DEATH IN THE CARDS
“EXCUSE me, gentlemen,” remarked Charles Blefken, rising from the bridge table. “Being the dummy this hand, I beg the privilege of finding out why that long-distance call from my wife has been delayed.”
The other three men laughed. The subject of the long-distance call had been discussed between hands during the evening. All the visitors were close friends of Charles Blefken.
One was Winthrop Morgan, another lawyer. James Rossiter was a physician. Felton Carew, the last of the group, was a gentleman of leisure — a wealthy clubman whose ability as a bridge player made him a welcome addition to any table.
“Charley’s been a bit restless all evening,” observed Morgan, when Blefken had left the room. “Hasn’t been playing as good a game as usual.”
“Worried about his wife,” said Rossiter. “She’s out in Cleveland. She hasn’t been well, you know.”
“Your lead, Rossiter,” said Carew.
Charles Blefken had crossed the hall between the cardroom and the lounge. There was a dim light showing through the open door of the latter room. Blefken entered and spoke in a soft whisper.
“All set, Joe?” he asked.
A grunt came from behind a massive chair set in the corner. Joe Cardona was hiding there, wondering why he had bothered to come on this mission.
His faith in Middleton’s appearance was waning. Like Blefken, he was beginning to think that the writer of the note was a creature of fantastic imaginings.
“It may be pretty soon, now,” said Blefken encouragingly. “Guess it seems long to you, though.”
“It seems hours since your friends were in here with you,” came Cardona’s response. “How’s the game going?”
“I’m out twenty dollars so far. Can’t keep my mind on it.”
“What’s the time now?”
“After nine,” said Blefken. “Around nine thirty, I guess.”
He pressed a bell. In less than a minute a servant appeared. Joe Cardona was quiet now. No one could possibly have suspected that he was in the room.
“Remember, Stokes,” ordered Blefken, “if any one comes to see me, show them in here. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also remember to tell me that long distance is calling.”
The lawyer left the room a few moments after the servant had gone. The hall was dark; he had purposely left it so. He and Cardona had agreed that too much illumination might worry the eccentric Middleton.
Blefken went by the little hall that led to the side door. Perhaps Middleton would ring at that entrance. It was not unlikely. People familiar with the house often came in that way. In fact, Cardona had come by that entrance tonight. So had Morgan and Carew.
Doctor Rossiter had rung at the front door. Perhaps his practice of making professional calls had brought him there from force of habit. Rossiter was Blefken’s family physician.
Minutes ticked by slowly for Joe Cardona after the lawyer had gone. Then, the patient detective heard the servant’s footsteps in the hall. He fancied that Stokes was on his way to the front door.
This speculation was correct. Two persons entered the room. Cardona did not risk peering from behind the chair. But he recognized the servant’s voice.
“Wait here, sir,” Stokes said. “I shall call Mr. Blefken immediately.
“All right,” came a low, nervous voice.
The tone impressed Cardona. The detective felt sure that this must be Jerry Middleton.
The servant was gone now — the newcomer was pacing the floor nervously. His heavy breathing showed that he was unquestionably perturbed. The silent sleuth sensed the situation.
He was glad now that he was here. Whatever Middleton’s purpose, it must be important.
A HEAVY step arrived. The pacing man stopped. Cardona knew that Blefken had come. The door closed. Cardona heard the lawyer’s voice. It signified more than a greeting.
Blefken’s “Hello” was uttered in a carefully rehearsed manner. He and the detective had set it as a sign. It meant that Middleton was facing the other way.
Cardona edged toward the side of the chair. He obtained a vantage point. He could see what was going on.
The newcomer was sitting a few feet away. Joe could see his pallid face, although Middleton was turned so that his profile was not quite visible to the man behind the chair.
“You received my letter?” Middleton’s voice was plaintive.
“Yes,” answered Blefken quietly. “I am still puzzling over its significance.”
Cardona managed to sight the lawyer. Blefken was standing at the opposite side of the room, his hands behind his back. He was studying Middleton with the practiced eye of an attorney.
“I’m glad I’m here,” announced Middleton nervously. “Glad because I’ve come in time — for once!”
There was a significant note in the pronunciation of the two final words. Blefken detected it.
“Just what do you mean?” inquired the lawyer.
Middleton’s breath came in quick, short gasps.
“Blefken,” he said, “I can’t be cross-examined. Please make allowances for that. I’ve actually come here against my will — come because there is danger!”
“Who is after you?”
“Please don’t question me. Don’t worry about me. Think about yourself. Your life is in danger — terrible danger!”
“I have received no threats,” Blefken responded. “I have no enemies of consequence. I have nothing to fear. What is this all about, Middleton?”
