Killer Poker

Chapter 15





Thumbs hooked in his vest pockets, Hudson paced back and forth through a slanting rectangle of light that came in through his office window. “I don’t believe it. I simply don’t believe it. If there is any truth to the idea, then Pamela would have had to anticipate every move Conrad is making. She would have had to arrange more than a year ago to plant someone in my office, knowing Conrad would come to see me when his search brought him to Denver.”

He and Arturo had been hashing out the situation for long minutes, going over everything that had happened since Conrad’s arrival in Denver. Hudson was smart enough to see the possibilities, but he didn’t want to accept them.

“We’ve seen evidence in the past that the woman was diabolically cunning,” Arturo pointed out. “She left behind assassins in Boston to strike at Mr. Browning, and it’s certainly conceivable that she could have done the same here. There’s also the matter of her cousin Roger, who was deeply involved in her schemes. He was in St. Louis several months ago, not long before Miss Sullivan came to work for you. Perhaps he actually hired her, acting on the late Miss Tarleton’s suggestion.”

Hudson stopped his pacing and shook his head. “Diabolical is the word for Pamela, all right. The hell that she’s put Conrad through . . . He’s put a good face on it and seems to be in good spirits, but the knowledge that his children are out there somewhere must be tormenting him every hour of the day and night.”

“Just as Miss Tarleton wanted,” Arturo said softly.

“Yes.” Hudson took a deep breath and went on in a more business-like tone, “So what are we to make of Miss Sullivan? Is it really possible that she’s a hired killer?”

“I don’t think we can ignore the possibility. But if she is, she’ll have to bide her time and wait to strike. She can’t get at Mr. Browning while he’s engaged in that poker tournament.”

“Which gives us some time to investigate and find out one way or the other.” Hudson nodded. “I like that idea. I’ll try to find out more about her background.”

“And I’ll keep an eye on the lady herself,” Arturo decided. “Perhaps she’ll meet with her confederates, or attempt to recruit some new ones if she no longer has anyone to assist her.” He smiled. “After all, Mr. Browning has disposed of the first three men who tried to kill him since he got here.”

Hudson grimaced. “You say that like you think there’ll be more.”

“Don’t you?” Arturo asked in all seriousness.





As Bat Masterson had promised, after a couple hours a waiter rapped on the door of the room where Conrad was sleeping. Even though he was still tired, the break had refreshed him somewhat. He hauled himself out of the narrow bed. Washing up made him feel even better. By the time he got dressed and returned to the room where the tournament was taking place, he felt ready to go for hours.

A couple tables were empty as more players took their breaks, including the one where Rance McKinney had been playing. Conrad spotted Masterson, and went over to him. “McKinney didn’t get cleaned out, did he?”

Masterson shook his head. “No, he’s sleeping. Actually, I think he’s well up on the other players at his table.”

That was encouraging. Conrad was lagging behind both Bernard Church and Edgar Pennyworth at his table, but he was still well within striking distance.

Masterson was finally starting to look a little ragged around the edges. Conrad said, “You should probably get some rest yourself, Bat.”

Masterson nodded. “I intend to. Jack Barton’s going to relieve me in a bit.”

Conrad was vaguely acquainted with Barton, who had been a gambler, a deputy sheriff, and a Wells Fargo agent. He was a good man, tough and solid. He would keep the game running properly while Masterson was taking a break.

The other players had emerged from their rooms and drifted back to the table. Conrad joined them, and the game got underway again. The men had cups of coffee next to them to help keep them alert.

By late afternoon, Hal Roberts had dropped out, heaving a regretful sigh as he stood up and left the table. He mustered up a wish of good luck for the other men and went into the main room.

That left Conrad, Church, and Pennyworth. Conrad saw the look the other two men exchanged. They regarded each other as their only true competition and probably thought of him as just a rich, idle young man who was taking part in the tournament for the thrill of it.

Let them believe that, Conrad mused behind a faint smile.

He continued his calm, steady play. Church and Pennyworth paid little attention to him. He figured each man had decided his best strategy would be to dispose of the other, leaving only Conrad to beat to become the big winner of the first round.

