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Authors: Eric Wight

BOOK: The Last Hand
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Salter pulled the door down, stared, said to himself, “Well, well,” closed the fridge silently, gave a final cough and went back to the game.
He returned, apologized for holding them up, and turned up his next card, an ace. One of the two possible flushes broke and folded, another continued his suit. Robinson turned up a seven.
Salter, still high hand, said, “Two hundred.”
The remaining flush, Mercer, called, and Robinson said, “And raise you two.”
Salter said, “And two hundred more.”
“Let's see your next card,” Mercer said, writing out a slip of paper. “You're still high.”
Salter turned up the king of hearts. Mercer broke his flush and folded. Robinson got the jack of spades. He now had three jacks and a seven.
Salter, who had three kings and an ace, said, “Five hundred.”
Robinson called and said, “You can look at your last card but don't show it to me. Then we bet.”
Salter lifted the corner of his card to peek at it, the six of diamonds, and waited for Robinson to do the same.
“You're still high,” Robinson said. “Possible four kings to possible four jacks.”
Salter looked again at his hole card and said, “A thousand.”
“Did I hear a thousand?” Robinson asked, after a long pause. The others were all still, waiting.
“How much do we pay you guys?” Robinson asked, laughing a little, shaking his head in apparent wonder. “Call.”
Salter said, “Four kings.”
Almost before Salter had spoken, Robinson declaimed, “Four jacks!” and leaned towards the table, his arms extended to embrace the chips. Then Salter's words registered and he stopped in midgesture. “Wait a minute,
four kings!
You haven't got four kings, for Chrissake. Turn the card over.”
Salter laughed. “Oh, not with
that
one. I don't even remember what that is. Let's see. The six of diamonds, that's right. No, no. Here's my other card.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a full deck, identical in markings to the deck they were playing with, shuffled through them, found the king of spades, inserted it into the hand on the table, said, “There. Four kings,” and leaned forward to scoop up the chips.
“Hey, hey,” Robinson said. “Hey!”
All the others except Holt made sounds of various kinds, looked back and forth between Salter and Robinson, and to each other, then fell silent again and waited for Robinson to move.
“What the fuck!” Robinson said, trying to laugh. “How long you been playing with two decks of cards? Eh?” He looked around for support, but the others, in various ways, retreated. Mercer found a handkerchief to blow into; Cutler pushed back from the table slightly and turned toward Davis, the two men seeking each others' support like two respectable matrons suddenly faced with a male stripper when they had been expecting a juggling act, or even a magician.
Lister leaned forward, fascinated by how Robinson was going to respond. Holt sat still.
Salter tidied the chips into a pile in front of him. “I guess the simplest way to sort this out would be for you guys to cash in whatever chips you've got left and the rest will be mine. You can write checks for your markers.”
“Yours? Yours!” Robinson screamed. “You got that fucking king out of your pocket.”
“You saw that, did you? Originally I got it out of the butter thing, where you put it. You want to know how long I've been playing with two decks of cards? Just for one hand, like you.”
“You can't play with two decks,” Robinson said. “Can he?”
“Listen to him, Bonar,” Mercer said quietly, looking at the ceiling.
“I thought it was a house rule,” Salter said, looking round the table.
“It was a joke,” Lister said, also speaking very quietly. Davis nodded vigorously. “Just a joke.”
“How do you mean? We aren't playing for keeps? We all give it back now, like at scout camp?” Salter grinned at them skeptically. “Ah, come on, guys. You wouldn't want
that
to get around, would you?”
“Just the last hand,” Lister said. The others looked perplexed or worried.
“Yeah, but
I
wasn't in on the joke, see,” said Salter. “That's my money in the middle. I had seventeen hundred dollars on that hand. Real money, which you could have kept if you'd won. Now you tell me it was a joke?
You're
the jokers.”
“We were going to tell you after the hand. It was a gag. A practical joke.”
Mercer said, “A joke that went wrong, though. I've got a suggestion. I think it's Salter's pot.”
“Salter's pot!”
“Shut up for a minute, Bonar. Salter outbluffed us, and I hope he tells us how in a minute. We created a con-is that the right word?—and he beat us at it. He's earned the pot. What will you tell them down at headquarters, tomorrow, Staff Inspector?”
Salter had been thinking about this and all the other questions ever since he came across the spare deck in the refrigerator. “I'll tell them I took three lawyers and two stockbrokers for three thousand dollars. Which I have.”
“Fair enough. Nothing about the butter compartment?”
