“Jacks or better,” Madden said. “Quarter limit, eh?”
“Well—” replied Eden dubiously.
He had good reason to be dubious, for he was instantly plunged into the poker game of his life. He had played at college, and was even able to take care of himself in newspaper circles in San Francisco, but all that was child’s play by comparison. Madden was no longer the man who noticed how white the stars were. He noticed how red, white, and blue the chips were, and he caressed them with loving hands. He was Madden, the plunger, the gambler with railroads and steel mills and the fortunes of little nations abroad, the Madden who, after he had played all day in Wall Street, was wont to seek the roulette-wheels on Forty-fourth Street at night.
“Aces,” he cried. “Three of them. What have you got, Eden?”
“Apoplexy,” remarked Eden, tossing aside his hand. “Right here and now I offer to sell my chances in this game for a cancelled postage stamp, or what have you?”
“Good experience for you,” Madden replied. “Martin—it’s your deal.”
A knock sounded suddenly on the door, loud and clear. Bob Eden felt a strange sinking of the heart. Out of the desert dark, out of the vast, uninhabited wastes of the world, someone spoke and demanded to come in.
“Who can that be?” Madden frowned.
“Police,” suggested Eden hopefully. “The joint is pinched.” No such luck, he reflected.
Thorn was dealing, and Madden himself went to the door and swung it open. From where he sat Eden had a clear view of the dark desert—and of the man who stood in the light. A thin man in an overcoat, a man he had seen first in a San Francisco pier-shed, and later in front of the Desert Edge Hotel. Shaky Phil Maydorf himself, but now without the dark glasses hiding his eyes.
“Good evening,” said Maydorf, and his voice too was thin and cold. “This is Mr. Madden’s ranch, I believe?”
“I’m Madden. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for an old friend of mine—your secretary, Martin Thorn.”
Thorn rose and came round the table. “Oh, hello,” he said, with slight enthusiasm.
“You remember me, don’t you?” said the thin man. “McCallum—Henry McCallum. I met you at a dinner in New York a year ago.”
“Yes, of course,” answered Thorn. “Come in, won’t you? This is Mr. Madden.”
“A great honour,” said Shaky Phil.
“And Mr. Eden, of San Francisco.”
Eden rose, and faced Shaky Phil Maydorf. The man’s eyes without the glasses were barbed and cruel, like the desert foliage. For a long moment he stared insolently at the boy. Did he realize, Eden wondered, that his movements on the dock at San Francisco had not gone unnoticed? If he did his nerve was excellent.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Eden,” he said.
“Mr. McCallum,” returned the boy gravely.
Maydorf turned again to Madden. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he remarked with a wan smile. “Fact is, I’m stopping down the road at Doctor Whitcomb’s—bronchitis, that’s my trouble. It’s lonesome as the devil round here, and when I heard Mr. Thorn was in the neighbourhood I couldn’t resist the temptation to drop in.”
“Glad you did,” Madden said, but his tone belied the words.
“Don’t let me interrupt your game,” Maydorf went on. “Poker, eh? Is this a private scrap, or can anybody get into it?”
“Take off your coat,” Madden responded sourly, “and sit up. Martin, give the gentleman a stack of chips.”
“This is living again,” said the newcomer, accepting briskly. “Well, and how have you been, Thorn, old man?”
Thorn, with his usual lack of warmth, admitted that he had been pretty good, and the game was resumed. If Bob Eden had feared for his immediate future before, he now gave up all hope. Sitting in a poker game with Shaky Phil—well, he was certainly travelling and seeing the world.
“Gimme four cards,” said Mr. Maydorf, through his teeth.
If it had been a bitter, brutal struggle before, it now became a battle to the death. New talent had come in—more than talent, positive genius. Maydorf held the cards close against his chest; his face was carved in stone. As though he realized what he was up against, Madden grew wary, but determined. These two fought it out, while Thorn and the boy trailed along, like noncombatants involved in a battle of the giants.
Presently Ah Kim entered with logs for the fire, and if the amazing picture on which his keen eyes lighted startled him he gave no sign. Madden ordered him to bring highballs, and as he set the glasses on the table Bob Eden noted with a secret thrill that the stomach of the detective was less than twelve inches from the long, capable hands of Shaky Phil. If the redoubtable Mr. Maydorf only knew—
But Maydorf’s thoughts were elsewhere than on the Phillimore pearls. “Dealer—one card,” he demanded.
The telephone rang out sharply in the room. Bob Eden’s heart missed a beat. He had forgotten that—and now—After the long wait he was finally to speak with his father—while Shaky Phil Maydorf sat only a few feet away! He saw Madden staring at him, and he rose.
“For me, I guess,” he said carelessly. He tossed his cards on the table. “I’m out of it, anyhow.” Crossing the room to the telephone, he took down the receiver. “Hello. Hello, Dad. Is that you?”
“Aces and trays,” said Maydorf. “All mine?” Madden laid down a hand without looking at his opponent’s, and Shaky Phil gathered in another pot.
“Yes, Dad—this is Bob,” Eden was saying. “I arrived all right—stopping with Mr. Madden for a few days. Just wanted you to know where I was. Yes—that’s all. Everything. I may call you in the morning. Have a good game? Too bad. Goodbye!”
Madden was on his feet, his face purple. “Wait a minute,” he cried.
“Just wanted Dad to know where I am,” Eden said brightly. He dropped back into his chair. “Whose deal is it, anyhow?”
Madden strangled a sentence in his