“I see you don’t trust me,” declared Middleton bitterly. “If you knew what I have undergone — what I know — what I have tried to prevent — how I am bound — how terrible it all is—”
“Easy,” remarked Blefken quietly. “Take it easy, old chap! Let’s quiet down a bit. We don’t want to be overheard. You’re safe here—”
“I’m safe, yes,” exclaimed Middleton, in an excited whisper. “I’m safe, always — until my page is turned. My page — you understand? It’s a long way yet, in the book. But yours is next — the last one was turned. Your page is open now!”
Cardona slipped his automatic from his pocket. He was covering Middleton now. He felt that the man was dangerous. Still, he was not ready to act until Blefken should give the word.
“Middleton,” said the lawyer, “you’ve got to quiet yourself a bit. Your nerves are shattered. I’m with you, old fellow. I know that you have something important to say. Don’t worry. I’m safe, here in my own home—”
“You’re not safe anywhere — right now!” said Middleton earnestly. “I tell you, Blefken, this thing is unbelievable! You think that I’ve lost my senses. I have, in a way.
“I tried to be calm for a long while, but” — his voice became extremely low — “when I saw that I couldn’t stop it — after I tried to forget—”
“You tried to forget?” Blefken’s tone was kindly.
“Yes,” answered Middleton. “I’m taking it easier now, Blefken. You must make allowances. Let me talk generally — I can’t give you facts all at once.
“I knew there was danger. It was coming to me, too, unless I promised to play my part. I agreed — wrongly, of course. Then I broke away — and tried to forget. Do you understand?”
“I follow you, in a way,” said Blefken frankly. “Go on. I am interested.”
“I could forget, for a while, because — well, I was able to forget. Then I began thinking about my page — about the danger that would be mine some day. Just because I had gone away — sick of it all.
“I’m a criminal, Blefken; not by action, but in spirit. I stopped before it came to deed instead of wish. When I began to think about my own danger, I worried about others.
“One lightning shaft struck. I waited. Two more were in the making. I tried to stop them. I failed. That frightened me. Then I appealed to you.
“Why to me? You have many friends in New York,” the lawyer spoke.
“Friends? I had renounced them. I was ready to betray them — once. But I wanted to square myself. You had to be reached — at once. So I sent you the letter. Don’t you understand?”
“I understand.”
THE lawyer’s voice was not only reassuring to Jerry Middleton. It also relieved Cardona’s qualms. The detective was high in his admiration for Charles Blefken.
Middleton was going to open up; that was evident. The man was under a tremendous strain. He was rapidly becoming more coherent.
“I understand,” repeated Blefken. “I would not be here listening to you if I did not understand. I can assure you, Middleton, that I am quite safe. Take my word for that; I will take yours for whatever you have to say. Consider me as your attorney for the time.”
“I never placed much trust in lawyers,” declared Middleton suddenly, “but I know I can count on you, Blefken. What I have to say weighs very heavily on me. I’m beginning to feel better now, though. Give me a few moments.”
“Middleton,” said the lawyer, “I am not alone here tonight” — Joe Cardona repressed a gasp, fearing that the lawyer was about to commit the mistake of betraying his presence — “not alone. I have friends, in another room. They do not know that you are here. They think I am telephoning.”
“Friends?” quizzed Middleton. “A man has no friends!”
Joe Cardona felt relief because Blefken had not made the error which he feared. But he was also surprised by the bitterness of Middleton’s reply.
“I can trust these friends,” said the lawyer. “One of them is my family physician. Perhaps you would like to see him; he might be able to prescribe something that would make you feel more like yourself—”
“No! Nothing!” gasped Middleton. “Nothing can help me, except” — he hesitated — “except what I can never get! I have tried, Blefken. I took morphine down in Florida. It made me feel terribly. It only made matters worse. You’ll understand — after I talk. Let me rest — a few minutes.”
“All right.”
Blefken stood silent while Jerry Middleton placed his head in his hands and became quiet. The lawyer studied his visitor.
Middleton was a young man, but he appeared much older than he actually was. His face, pale and haggard, seemed ghastly when compared with his dark, roving eyes. Those eyes carried a haunted look. They were closed now.
“Middleton,” said Blefken quietly, “I’m going in the other room just long enough to tell my friends that I will be busy for a while. Wait a moment — ” He rang the bell and stood until Stokes entered.
The arrival of the servant made no impression upon Jerry Middleton. The young man was motionless, scarcely breathing. Blefken stopped his man, just within the door.
“Stokes,” said the lawyer, “go into the cardroom and tell them that my call has been interrupted. Tell them that we will have a recess of half an hour. Serve refreshments. I am coming there immediately.”
When Stokes had left, Blefken advanced and laid his hand upon Middleton’s shoulder. He cast a knowing glance at Cardona, signifying that the detective should remain hidden where he was.
