The Cheaters, page 3
Why did he laugh? He was dead. I was the one who should laugh. He had poison, I had brandy. "Liquor is poison to you, Mrs. Olcott.”
Who said that? Dr. Cramer said that, the last time. But he was dead. I wasn’t poisoned. So why did it hurt when I tried to laugh?
Why did it hurt my chest so, and why did the room go around and when I tried to sit up and fell face downwards on the floor why did I tear at the rug until my fingers bent backwards and snapped one by one like pretzel sticks, but I couldn’t feel them because the agony in my chest was so much stronger, stronger than anything, stronger than life itself
Because it was death.
I died at 10:18 p.m.
3. Percy Dean
AFTER the whole affair was hushed up, Olive and I went away for a while. We could afford to travel, now, and I made arrangements to have the whole place remodeled while we were gone.
They really did a beautiful job—money was no object. I told him—and the results did us proud. It was about time, too. All those years wasted, sitting around and waiting for the old lady to die; yes, it was about time.
Now Olive and I could really hold our heads up in the community. No more snubs, no 'more covert insults, no more gossip about, "Mrs. Olcott’s son-in-law . . parvenu . . not altogether the sort of person who belongs.’’
I swore to myself that all this would be changed. Olive and I would take our rightful place in society, at last. We had the background, surely, and now there was ample money to move in the best circles, to entertain.
To entertain. That was the first step.
The costume party was really Olive’s idea, although I was the one who tied it in with our "house-warming.”
"There’s a certain atmosphere of gaiety and informality about a costume party,” I told her. "It will distract from the awareness of the guests; so many of them know about the—uh—unfortunate occurence six months ago, and an ordinary dinner party would be strained. But a costume party is just the thing.”
"Maybe I could get that little dance troupe to entertain,” Olive mused. "The Puerto Ricans, you know. They’re all the rage this season. And we could use the garden, too.”
IT PLEASED me to see her respond so enthusiastically. We fell to planning, determining whom to invite. Here is where my superior acumen came into play. For years I had been balked, frustrated by my ignominious position as a "hanger-on”; unable to associate on a plane of equality with the business and financial leaders of the community.
I seemed to attend their dinners and parties under sufferance, and was unable to reciprocate with invitations in kind. In consequence I was never able to broach certain ventures I had in mind regarding real estate and bond issues. I knew the key men and my propositions were completely worked out. All I wanted was entree. I could make money in this city; quite a bit of money. Now was the time.
"Thorgesen,” I said, checking off the list. "Definitely yes. "Harker, if he’ll come. And Dr. Cassit. Pfluger. A repulsive person, but I need him. And the Misses Christie. Hattie Rooker. Very good.”
"If we have Hattie we must invite Sebastian Grimm,” Olive reminded.
"Grimm? Who’s he?”
"The novelist. Summering in town here. He’s invited everywhere—simply everywhere!”
"As you wish.”
We planned it all, sent out our invitations, and had a most gratifying response. The week beforehand was filled with endless details which engaged our time. As a matter of fact, it was the day of the party before Olive brought up a highly important matter.
"Our costumes, Percy,” she said.
"Costumes?”
"This is a costume party, silly! And we’ve forgotten to select our own.” She smiled. "You’d go well as a pirate.”
I frowned. I dislike levity. The thought of wearing a costume repelled me.
"But they’ll all be in costume,” Olive told me. "Even dignified old men like Harker. And Mrs. Loomis has spent weeks, simply weeks, on her Watteau shepherdess. The dressmaker told me.”
"What shall you wear?” I asked.
"Something Spanish, with a mantilla. Then I can wear the earrings.” She peered at me quizzically. "But you’re going to be a problem. Frankly, Percy, you’re too tubby for the usual thing. Unless you choose to dress as a clown.”
I almost spoke harshly to her. But it was true. 1 regarded my portliness in the mirror; my receding hairline, my double chin. She peered over my shoulder.
