Hydrofoil Mystery (13 page)

“That doesn't surprise me. He's not a bad lad. Probably wants to just forget the whole thing happened.” He paused. “I guess he's not alone in that respect, is he?”

He was right about that.

“And here, take this,” he said, handing me an envelope. I held it in my hand. It was made from a special expensive parchment and it had my name on the front written in a beautiful, flowing script. The dirt from my hands marked the envelope.

“I think the secret is to open it,” Bell teased me. “What?” I asked in confusion, still holding the enve lope. “Oh, yeah, open it.”

I turned it over. It wasn't sealed. I removed a piece of paper and unfolded it.

Dear William,

The hour was late last night and I did not have the opportunity to thank you more formally for your gallant and brave efforts in helping to save the
HD
-4, but more important in being there with my husband. He is neither as young nor as handsome as when I first laid eyes upon him, but somehow I find myself still deeply in love with him, and thank you for helping to keep him from harm. I would be honoured if you would join us for dinner tonight.

With affection,

Mrs. Alexander Graham Bell

I looked up at Mr. Bell, who was looking directly at me. “I do hope you'll be able to join us.”

“Yeah, I guess I can,” I stammered.

“Good! It appears that Mrs. Bell has taken a shine to you.

I think it's hard on the dear girl without the grandchildren around this summer. Dinner is served at seven o'clock. I think you should join us an hour before that.”

I knew we wouldn't be through working by then. There'd already been talk of hooking up extra lights so we could continue to work past sunset.

“Then maybe I can't come tonight,” I apologized. “But why?”

“I need to stay and help if they're going to work late.” “It's admirable that you feel that way, but I must insist.

We have to discuss some changes in your employment.” “Changes?” I asked, and a lump formed in my throat. “Yes. Mr. McGregor and I were speaking.”

This didn't sound like good news. I knew he'd been told of the complaints about my work. I was going to get fired, and after all that I'd done the night before … but that was just plain stupid. He wasn't going to discharge me. Although he might give me a lecture, I thought.

“So I will expect you at six, unless you have further objections.”

“No, no, I'll be …” I paused and slowed myself down. “Yeah, I guess that would be okay.”

“Excellent! I'll tell Mr. Stewart you are to finish up at four this afternoon. That will give you time to clean up and arrive before dinner.”

Chapter Eleven

“G
OOD TO SEE YOU, WILLIAM
. Please come in and have a seat,” Mr. Bell said, gesturing toward a chair.

He was sitting at a big desk in his study, holding a pen in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. Smoke swirled up and into a small cloud pinned against the ceiling.

“These things haven't tasted so good today,” he said, waving the cigar. “Handmade from the finest Cuban tobacco … very expensive. Very hard to get. I cherish each and every one.”

He knew about the three missing cigars.

“You don't smoke, do you?”

“Um … no,” I lied.

“I didn't think so. Very wise. Smoking is a bad habit.

One of many that people become absorbed by. So tell me, how long have you been playing poker?”

“Not long,” I answered truthfully. It was only in the past year that I'd really learned how to play the game.

“Then I was right.”

“Right about what?”

“You must be a very smart young man to become so good in only a short time.”

“I'm not that good,” I replied. I made a point of keeping my head up and continuing to look at him. The
most believable way to lie is to look somebody square in the eyes.

“Don't hide your light under a bushel, William.” “What?” I asked.

“It means there's nothing wrong with letting somebody know you're good at something.”

Obviously he knew nothing about poker.

“I'm not talking about being a braggart or anything,” he continued. “Nothing is more annoying than somebody who's full of himself. I'm just saying you should take credit for your accomplishments.”

“But I'm really not that good,” I persisted.

“I must disagree. I can't speak for all three of those young men the other night, but I know that Angus is not stupid, nor was he very drunk, so you must be a very good player to have taken his money.”

He was partially right. I was a good player, but those three really were stupid and drunk.

“And of course I watched you that first night when you were observing the bridge game. You were so busy looking at the cards that you didn't notice me looking at you, did you?”

I hated to admit it, even to myself, but he was right. All my attention had been riveted on the cards.

“You were studying the game, and I could tell you quickly understood not just its rules but its subtle play. I was particularly amused by the small changes in your expression when people played wrong or questionable cards.”

I was shocked that he could have read me that way. I tried to keep my expression completely neutral now so that he would be unable to judge my reaction.

“There, now that's much better! You just put on a … what do they call it? … a poker face. Excellent!” he thundered. “And don't worry, I'm sure nobody else at the bridge game, with the exception of my wife, even noticed. The deaf, and people who work with the deaf, learn to read people's facial expressions with much more accuracy than others.”

“You work with the deaf?” I asked meekly.

“Oh, good gracious! I think I shall be remembered as the inventor of the telephone, but that was just an invention, one of thousands that came before it and many more thousands that will follow. Working with the deaf is the most important thing I've ever done. I am, above all else, a teacher.” He paused. “Being a teacher is one of, if not
the
noblest of professions. Have you ever considered becoming a teacher?”

“No, I've never thought of that.”

“What vocation does interest you?”

“I really haven't given it much thought.”

“There is still time for you to find your calling, although it is never too early. I would suggest it should be some field in which mathematics is important. You're good at mathematics and calculation.”

How could he know that?

“Don't look so surprised. Bridge, and I suspect poker as well, is a very mathematical game. You must constantly do mental arithmetic, calculate probabilities and odds. Very taxing mathematics.” He paused. “Say, do you think you could do me a favour?”

It was now my turn to pause. “I … I guess I could.” “Excellent. I was hoping you could become my teacher.”