The pots gradually rose in value. Conrad took one now and then, and the gap between his winnings and those of the other two players began to shrink. Church and Pennyworth didn’t seem to notice.

Suddenly, Pennyworth made his move. He had drawn Church into betting maybe more than he should have. Church had too much money in the pot to drop out. He wouldn’t have enough chips left to stay up with the other two players in the next hand. It was win or drop out for Church, so the dapper man had no choice but to shove in all the chips he had in front of him. Pennyworth called, and then, almost as an afterthought, so did Conrad.

“Three kings,” Church said as he laid his cards down.

Pennyworth gave an avuncular chuckle. “Not quite good enough, my friend. Full house, sevens over treys.” He leaned forward, his chubby hands reaching out to gather his winnings.

“Just a minute,” Conrad said. “I’m still in this hand.”

He placed his cards faceup on the table. Church and Pennyworth stared in shock at the three, four, five, six, and seven of clubs.

“Straight flush,” Church muttered. “You haven’t gotten a hand that good since this game started, Browning.”

Conrad shrugged. “Then I guess this was a good time for it.”

He reached out and raked the chips into a pile in front of him.

Church laughed. “Splendid. To tell you the truth, if I have to be cleaned out, I’d rather it was you who did it instead of this pompous blowhard.” He flicked a hand across the table toward Pennyworth.

“Pompous blowhard, is it?” the older man said with a scowl. “Let me remind you, I’m still in the game, Bernard. You’re not.”

Church pushed back his chair. “That’s true.” He grinned at Conrad as he stood up. “Good luck, kid,” he added, inadvertently calling Conrad by the name he had used much of the time during the past two years.

Pennyworth snorted contemptuously. “A break before we finish this off, Mr. Browning?”

Conrad nodded. “Fine by me.”

He stood up and stretched, then took out his pocket watch and flipped it open. Almost eight o’clock in the evening. More than twenty hours had passed since the tournament began, and not a single big winner had emerged yet, although most of the tables were down to two or three players. Table 2, where Rance McKinney was playing, had three men left, including the rancher.

Conrad hadn’t eaten much during the day. He’d been living mostly on coffee. There would be a chance to eat a good meal and get some real sleep once that round of the tournament was over.

Pennyworth was older, and the strain was taking a toll on him, too, though, he didn’t show it. He was the same amiable, grandfatherly figure he had been when the game started.

Bat Masterson had returned to the room a short time earlier, looking considerably refreshed. He strolled over to Conrad. “Down to just two of you, eh?”

“That’s right.”

Masterson lowered his voice. “It’s really not fair for me to say this, but watch out for Pennyworth, Conrad. He looks harmless, but he’s a sly old dog. I suppose you’ve figured that out for yourself by now.”

“I know he’s dangerous,” Conrad said with a nod.

“I wouldn’t have said anything, but . . . I know this game is about a lot more than money for you, amigo. I want this whole affair to turn out well for you.”

“Thanks, Bat. I appreciate that.” Conrad poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the table. “I guess we’d better get on with it.”

He took the coffee back to the table. Pennyworth joined him. With a disarming smile that didn’t disarm Conrad at all, the older man asked, “Are you ready, my young friend?”

“Ready,” Conrad said.

Pennyworth gestured magnanimously. “The deal is yours, I believe.”

Conrad shuffled and dealt a hand of standard draw poker, what they had been playing most of the time. He won the hand, but the pot was fairly small. Now that it was only the two of them, maybe Pennyworth planned on playing things close to the vest for a while.

Since only two of them were left, the importance of each hand was magnified. If either of them got reckless, the game might be over in a hurry.

During one of the breaks, Conrad noticed that McKinney’s table was down to only two players, the rancher and a burly man with a bald, bullet-shaped head. He didn’t look like he’d be much of a poker player, but obviously he was or he wouldn’t still be in the game. Conrad hoped McKinney would be able to finish him off and move on to the next round.

Before he and Pennyworth could resume their game, the bald man let out a loud oath and surged to his feet across the table from McKinney. “You son of a bitch!” he yelled as one of his ham-like hands swept up the chair where he’d been sitting. “You cleaned me out!”

With a roar of rage, he flung the chair straight at McKinney.