“No, because it makes you look bad. People will wonder if you planned to keep my money. And also, because I
do
plan to keep
your
money, which may reflect badly on me, morally speaking.” He smiled cheerfully. “I haven't figured it out yet. What will your story be?”
Lister looked around the table. “The same, I think.” Everyone except Robinson nodded. “It's an interesting story that will be told around, no matter what we do. It could look bad, if someone, anyone, doesn't believe we would have given you your money back.
I
know we would because I'm the soul of integrity, as are we all, but I'm not going to get the chance to prove it now, am I, and some of our colleagues already have their doubts. So keep the money and we'll all shut up. But we're entitled to something. How the hell did you figure it out?”
This was the tricky bit. Salter smiled and looked around at them in what he imagined was Sherlockian fashion, catching Holt's eye to reassure him that he was not about to be betrayed.
“You made a couple of mistakes,” he said. “The big one was using the fridge to stash the spare deck. Before we started playing that last hand, your colleague there slapped my hand down on my cards when I went to turn them over, by mistake, like. The cards were cold, real cold, like they'd been in the fridge. So I had a coughing fit and went out to the kitchen where I found the deck we have been using all night in the butter compartment.
Those
cards were still warm. I wish I had had time to go through the deck for the king and not have to look for it in front of you. I mean it would have been fun if I had been a real sharpie and been able to switch the card in my hand. Then your faces would have been something. But you can't have everything. This'll do.” He started to pick up the money.
“You really going to take it?” Robinson asked. He looked around the table for support.
“Of course he is,” Lister said quickly, cutting Robinson off. “Well
done, Staff Inspector. Don't come again.” He laughed and put out his hand.
Salter shook hands all around, including Robinson's, and left.
As he crossed the street a few moments after he was called from behind. It was Holt. “I've just thought of something,” he said, hobbling along quickly to catch up with Salter. When they were farther away from the house, he said, “Actually I just wanted to congratulate you, and thank you. I thought I was in the shit for a minute, but you were clever.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you tell me, I mean?”
“I don't like practical jokes. Bonar set it up and it seemed like a good gag until we got into it. Then I realized that either you were going to look the goat when we told you, or it would cost you a lot of money if we didn't.”
“
If
you didn't? There was some chance of that?”
“While you were in the bathroom someone suggested we not go ahead with the last hand because maybe you would be very pissed off and who wants a senior cop pissed off with him? The joke, in other words, had gotten out of hand. And someone, not seriously at first, I think, said maybe we shouldn't tell you. And then someone else felt that we should call it off, but Robinson was gung ho, and before we could settle it you came out of the bathroom.”
“Why did
you
tell me? Oh, yeah, you don't like practical jokes. You're right. Got messy, didn't it? You think I should give the money back now?”
“As Davis said, it was our con, but you outconned us.”
“And besides, if the story does get out this way, you'll look like assholes but like good losers, too, won't you?”
“That's a point.”
“I suppose if I gave the money to the Salvation Army I could feel good, too.”
“You could.”
“But I don't have a bad conscience. Put it like this, for me this is just old-fashioned ill-gotten gains, just as much mine as anybody's. This is where Lucas and I differ. I understand that Lucas would not have dreamed of doing what I'm doing, right? The soul of integrity,
as that one in there called himself tonight, although he was being jokey. That right? But Lucas really was, wasn't he? Would you have called him that?”
“Yes. He would not have taken the money. But he wouldn't have allowed the joke to develop, either. He was a very scrupulous man.”
“Well, there you are. I'm not. I plan to spend it all on a trip to Vegas. Maybe I'm on a roll. Now, what's your excuse to them for running after me?”
“To offer you a ride. Someone said you walked here.”
“I'll walk home, thanks. I don't live far away. Have a nice evening.”
T
he next morning, Smith said, “Did Dame Fortune smile on you last night?”
“What? Yes, she did. How about you? Find any trace of Pussy-in-Boots?”
“You'll be glad to hear I didn't. But I'll keep trying. There's lots of hookers down that way; then there's Parkdale, is it?”
Salter said, slightly hesitantly, “I was only kidding about Dorian Gray.”
“Och, I know that. But I'm not.”
“What was your line?”
“Do you mind if I tell you later? If you're right, it doesn't matter, does it? Did you win much?”
“Yes. What did you tell them? The hookers. To get them on your side.”
“How much did you win?”
“I promised the lawyers I wouldn't tell, to save them embarrassment. What did you tell the ladies on Jarvis?”
“Later, sir. How much did you win?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
“That's a nice round sum. Is it evidence?”
“I don't see how it can be.”
“Then you can keep it.”
“I plan to, and Smitty, don't tell anyone. I promised these lawyers, remember.”
