"Come on," he said impatiently. "Let's get going."
Tracy still held the book in one hand, and a glance at it, as he slid the volume in his pocket, told him that Page 12 was still trumps. He took a deep breath and sat down opposite Donn. Hell, he'd play the game to the limit now. He had no doubt at all but that Barney Donn, like Amduscias, was bluffing.
"I'm raising," he said. "But you'll have to take a check."
"Sure," Donn nodded. His eyes widened at sight of the amount. "Wait a minute, Tracy. This game's for cash. Checks are O.K.-if you've got the money to cover them."
"I've got it," Tracy lied. "I'm in the chips, Barney. Didn't I tell you?"
"Hm-m-m. It'll be unfortunate if you can't pay."
Tracy said, "The hell with it," and took more of the blue chips. Hatton's eyes widened. This was big money.
Donn raised.
Tracy did the same.
Donn said, "Mind taking my IOU?"
"Not a bit."
The stakes mounted till Hatton got dizzy. In the end, Tracy called and Donn laid down. The reporter had two kings and three queens. Donn had a royal flush-almost. He had drawn to fill the flush, but hadn't made it.
He had been bluffing.
Tracy said, "You're lucky at stud, Barney, but I guess draw poker's my game."
Donn grinned. "I like excitement. Give me a pen, somebody." He wrote a check. "Money's easy for me to make. So I figure I have to pay out to make it come in. Here you are, Sam."
"Thanks." Tracy took the check and collected his own scrip. He shook hands with Donn and led the dazed Hatton from the room.
In the lobby the photographer woke up sufficiently to say, "Hey! I forgot to snap the pictures."
"Let it wait," Tracy advised. "I want to get to the bank before it closes."
"Yeah. I should think so. How much did you take Donn for?"
"Not quite enough," Tracy said, scowling. The check was in five figures, but what the hell! Five figures, with the magic book in his possession, were peanuts. He had muffled a chance by aiming too low. And now there were only six chances left.
Maybe only five! Those two crises might have counted individually. Damn again. If he used up all his chances, and Meg still survived, it would be just too bad. Somehow, he had to get rid of the familiar. But how?
How could he maneuver her into a situation where the book would tell him how to destroy Meg? The enchanted volume told him only how to protect himself.
Ergo-a situation where only Meg's destruction would save his own life. That was what was needed.
"Just like that," Tracy grunted, his long strides carrying him toward the bank. Halfway there he changed his mind and hailed a taxi. "Sorry, Hatton. I thought of something important. See you later."
"Sure." The photographer stood on the curb, looking after the cab. "What a man! Maybe he don't care about money-I dunno. I only wish I had my pink little paws on some of that dough!"
Tracy went to his broker's office, asked astute questions, and watched the ticker. He was playing for high stakes, and was willing, now, to take somewhat more than a gambler's risk. He put his entire fortune on AGM Consolidated, though he had to argue briefly with the broker.
"Mr. Tracy! AGM? It's-Look! Four points while we've been talking. The bottom's dropping out of it."
"Buy it, please. All you can. On margin."
"Margin? Mr. Tracy-Look, have you got some inside tip?"
"Buy it, please."
"But-look at that ticker!"
"Go ahead and buy it."
"Well, all right. It's your funeral."
"Right," Tracy said, with every appearance of satisfaction. "It's my funeral. Looks like I'll be flat broke in a day or so."
"I'll be asking you for more margin by morning."
Tracy retired and watched AGM drop steadily. It was, as he well knew, one of the most worthless stocks in existence, and the bottom had dropped out of it only a day or so after the company's formation. He was on a toboggan rushing rapidly down to pauperism.
He took the book from his pocket and stared at it. There was a new numeral on the cover. That meant a new crisis, which he himself had precipitated. Swell!
Page 2 said: "A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet."
Tracy's eyes widened. He looked down at the deep-napped claret carpet. Five stories down with the substrata of Los Angeles, oil? Here?
Impossible. In the Kettleman Hills, out at San Pedro-anywhere but in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. There couldn't be oil in this ground. If, by any fantastic chance, there was, it was manifestly useless to Tracy. He couldn't buy the land and sink a well.
But the book said, "A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet."
Tracy stood up hesitantly. He nodded at the broker and went out to the elevator. A small bribe enabled him to visit the basement, which was of no help whatsoever. The janitor, in answer to guarded questions, said that the Hill Street subway ran under the building.
Tracy came out and stood in the lobby, chewing his lip, conscious that his money was rapidly being dissipated in the worthless AGM Consolidated. The book couldn't be wrong. It gave the answer to every human problem.
His eyes fell on the building directory. His broker's office was 501.
"Beneath your feet." Oh-oh! The book might be very literal indeed. What was in Office 401?
A photographic supply company-but 301 gave the right answer. Pan-Argyle Oil, Ltd.
Tracy paused long enough to check 201 and 101, but his original guess had been accurate. He didn't wait for the elevator. He ran up the stairs and burst gasping into the broker's office.
"Mr. Tracy!" the man greeted him. "I'm still buying, but this is crazy. You'd better get out while the getting's good."
"I will-but tell me just one thing. Is Pan-Argyle Oil on the board?"
"Uh-yes. Nothing bid, three asked. But that's as bad as AGM. Pan-Argyle's a cheap wildcat outfit-"
"Never mind," Tracy snapped. "Sell AGM and buy all the Pan-Argyle you can get your hands on. Margin!"
The broker threw up his hands and reached for the telephone. Tracy examined the book. The numeral was gone.
And that left four chances. Maybe five-five at most. He'd play safe. Say, four chances to outwit Meg and get rid of her permanently. Then-if this oil deal worked out as he expected-he could sit back and relax.
He headed for a bar and toasted himself silently. Then he toasted the book. A handy little volume! If Napoleon had possessed it, there'd never have been a Waterloo-provided the chances had been used wisely. The point was, apparently, to play for big stakes.
Tracy grinned. The next step-Meg. As for security, what was he worrying about? With sufficient money, he'd have security enough. As much as any man could. The powers of the book were limited, obviously; they couldn't change a man into a god. Only the gods were completely happy-if, indeed, they were.
But a fortune would be enough. Perhaps he'd go to South America-Buenos Aires, or Rio. Travel was restricted, in these days. Necessarily. Just the same, he could enjoy himself there, and there would be no difficulty with the law, in case his blackmailing proclivities were ever raked up. Extradition is difficult when a man has enough money.
A shadow flashed past his eyes, and he turned in time to see the tail of a cat vanish out the door. He caught his breath and grinned. Nerves.
But, unmistakably, the warmth of the book made itself felt against his side.
Very slowly Tracy took it out.
Page 44.
"Poison?"
Tracy looked thoughtfully at the whiskey sour before him. He beckoned to the bartender.
"Yes, sir?"
"Was there a cat in here a minute ago?"
"A cat? I didn't see any-no, sir."
A little man sitting near Tracy turned his head. "I saw it. It came over and jumped up on the bar. Sniffed at your drink, but it didn't touch it. Guess cats don't like whiskey." He giggled.