“Your teacher? What could I teach you?” I asked in astonishment.

“Poker.”

“You want me to teach you poker?”

“Yes, I've heard that many people enjoy it.”

“But I'm really not very good,” I asserted once again. “Fine, we'll agree you're really not that good. But you know, in the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” “Huh?” What was he talking about now?

“It means that even if you are not very good you still know much more than me, and can teach me. Unless of course you think I'm so old and daft that I couldn't possible learn the game?”

“No, no, of course not—”

“Good!” he interrupted. “Then it is settled! Come and you shall teach me to play poker.”

He ground out the stub of his cigar in the ashtray, rose to his feet and walked out of the room. “Come on, William, we must find a place to play!” he bellowed over his shoulder, and I quickly trotted after him. He moved with the same long, lanky gait that had propelled him along the road the night before, and I couldn't catch him before he had disappeared into another room. I hesitated and then entered after him. It was a room off to the side of the house. It was a little library filled with books and comfortable chairs for reading. A large bay window dominated one wall and brilliant sunlight still shone in through the glass.

“Do we need a special table or will this one do?” he asked of a rectangular wooden table that was partway into the alcove formed by the bay window.

“This one will be fine.”

“Good. Have a seat and I'll go and get a package of cards,” Bell said as he retreated out of the room.

I walked over to the table and ran my hand along the smooth, gleaming wooden top. There were four chairs around the table and I selected my seat, the chair that was backing into the bay window. It was a trick I'd been taught: if you sit with brilliant light gleaming in behind you, your opponent has to avert his eyes and can't read your expression.

“Here we go, a new package. Will you open it up and shuffle the deck?”

I followed his directions.

“Please proceed, and teach me the game,” he said. “Do you know anything about poker at all?”

“A little. We get to trade these cards for others if we don't like them, right?”

“Up to four of your cards can be discarded.”

“That seems very sporting. And what makes a good or winning hand?”

“The highest combinations. Two of a kind is better than an ace—”

“Two of a kind?”

“Yeah, like a pair of fives or two queens.”

“And two queens would be more than two jacks but less valuable than two kings?”

“Exactly. But two of anything isn't as good as three of a kind. So three twos is better than two aces.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “And four aces would be the best you could get and would beat anything!”

“It would be good, but it wouldn't beat the best hand. Let me explain about straights and a royal flush and—”

“Enough talk. You learn only part of what you're told, most of what you're shown and all of what you do. Deal.”

I shuffled the deck.

“How many do we each get?” Mr. Bell asked. “Mostly five cards.”

“Mostly?”

“Well there are seven-card games, but in straight poker it's just five,” I explained.

“I think we should start with five. Seven cards would just make it more complicated. Let's keep it simple.”

I started dealing the cards. Mr. Bell picked up his as they slid across the table. He held them very sloppily and I caught a flash of an ace of hearts. This was going to be interesting.

We played six hands. He discarded almost all his cards each deal but luck was with him and he actually won twice. Out of habit I dealt off the bottom of the deck when I was dealing one hand.

“This certainly is a boring game,” Mr. Bell proclaimed. “Well, it's different when there are more people and betting.”

“There's no one else around to play, but we could wager if that would add more interest to the game.”

I looked up at him. Was he serious?

“I know, I know, you're probably feeling bad about taking my money.”

That wasn't what I was thinking at all. He was being pretty nice to me and everything, but I'd seen people get pretty nasty when they lose money, like the other night, and I couldn't really afford for my boss to be angry with me.

“But I wouldn't object. It would be like paying you for teaching me the game. And besides, I might even end up taking some of your money,” he chuckled. “You do have some money with you, don't you?”

“Yes … some,” I answered. Actually I had every cent I owned on me. Some was in the wallet I carried in my front pocket while most of it was safely rolled away in a money belt I wore under my clothing.

“Excellent! Excuse me while I go and get some money. We keep fairly large sums in the house to pay wages for the staff and expenses, but I very seldom have any on me.”

He rose and once again left the room, this time going through a set of big double doors that led into his study. He quickly returned. He was carrying a metal box which he put down noisily on the table. He flipped open the lid, reached in and pulled out a small pile of bills, putting them down on the table beside the box. I could tell there was at least twenty or thirty dollars there, and I couldn't help but wonder how much more was hidden away inside. I moved slightly in my seat and craned my neck to try and look over the edge of the box, and almost in answer he closed the lid and put the box down under the table and out of sight.

“Now what do we do?” he asked.

“Ante up. We start the game by putting money in the centre. That's the pot we're trying to win.”

“Ahh, yes, this does add something to it right away. How much shall I put in?” Mr. Bell asked as he fanned the bills.

“It depends. Sometimes a nickel or a dime or—”

“How about a dollar? It would make it so much easier, and I think the sound of coins hitting against the table would be most annoying.”

I loved the sound of coins or poker chips bouncing off a table. The only thing nicer was the scraping sound they made when you won a pot and were pulling them across the table toward you.

“I guess we could put a dollar in.”

It was my turn to deal. I shuffled the deck and offered it to Mr. Bell to cut. He declined, the way he had every time. The challenge here wasn't whether I was going to win but to not win too much. I set a figure of fifteen dollars in winnings as the amount I'd limit myself to. I wouldn't take any more of his money than that.

Mr. Bell discarded four of his five cards and I dealt him the replacements. He took them into his hands, and there was a subtle change in his expression that led me to believe he was pleased by the new cards. I discarded two. I kept a pair of sevens and a king. My two new cards were useless.