“You’re all right here, aren’t you?” Blefken questioned Middleton. “All right for — say, five minutes? Not longer?”
“I can wait five minutes,” said Middleton.
“Good,” answered Blefken. “If you want, you can come in and meet my friends. It might do you good to chat a while; then we can talk later.”
“I’d rather talk now—”
“Very well. Sit here and rest.”
The lawyer opened the door and stepped into the hall. He closed the door behind him. It was an ideal arrangement.
Under any other circumstances, it would have been unwise for Blefken to leave Middleton alone. But with so capable a person as Joe Cardona for a hidden observer, matters could not be better.
The detective smiled at the caginess of Blefken’s action. He watched Middleton with alert eyes.
FOR a few minutes, Jerry Middleton did not stir. Then he groaned and sat bolt upright in his chair. He stared straight ahead as though trying to place his surroundings. Then he laughed — softly but nervously. He arose, and Cardona slipped back into his hiding place.
Middleton paced up and down the room, mumbling to himself, but Cardona could make nothing of his words. At length the young man said something that sounded like: “He ought to be back by now.”
With that, Cardona heard him go to the door and open it. The detective was on the point of emerging from behind the chair when he heard Middleton again pacing the room. At times the pacing ceased, and even the man’s breathing was soundless.
One of these pauses occurred. A full minute went by. Cardona moved upward. The room was empty. The half-opened door showed where Middleton had gone. Probably in search of Charles Blefken.
Cardona was surprised at the stealth which the man must have used. He knew that Middleton could not have been gone more than sixty seconds, and that perhaps he was already with Blefken.
But Cardona knew that every second was precious, when crime was in the offing. Middleton and his talk of danger savored of crime. Pushing the chair aside, the detective hurried into the hall.
He slipped into the shadow of the door, for he knew that Middleton might return, and the sight of a stranger would make him believe that he had been betrayed.
In another second, Cardona was standing before the little passage that led to the side door of the house. The detective was suspicious of that passage. He waited, while his eyes became accustomed to the darkness.
He wanted to investigate in that direction. He also thought of hiding there, should Middleton return.
Suddenly, Joe Cardona realized that something was lying in the passage — a bulky shape that appeared very much like the form of a man. It must be Middleton! Had the man started to leave the house and fallen? Or was he crouching there for some unknown purpose?
Cardona moved to the corner of the passage. He listened intently. He heard no sound of breathing; no one was approaching.
The detective’s flashlight clicked. Its rays revealed the form of a man — a body lying on its side. The form did not move.
“Middleton,” was the name framed by the detective’s lips, as he stepped quickly forward.
Then he saw the face!
Never before, in all his years on the force, had Joe Cardona met with such an amazing thing. It was not Middleton lying there. The body was that of Charles Blefken!
A hideous look was spread upon the lawyer’s features. Upon his throat were the marks of deep-pressed fingers. Blefken’s collar had been ripped away, leaving his neck bare.
FOR an instant, Cardona was dumfounded. Then his shrill whistle sounded the alarm. The response was immediate. Footsteps came crashing from the cardroom. There was a burst of light as the door opened; then a bright glare as some one pushed the switch of the hall lights.
Cardona was on his feet, his coat back. His badge glimmered in the glare. He was counting four men before him — all had come from that single room. Three, he knew, were the lawyer’s guests. The fourth was Stokes, the servant.
“Where’s Middleton?” demanded Joe Cardona.
“Who?” came a startled reply.
“Middleton. The man who was here.”
“We have seen no man here,” came the voice of Morgan, the attorney. “Who are you?”
“Detective Cardona, from headquarters. You were all in that room?”
“Every one of us.”
“Was Blefken with you?”
“Until five minutes ago.”
“He has been attacked,” declared Cardona, stepping aside, so all could see the body plainly. “Outside, all of you! We’ve got to get Jerry Middleton! Hurry, you three” — he indicated the guests — “and you, Stokes, get headquarters.”
Morgan was the first to respond. He advanced, stepped past Blefken’s form with a hasty glance, and dashed out through the side door. Carew followed him. Stokes scurried to the telephone in the lounge. Only Doctor Rossiter stopped, as he neared the body of Charles Blefken.
“I’m the physician,” he said quietly.
“Right,” replied Cardona.
Rossiter was leaning over the body, making a close examination. Cardona stood back and watched him.
“Shouldn’t you hold every one here?” the physician questioned coolly.
“Ordinarily, yes,” was Cardona’s blunt response. “But I see situations quickly. You were all together. You were all alarmed. I know what was going on. I have been here all evening. That’s my business, doctor; I’m attending to it. You have your business. I hope you can be of aid.”
“Not now,” came the doctor’s quiet voice.
“Not now?” quizzed the detective.
“No,” was the reply. “Our friend Blefken is dead!”