 
 
By the time Salter stopped daydreaming, he was losing the second game 13–4, having already lost the first. Losing this one would mean losing the set, although they always played the third, anyway, since they were only playing for fun and for the sake of their health. Salter managed a lob that Lichtman had to scramble for, then smashed Lichtman's return into the corner to regain the serve.
Now he invoked the litany of phrases learned from sports commentators: “Then Salter dug down deep and found something extra”; “Salter concentrated fiercely, focussing on his opponent's weaknesses”; and his favorite, “Now Salter recited a mantra and invoked the ultimate umpire.”
In fact he did none of these things. He was always amazed that sports writers and the professionals they wrote about seemed to know exactly what was happening on the court and in themselves when the game's fortunes changed. He had never caught himself in any act of conscious analysis and its consequence-an instant new battle plan. He was aware only of tensing up like someone preparing to jump on a moving train.
He brought the score to 13–13 before he let his mind return, and Lichtman sneaked back to win the deciding couple of points. Salter won the third game easily, but it was Lichtman's day.
At the bar, a rosy, grinning Lichtman said, as expected, “Christ, I thought you were going to turn the fucker over again. But I knew I just had to wait, so I kept a litle bit saved up for those last two points, then I blew you away. But you played well.”
“Next time, Joe,” Salter said, suppressing the urge to analyze the game in a way to diminish Lichtman's victory. “You played
really
well.”
Then he had to listen for ten minutes while Lichtman explained to him how he had won-ten minutes was obligatory-but finally he was able to change the subject without seeming to cut off his opponent's victory chant.
“How's Go-ethe coming?” he asked.
Lichtman corrugated his forehead. “Ah,” he said, finally, “Goethe.”
“That's the fella. When do you have to tell them about him?”
“Thursday. Tomorrow. I'm all ready. A couple of them have already phoned to say they can't make it. That usually means they find the book too hard to read.”
“Too difficult? I thought you were in one of the more upmarket groups?”
“Not difficult intellectually, necessarily. Just unreadable. Like
Over Prairie Trails.
And people have pet hates. One member only joined on condition we would never try Virginia Woolf.”
“You miss Louise Wilder?”
“You've been talking to our leader. Yeah, they do. I don't miss her. I never met her. How about you? Found the guy who killed Jerry Lucas yet?”
Salter blinked, then remembered that although everyone closely connected to the case knew about the hooker, her story was not yet public knowledge, and it was natural of Lichtman to refer to the killer as a “guy.”
“We've got him down at headquarters hung up by his thumbs in the basement. Every once in a while a couple of the boys go down and beat on him for a while, but he won't confess. Three days it's been.”
Lichtman laughed. “There was a bit of mystery about Lucas, did I tell you? You've seen his apartment? What was it like?”
“Don't you remember?”
“None of them had been in it. When it was his turn to play host, they went to Sylvia's, and Jerry brought a case of wine and ordered in some gourmet snacks. I always assumed either he lived in total squalor like Walter Matthau in that movie, you know,
The Odd Couple,
or he couldn't stand people leaving dirty marks all over the place, like the other one, Tony Randall.”
“I doubt if it was either. It wasn't just your book group he avoided entertaining; he did the same with his poker buddies. He was just giving himself the least trouble. He bought good wine, I bet, and the catering was gourmet, you say? But someone else cleaned up.” And then Salter heard what he was saying. “How long has the group been meeting?”
“About three years.”
“And all of you—Lucas, Louise Wilder, you, Sylvia Sparrow–you'd all been coming from the beginning?”
“Not me. I just joined, I told you.”
“All of the others?”
“Beverly Potts is fairly recent, but all the others, yeah.”
“And in three years you've never been inside Lucas's apartment?”
“Not once. They used to joke about it, making suggestions why. Apart from my idea of
The Odd Couple,
I mean. Someone thought he probably had a mad housekeeper, stuff like that.”
“There was nothing like that. I think it was just the convenience, for him, of spending money to save energy. Same time next week?”
“Sure. I'll book the court. What's the rush?”
“I've just had an idea …”
“At my age that's like a hard-on: not too easy to come by. Don't let it get away from you.”
 
 
The group always met at eight. Salter waited until seven forty-five. If Louise Wilder was at home he would ask her if she still had the book group's schedule around because he wanted to know where they were meeting next. But he did not expect to find her home.
A young man answered and Salter introduced himself and asked to speak to Louise.
“This about the—ah—Lucas case?” A noisy, slightly pompous voice, imitating the mannerisms of his elders.
“Yes.”
“She's quite upset by it, you know.”