"Just the thing!” she announced. "Percy, I have it! You shall be Benjamin Franklin.”
Benjamin Franklin. I had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea. After all, Franklin was a symbol of dignity, stability and wisdom— I am inclined to discount those absurd rumors about his mistresses—and that was the note I was seeking. I depended upon this evening to impress the guests. It was a highly important first step.
The upshot of the matter was that I went down to the costumer, told him my needs, and returned that evening with a Colonial costume, including a partial wig.
Olive was ecstatic over the results. I dressed hastily after dinner, for our guests were expected to arrive early, and Olive merely glanced into the master bedroom and inspected me at the last moment.
"Wonderful!” she said. "But didn’t Franklin wear spectacles?”
"So he did. Unfortunately, it’s too late now to secure a pair. I trust the guests will forgive me this oversight.”
The guests did.
I spent a most enjoyable evening. Everyone arrived, the liquor was good and plentiful, the costumes added the proper note of frivolity, and the entertainment—although vulgar—seemed most well received.
ALTHOUGH a total abstainer myself, I nevertheless saw to it that the proper persons imbibed. Men like Thorgesen of the bank, old man Harker, Dr. Cassit, and Judge Pfluger. I managed to keep them around the punchbowl and their cordiality increased as the evening progressed.
I was particularly interested in getting Thorgesen’s friendship. Through him I could gain membership in the Gentry Club, and sooner or later I’d worm my way into Room 1200—the fabulous "poker club” room where the really big "deals” were decided; millions of dollars in contracts casually assigned as the powers-that-be dealt their cards.
Sebastian Grimm put the thought into my head. "Party seems to be going nicely,” he drawled. "Almost think it would be safe to leave the ladies to their own devices for an hour or so. You haven’t a poker table available, have you, Dean?”
Poker. The very, thing. A game in my house" Wouldn’t it be natural to suggest another meeting at the conclusion of this, game? Perhaps Thorgesen would' suggest the Gentry Club next time, and I could remind him that I was not a member. "That’s easily remedied,” he would boom. "Tell you what you do, Dean—”
Perfect!
"There’s a big table upstairs,” I ventured. “Away from the crowd and the noise. If you gentlemen are interested—” They were. We ascended the stairs.
I hate poker. I dislike all games of chance. I do not regard them as immoral, but I instinctively dislike a speculative venture where the element of risk is dependent upon chance.
But this was an exception.
I secured chips and cards. Thorgesen, Dr. Cassit, Judge Pfluger, Harker, Grimm and myself were seated around the table. I would have excluded Grimm if possible— the tall, thin sardonic writer was a disturbing element and his presence was of no value to me. But it had been his suggestion, and I couldn’t very well shake him off.
Olive tapped on the door before we started our play.
"So there you are,” she said. "I wondered where you’d disappeared to, Percy.” She smiled at the group. "I see you’re in good company, however. Would anyone care to have a luncheon sent up? We’re serving buffet style downstairs in a few moments.”
There was an awkward silence. I felt annoyance.
"Very well, then. I shan’t disturb you. Oh, Percy—I found something for you. In —in mother’s old room.” She came up behind me and slipped something over my ears and nose.
"Spectacles,” she giggled. "You remember, we couldn’t find them for your costume. But mother had a pair in her drawer. Now.” She stood back and surveyed me. "That does it. He really looks like Benjamin Franklin, don’t you think?”
I didn’t want the spectacles. They hurt my eyes. But I was overcome with embarrassment. I forced a smile and waved her from the room. The men were intent upon distribution of chips. Thorgesen was the banker. I pulled out my wallet and placed a hundred dollar bill on the table. I received a stack of twenty white chips.
They played for "blood.” Very well. I smiled. "Now for some reds,” I said. I placed five more hundred dollar bills on the table and received twenty red chips.
"That’s better,” I commented. And it was. For I meant to lose. A thousand dollars or so invested properly tonight in a losing game would almost guarantee that my membership be looked upon with favor by the other players. There was a deal of sound psychology behind my reasoning. I meant to lose, and more than that, to lose gracefully. Amiably. Like a gentleman.
