two sets of cards, or two red packs and two blue packs.” Stan pointed to the four packs on the table. The red pack, and two of the blue packs, bore the same design—a ballet dancer. The third blue pack—as indicated by the sample card—was entirely different, bearing criss-cross lines instead of the dancer.
Stan took a handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully pulled the blue criss-crossed card from the slot in the package. Underneath it was a red backed card, marked with the dancer like the other three packs. He turned the card he was holding face up on the table.
The Captain’s face showed utter disbelief. “I’ve played some poker in my day, Stan Rice—but I say about that card what the kid said about the elephant: ‘There ain’t no such card!’ ”
“Oh yes there is, Vince! Believe it or not—that’s an eleven of diamonds. I have a hunch somebody shoved the knife in Fowler just on account of that card!”
“Men have been killed for less than that showing up in a hand of poker!” said LeRoy.
Chapter VII
Sunday is just another day to the police. Detectives Patterson and Hogue were busy the entire morning, after Edward Fowler’s death, obtaining preliminary statements from those present at the club the night before. As soon as possible all available witnesses would be summoned to headquarters. There, testimony would be taken under oath for the Chief of Police, and other officers working on the case.
Miles Standish Rice paused long enough in his headlong rush for Indian Creek, and Sunday dinner, to stop at headquarters. Copies had been prepared for him of the reports made by Patterson and Hogue. He deferred reading them until after disposing of three slices of roast beef with trimmings, and two dishes of strawberries and cream. Stretched out in a swing on the porch, he digested the reports with his dinner.
They were simple and concise, but told him very little more than he already knew. The detectives had statements from ten of the fourteen people present at the club. Eve and Tolliver Farraday were in Fort Myers. Commander Dawson had gone deep-sea fishing for the day. Glen Neal was in Palm Beach covering a society the dansant.
The statement of Ben Eckhardt held more interest. Eckhardt admitted frankly that he derived a fairly steady income from poker, bridge and games of chance where superior skill or knowledge played a part.
He had seen Edward Fowler around Miami for several weeks, but could not state accurately exactly how long. Fowler was seldom alone. His most regular companions were Bruce Farraday’s son and daughter, a Mr. and Mrs. Bessinger, and a professional bridge player, named Dave Button. He had seen Fowler once at the dog races with Commander Dawson, and Glen Neal. Outside of the fact that Fowler had been introduced to the Sunset by Dave Button, and that Fowler owed Dave Button sixty thousand dollars, Ben Eckhardt could say no more.
Stan turned back to Dave Button’s statement. Button admitted his friendship with Fowler—they both liked to gamble, so why not? He had met Fowler on the Four Leaf Clover, a gambling barge anchored discreetly out in Biscayne Bay. The rest of his story dovetailed with the others, but no mention was made of the indebtedness brought out by Eckhardt.
Either Button had withheld some information which was bound to throw suspicion on himself, or Eckhardt had repeated an idle story of big money, which might have become current around the gaming houses. Stan stretched delightfully, slid from the swing, and went inside to get LeRoy on the phone.
“What’s the low-down on Millie LaFrenzy?” he asked when connected with the Captain. Then added: “I mean LaFrance before you ask me.”
“Her statement’s with those I gave you.”
“I want her record. She just can’t be the way she is without a record of some kind. Look it up, will you? I have a faint pain in the head that she was a gun-moll, or her mother was a bull-fighter.”
“I’ll call you back, Stan.”
He returned to the porch to look over again
