The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers
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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 canceled 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, some one 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 honor," 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 neighborhood, 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 traveling 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 treys," 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. Good-bye!"
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 throat, and once more the game was on. Eden was chuckling inwardly. More delay—and not his fault this time. The joke was on P.J. Madden.
His third stack was melting rapidly away, and he reflected with apprehension that the night was young, and time of no importance on the desert anyhow. "One more hand and I drop out," he said firmly.
"One more hand and we all drop out!" barked Madden. Something seemed to have annoyed him.
"Let's make it a good one, then," said Maydorf. "The limit's off, gentlemen."
It was a good one, unexpectedly a contest between Maydorf and Bob Eden. Drawing with the faint hope of completing two pairs, the boy was thrilled to encounter four nines in his hand. Perhaps he should have noted that Maydorf was dealing, but he didn't—he bet heavily, and was finally called. Laying down his hand, he saw an evil smile on Shaky Phil's face.
"Four queens," remarked Maydorf, spreading them out with an expert gesture. "Always was lucky with the ladies. I think you gentlemen pay me."
They did. Bob Eden contributed forty-seven dollars, reluctantly. All on the expense account, however, he reflected.
Mr. Maydorf was in a not unaccountable good humor. "A very pleasant evening," he remarked, as he put on his overcoat. "I'll drop in again, if I may."
"Good night," snapped Madden.
Thorn took a flashlight from the desk. "I'll see you to the gate," he announced. Bob Eden smiled. A flashlight—with a bright moon overhead.
"Mighty good of you," the outsider said. "Good night, gentlemen, and thank you very much." He was smiling grimly as he followed the secretary out.
Madden snatched up a cigar, and savagely bit the end from it. "Well?" he cried.
"Well," said Eden calmly.
"You made a lot of progress with your father, didn't you?"
The boy smiled. "What did you expect me to do? Spill the whole thing in front of that bird?"
"No—but you needn't have rung off so quick. I was going to get him out of the room. Now you can go over there and call your father again."
"Nothing of the sort," answered Eden. "He's gone to bed, and I won't disturb him till morning."
Madden's face purpled. "I insist. And my orders are usually obeyed."
"Is that so?" remarked Eden. "Well, this is