But it didn’t work.
I HAVE heard of clairvoyance, of telepathy, of sixth sense, of "card sense.” These phenomena I have always discounted. Yet something was at work this evening.
For as I squinted through my spectacles at the cards, I could read the hands of the other players. Not their hands, but their minds.
"Pair of eights under. Raise. Get another. Two-queens. Wonder if he’s got a straight? Better stay in. Never make an inside with those tens showing. Flush. Raise again. Bluff the others out.”
It came to me in a steady stream. I knew when to drop, when to stay, when to raise, when to bluff.
Of course I meant to lose. But when a man knows what to do, he’s a fool to drop the advantage. That’s logic, isn't it? Sound business. They respected shrewdness, good judgment. How could I help myself?
I do not wish to dwell upon the actual incidents of the game, Suffice to say that I won almost every hand.. That I was able to raise, to bluff, to "sandbag” as I believe they call it, and all with this marvelous flow of intuition, this veritable psychic sense which never deserted me.
I was over nine thousand dollars ahead when Harker cheated.
The strain of concentration was terrific. I paid no heed to time, to any extraneous circumstance or thought or movement. It was only the game—reading their minds— calculating my bets.
And then: "I’ll keep the ace until the next hand,’’ Harker thought.
I could feel that thought. Feel the strength, the desperate avariciousness behind it. Old man Harker, worth three million, cheating over the poker table.
FOR a moment I was dismayed. The next hand was being dealt. I concentrated. Harker had the ace of spades under his left sleeve on the table. He received a seven and an ace down, and an ace up. Three aces, if he could switch the seven.
I had queens, back to back, the down queen paired with a four. The cards were distributed—the fourth, the fifth. The others had nothing; Grimm a possible straight. Flarker kept raising. I got another queen on the fifth card. I raised him back. Grimm stayed. Harker re-raised. He was gloating. The conversation grew animated. This was a vital hand; the pot was large. The sixth card brought me another four. Full house, queens up. A sure winner in almost any seven-card stud game. Harker had his aces. My pair of queens on the board bet—the limit. He raised the limit. I re-raised. Grimm dropped out.
They hung upon our last cards as the deal went out. I got a jack. Harker received the fourth ace. It almost hurt my head to feel the wave of exultation possessing him. He raised, I raised, he raised, I hesitated—and Harker switched cards. The fourth ace went under. The seven slid beneath his sleeve. That was what I had been waiting for.
I raised.
Harker raised.
"Six thousand dollars in the pot!” somebody murmured.
I raised. Harker raised:
Then, very deliberately, I called. I laid down my hand triumphantly.
"Full house. Queens over fours.” I started to rake in the chips.
Harker’s old man’s monkey-face creased into a grin.
"Not so fast, my friend. I have”—he licked his thin lips eagerly-—"four aces.”
Everybody gasped.
I coughed. "Sorry, Mr. Harker. But has it come to your attention that you also have—eight cards?”
Silence.
“An oversight, no doubt. But if you will be good enough to raise your left arm from the table—there, underneath your sleeve—”
The silence deepened.
And suddenly it was filled with a clamor. Not a clamor of words. A clamor of thoughts.
They weren’t thinking about cards any more. But I could still read their minds!
"The cad—the cur—accusing Harker—probably planted the card there himself—cheating—no gentleman—nasty little fat-faced fool—never should have come—barred from decent society—vulgar— moneygrubber—drove her to her grave—”
My head hurt.
I thought if I could talk, the hurting would go away. So I talked and told them what I knew, and what I thought of them, and they only stared. So I thought if I could shout, it might relieve the strain, and I shouted and ordered them out of my house and named them for what they were, but they looked at me as if I were mad. And Harker thought things about me no man could stand. No man could stand such thoughts, even if his head weren’t splitting and he didn’t know it was all lost, they all hated him, they were laughing and sneering.
