Rub-A-Dub-Dub by Fish Robert L.;

Author:Fish, Robert L.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

10

Mr. Clifford Simpson, dispatched by Sir Percival Pugh to the card room adjacent to the main salon in order to locate primary targets for their unfortunately necessary chicanery, returned in an inordinately short time, his long face even longer. Sir Percival frowned as he watched the thin man fold himself unhappily along one side of the wide chair and reach for the Corona he had left smoldering in an ash tray to one side.

“What’s the trouble?”

Simpson shook his head dejectedly. Freeing his friends was proving more of a problem than he had anticipated.

“The women are having something called a canasta tournament. No bridge today.”

“Oh?” Sir Percival was disappointed. The urge to put his knowledge of Burmese solitaire into use, while not overwhelming—since nothing exactly overwhelmed him—was still strong. “What’s canasta?”

“Some form of rummy as far as I could tell, just giving it a quick glance in passing,” Simpson said disconsolately. “I think it’s a Spanish game, or something. Something to do with baskets.”

Sir Percival was quite ready to agree with this.

“Yes. Only a basket would have blocked our bridge game today.” His one hand brought his glass to his lips; the fingers of the other hand, remarkably independent in operation, drummed the table in irritable restlessness at this hiatus in their schedule.

“Yes,” said Simpson, and sighed. He puffed his cigar a few moments, bringing it back to life, and then remembered something else. He tossed it in more to keep the conversation from flagging than for any other reason. “Can’t even get up a bridge game with the men.”

“No? Why? What are they playing? Squat tag?”

“No,” said Simpson. “They’re over in the other corner of the card room playing poker.”

Sir Percival, in the act of swallowing a bit of his champagne, coughed and sprayed a fair quantity in the general area. A waiter, eyeing him coldly, arrived and wiped about a bit with a towel, after which he removed himself, shaking his head. Sir Percival put aside his glass and stared at Simpson as if wondering how the doddering old idiot had ever managed to get through this vale of tears without a keeper well equipped with handkerchiefs.

“Poker?” he said sarcastically. “And you didn’t consider this fact important enough to mention earlier? Let’s go. Poker is even better for our purpose than bridge.”

“Except that I don’t play poker,” Simpson said sadly.

Sir Percival, who had been in the act of rising ready to trot down the deck to the card room, settled back again, reaching for his glass. He poured himself a fair dollop and looked up.

“Well,” he said, “fortunately, I do. And you will, in about five minutes, which is as long as it would take a three-year-old child, not unduly retarded, to learn the game. Knowing the cards as well as we do, I should judge a two year old could handle the job after a bad head injury.” He leaned forward, concentrating on his tutoring task. “The game is played by any number up to seven, generally, although

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