“Yesterday you were whistling. ‘Hearts and Flowers’ at me. You mentioned where I was wrong then—it’s impossible to see a man in the poker room with the hall and the room dark. When that knife was thrown—the man who threw it knew exactly where it was going.”
“You said yourself Fowler’s position in the room was deliberately arranged. Maybe he threw the knife into the dark room and chanced a hit.”
“You know better than that, Vince. If it had happened just once I might even jump at a crazy notion like that—but you’re forgetting last night. Show me how this guy picked out Ben Eckhardt in a mob of fifteen thousand and threw a knife in the dark—with flood lights shining in his eyes—and I’ll have the answer how he put a knife in Fowler’s heart when he couldn’t see Fowler sitting in a pitch black room!”
Chapter XVII
Dave Button stood easily, looking at Captain LeRoy without apparent interest. Between the door and the front of LeRoy’s desk, his deep eyes had absorbed the details of the office and the presence of Miles Standish Rice. The green shade on the desk lamp imparted an illusion of jade to his yellowish features, making them seem unnaturally fixed and immobile.
He offered no greeting to the Captain or Stan, nor was there a hint of inquiry in his silence. When he ceased walking he relaxed into his neat black suit as though he seated himself while still on his feet. Searching for any trace of perturbation, Stan was disappointed. Button’s yellow tapered fingers touched the seams of his carefully pressed trousers, hanging loosely without tremor.
“Make yourself comfortable,” LeRoy said without looking up from the desk. “Smoke if you like.”
Button sat down, moving slightly away from the glare of the desk lamp. He lit a fat Egyptian cigarette and held it flaccidly in the corner of his mouth, squinting one eye against the curling smoke.
“You were at the dog track last night,” LeRoy stated, his gaze still on the desk.
“I go to all the races—horse and dog.”
“A pleasant life. It must take a lot of money.”
“Some people live by it.”
“Two have died by it.” LeRoy’s mouth twitched. “They were professional gamblers, too, weren’t they?”
“Were they?” Button took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked ashes in the Captain’s tray, and replaced his smoke in its drooping position. “Since I’m not a professional gambler your inclusion is unwarranted. A professional gambler makes a living from gambling. I like to gamble, but I make my living from my books.”
“How interesting,” LeRoy murmured, half ironically. “I don’t think I’ve read your books.” He pushed the lamp to one side, moved his chair out from the desk and crossed his legs. “Are they mystery stories?”
“They’re mysteries to some people. You wouldn’t have read them unless you’re deeply interested in bridge. Besides, I don’t write under my own name.” He took a small paper bound volume from his side pocket and tossed it on LeRoy’s desk. Stan leaned over and read the title: “Defensive Hands” by Small Slam. The front cover mentioned several other books by the same author.
“I’ve read a couple of those,” Stan said. “If you’ll forgive a personal question—why don’t you write under your own name?”
Button’s inscrutable face turned from the Captain to Stan. “I enjoy playing bridge for nominal stakes with good players. Would you like to play with a man who has written twenty-two books on the game?”
“The stakes would have to be very nominal indeed—”
“Precisely.” Button turned back to LeRoy. “I referred you to my publishers on Sunday. Have you heard from them?”
“Not yet—but that is unimportant. I asked you here again because of last night’s murder—hoping you could give me additional information about Fowler. Identical knives were used to kill both men. You’re an expert on cards.” LeRoy opened the folder on the desk. “Did you ever sec one like this?”
Dave Button’s tapered fingers picked up the eleven of diamonds by its edges. He turned it over and studied the back, bent it to test the elasticity, and laid it gingerly back in the folder. His cigarette was dead between his lips, but he snuffed the burnt end in LeRoy’s tray before he spoke.
“You found that on Ed Fowler?”
A furrow appeared on LeRoy’s forehead. “How did you know that?”
”I didn’t know it. But Fowler asked me about such a card not much more than a week ago.”
“About an eleven of diamonds?” Stan broke in, gently urging.
“Not exactly.” Button was thoughtful, perhaps cautious. “He wanted to know if I had ever heard of a pack of cards with eleven, twelve and thirteen spots. It happens that I had. Before I turned to bridge, I played a lot of Five Hundred in—in my earlier days.”
“What brought it up? Do you happen to remember?” Stan’s voice was normally curious, no more.
“We were discussing gambling—how many different types of it existed.”
“Where?” asked LeRoy.
“In Fowler’s rooms at the Amboy Hotel. It was late—we had been on the Four Leaf Clover and I stopped up there for a drink on my way home.”
“Just the two of you?” Stan wanted to know.
Button nodded a couple of short quick jerks. “Fowler didn’t have many people come to his rooms—”
“And the Five Hundred pack? Who brought that up—you or Edward Fowler?” Stan was still most ingenuous, toying with a paper clip taken from the Captain’s desk.
“Fowler mentioned the additional cards. I told him what kind of a pack they were in. I hadn’t thought of the game for years—but I remembered playing six-handed. Ten cards are dealt to each player, and there is a widow of three cards—that makes sixty three. The ordinary pack, as you know, has fifty-three cards including the joker. The additional ten cards in the six-handed Five Hundred pack are the four elevens, four twelves, and two thirteens.”
“What suits are the two thirteens?”
“I really