So I knocked over the table and I took him by his wizened throat, and then they were all on me at once, and I wouldn’t let go until I had squeezed out the hurting, all of it, and my glasses fell off and everything seemed to go dim. I just looked up in time to see Thorgesen, over my shoulder, aiming the water carafe at my head.
I tried to move to one side, but it was too late. The carafe came down and everything went away.
Forever.
4. Sebastian Grimm
THIS will be brief. Very brief.
When I picked up those peculiar yellow-lensed spectacles in antique frames from the floor—slipping them into my pocket, unobserved in the confusion attendant upon calling the doctor and the police— I was motivated by mere curiosity.
That curiosity grew when I chanced to overhear a remark at the inquest regarding the disappearance of the glasses. The widow, Olive Dean, spoke of her mother, and how; she had brought the glasses home with her upon the night of her tragic death.
Certain aspects of that poker game and Dean’s behavior had piqued my fancy. The statements at the inquest further intrigued me.
The legend, Veritas inscribed upon the bridge of the spectacles, was also interesting—
I shall not bore you with my researches. Amateur detection is a monotonous, albeit sometimes a rewarding procedure. Sufficient for me to say that I undertook a private inquiry which led me to a second-hand store and eventually to a partially-razed house on Edison Street. Research with the local historical society enabled me to ascertain that the spectacles had originally been the property of Dirk Van Prinn, he of unsavory repute. Legends of his interest in sorcery are common property and can be easily corroborated in any volume dealing with the early history of this city. I need not bother to underscore the obvious.
At any rate, my rather careful investigation bore fruit. I was able, taking certain liberties based upon circumstantial evidence, to "reconstruct” the thoughts and actions of the various persons who had inadvertently worn the spectacles since the time of their discovery in the secret drawer of old Dirk Van Prinn's escritoire.
These thoughts and actions have formed the basis of this narrative, in which I took the liberty of assuming the characters of Mr. Joseph Henshaw, Mrs, Miriam Spencer Olcott, and Mr. Percy Dean—all deceased.
Unfortunately, a final chapter remains to be written. I had no idea that it would be necessary at the time I opened my investigation. Had. I suspected, I would have desisted immediately. For I knew, as Dirk Von Prinn knew when he shut the spectacles away in that drawer, that they were objects accursed; that his heritage of wisdom from his ancestor, the infamous Ludwig Prinn, was evil wisdom; that the lenses were, ground, almost literally, in Hell.
Yes, I knew that the truth is not meant for men to see; that knowledge of the thoughts of others leads only to madness and destruction.
I mused upon the triteness and the obviousness of this moral, and not for anything in the world would I have emulated poor Joe Henshaw, or Mrs. Olcott, or Percy Dean, and put on the spectacles to gaze at other men and other minds.
But pride goeth before a fall. And as I wrote of the tragic fate of these poor fools whose search for wisdom ended in disaster, I could not help but reflect upon the actual purpose for which these singular spectacles had been created.
"Veritas.”
The truth.
The truth about others brought evil consequences.
But—the truth about one’s self?
"Know thyself."
Could it be that this was the secret purpose of the spectacles? To enable the wearer to look inward?
Surely there could be no harm in that. Not in the hands of an intelligent man.
I fancied that I "knew” myself in the ordinary sense of the word; was perhaps more aware, through natural predeliction and introspection, than most men, of my inherent nature.
I fancied. I mused. I believed.
But I had to know.
Yes, I had to know.
And that is why I put them on, just now. Put them on and stared at myself in the hall mirror.
I stared at myself. And I saw myself. And I knew myself. Completely and utterly.
There are things about subliminal intelligence, about the so-called "subconscious,” which psychiatry and psychology long to discover. I know these things, now, but I shall never speak. And I know a great deal more.
I know that the actual agony undergone by Henshaw and Mrs. Olcott and Percy Dean in reading the minds of others is as nothing compared to that which is born of reading one’s own mind.