“That's not surprising. When someone you know is murdered it's different from reading about it in the papers. Can I speak to her, please?”
“If you would leave a message I'll see that she gets it. She's out tonight. Wait a minute. Yes, it's her night for playing
Femme savante
.”
“Playing what?”
“Her bluestocking night.”
This time Salter did not even say “What?” but waited for the boy to explain himself. He was pretty sure that
“femme savante”
and
“bluestocking” were terms being used to display the speaker's learning; Angus had done the same thing for a while in his last year of high school. He was also pretty sure that they pointed in the right direction, as he waited for the boy to say so. “It is her book group night. That's all it says on the calendar. So shall I give her a message?”
“Tell her to call me tomorrow, would you? At headquarters. Who am I talking to?”
“Her son, Derwent.”
“Is your father there?”
“The last I heard he was working late at the office, as they say, though I don't think that's a euphemism in Papa's case. But I'm not here much, either, so I shall leave Mother an elaborate note.”
 
 
She called at nine, shortly after Salter arrived at the office the next day. “I'd like to meet with you,” she said. “As soon as possible.”
“You want me to come to the house?”
“No. My husband may be home.”
“So come down to my office.”
“I don't much want to be seen in your office, unless I have to.”
“Fran's is near the corner. You know Fran's?”
“I'm at school now.”
“Shall I send a car for you?”
“No, no. Not to the school.”
Then Salter grew bored with the problem. “Tell them you've got an emergency, and get a cab. I'll be in Fran's in fifteen minutes. You come, too.” He hung up.
When she arrived at the restaurant, he was waiting, ready to continue to deal with her briskly, but she began with an apology. “I just wanted to speak to you before you phoned my home again.”
“Because your husband might start getting curious.”
“More or less. Could we get on with it?”
Salter decided to leave the point for the moment, guessing that she was concerned she might be tripped up when Salter compared notes with her husband. “Sure. Are you still a member of the group?”
“I told you I dropped out, and you've confirmed that with the others.”
“So what's going on? A little hanky-panky.”
“A little what! Oh, I suppose so.”
“Nothing to do with me, then.”
“No.”
“So, after the book group changed its night, you dropped out and began an affair on the old book-group night.”
“Yes.”
“Didn't your husband wonder why you never met at your house anymore?”
“I told him we always met at Sylvia's.”
Salter smiled. “Not easy, is it?”
“What?”
“Having an affair. I'm sorry you had to come down just to tell me.”
“I couldn't speak on the phone at home or at the school.”
“Right. You want to get yourself one of those mobile phones. Well, that clears that up, doesn't it. You could have told me earlier, though.”
“It was none of your business earlier.”
“When did it become my business?”
“It never did. But once you started …”
“Believing you? And calling you at home?”
She said nothing.
“Now that I know, I'll try to avoid making assumptions about where you are. To your husband, I mean.”
She said quietly, “I'm looking for another group that meets on Thursday night. Until then, I shall just take the night off.”
“It'll be our secret, Mrs. Wilder.”
She did not rise to this. “If you need me any more, would you call me at the school, please. Here's a card with the number and my extension. Identify yourself officially, too, please. I don't want any gossip around the school at the phone calls I get from unidentified men.” She stood up. “But with any luck, this is the last I shall see or hear of you.”
Don't bet on it, thought Salter, as he watched her head move down the corridor, above the partitions. The little gavotte they had just danced confirmed for him what he had guessed on the squash
court. He had taken a risk: she ought to have reacted at his interest in her affair, if it had nothing to do with the case. The absence of any sign of tension or embarrassment seemed to indicate that she had been expecting something like this and was trying to keep her head, to think clearly.
He returned to the office and gave Smith the keys to the Lucas apartment. “Get on over there and search the place again,” he said.
“Sir, our people were pretty thorough.”
“I know, but they didn't know what they were looking for. I do. Go over there and find a name, or a set of initials. Look for Louise, or L. W. If you find the name Louise Wilder, tell me, but I'll be disappointed. Using the whole name would be too impersonal. Now, where will you look?” In his excitement Salter was addressing Smith like a child, making him repeat his instructions.
The constable smiled. “I'll start with the personal books we took from the flat. The diary, the appointment book. Would he have used a code word?”
“Why?”
“In case someone came across it. Someone he wouldn't want to know that he knew Louise, or L. W. When you're writing up a diary, you have to consider the possibility of maybe getting into an accident, then someone reading your diary and finding out you are having an affair with the minister's wife, so you give her a code name. I give mine men's names. My last was Phyllis, so I called her Phillip, in the diary.” He grinned.

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