I rang Ambrose’s widow, asking for a wartime photograph of her husband, and I gave her your address, telling her you are an archivist working for the Imperial War Museum. You should hear from her soon; and when you do you’ll be as near as anyone is ever likely to be to knowing the truth about this curious affair.
It was two days later that a still-pyjamaed Wise took delivery of a stiff white envelope, in which he found a brief note, together with a photograph of a young man in army uniform — a photograph in which no attempt had been made to turn the left-hand side of the sitter’s face away from the honesty of the camera lens, or to retouch the line of a cruel scar that stretched across the face’s lower jaw. And as Philip Wise looked down at the photograph he saw staring back at him the familiar, faithless eyes of Dodo Whitaker.
At the Lulu-Bar Motel
“I am sorry I have not learnt to play at cards. It is very useful in life.”
(Samuel Johnson, as reported by Boswell in Tour to the Hebrides)
I shall never be able to forget what Louis said — chiefly, no doubt, because he said it so often, a cynical smile slowly softening that calculating old mouth of his: “People are so gullible!” — that’s what he kept on saying, our Louis. And I’ve used those selfsame words a thousand times myself — used them again last night to this fat-walleted coach-load of mine as they debussed at the Lulu-Bar Motel before tucking their starched napkins over their legs and starting into one of Louis’s five-star four-coursers, with all the wines and a final slim liqueur. Yes, people are so gullible... Not quite all of them (make no mistake!) — and please don’t misunderstand me. This particular manifestation of our human frailty is of only marginal concern to me personally, since occasionally I cut a thinnish slice of that great cake for myself — as I did just before I unloaded those matching sets of leather cases and hulked them round the motel corridors.
But let’s get the chronology correct. All that hulking around comes right after we’ve pulled into the motel where — as always — I turn to all the good people (the black briefcase tight under my right arm) and tell them we’re here, folks; here for the first-night stop on a wunnerful tour, which every single one o’ you is goin’ to enjoy real great. From tomorrow — and I’m really sorry about this, folks — you won’t have me personally lookin’ after you anymore; but that’s how the operation operates. I’m just the first-leg man myself, and someone else’ll have the real privilege of drivin’ you out on the second leg post-breakfast. Tonight itself, though, I’ll be hangin’ around the cocktail bar (got that?), and if you’ve any problems about... well, about anything, you just come along and talk to me, and we’ll sort things out real easy. One thing, folks. Just one small friendly word o’ counsel to you all. There’s one or two guys around these parts who are about as quick an’ as slick an’ as smooth as a well-soaped ferret. Now, the last thing I’d ever try to do is stop you enjoyin’ your vaycaytions, and maybe one or two of you could fancy your chances with a deck o’ cards against the deadliest dealer from here to Detroit. But... well, as I say, just a friendly word o’ counsel, folks. Which is this: some people are so gullible! — and I just wouldn’t like it if any o’ you — well, as I say, I just wouldn’t like it.
That’s the way I usually dress it up, and not a bad little dressing up at that, as I think you’ll agree. “OK” (do I hear you say?) “if some of them want to transfer their savings to someone else’s account — so what? You can’t live other folks’ lives for them, now can you? You did your best, Danny boy. So forget it!” Which all makes good logical sense, as I know. But they still worry me a little — all those warm-hearted, clean-living folk, because — well, simply because they’re so gullible. And if you don’t relish reading about such pleasant folk who plop like juicy pears into the pockets of sharp-fingered charlatans — well, you’re not going to like this story. You’re not going to like it one little bit.
Most of them were in their sixties or early seventies (no children on the Luxi-Coach Package Tours), and as they filed past the old driving cushion they slipped me a few bucks each and thanked me for a real nice way to start a vaycaytion. After that it took a couple of hours to hump all that baggage around the rooms, and it was half-past eight before I got down to some of Lucy’s chicken curry. Lucy? She’s a honey of a girl — the sort of big-breasted blonde that most of my fellow sinners; would willingly seek to seduce and, to be honest with you... But let me return to the theme.
The cocktail bar is a flashily furnished, polychrome affair, with deep, full-patterned carpet, orange imitation-leather seats, and soft wall-lighting in a low, pink glow; and by about half-past nine the place was beginning to fill up nicely. Quite a few of them I recognized from the coach: but there were others. Oh yes, there were a few others...
He wasn’t a big fellow — five-six, five-seven — and he wore a loud check suit just like they used to do in the movies. When I walked in he was standing by the bar, a deck of cards shuttling magically from hand to hand. “Fancy a game, folks? Luke’s the name.” He was pleasant enough, I suppose, in an ugly sort of way; and with his white teeth glinting in a broad-mouthed smile, you could almost stop disliking him. Sometimes.
It was just before ten when he got his first bite — a stocky, middle-aged fellow who looked as if he could take pretty good care of himself, thank you. So. So, I watched them idly as they sat opposite each other at one of the smooth-topped central tables, and it wasn’t long before a few others began watching, too. It was a bit of interest — a bit of an incident. And it wasn’t their money at stake.
Now Lukey loved one game above all others, and I’ll have to bare its bones a bit if you’re going to follow the story. (Be patient, please: we’re running along quite nicely now.) First, it’s a dollar stake in the kitty, all right? Then two cards are dealt to each of the players, the court cards counting ten, the ace eleven, and all the other cards living up to their marked face-value. Thus it follows, as day follows night and as luck follows Luke, that the gods are grinning at you if you pick up a ten and an ace — for that is vingt-et-un, my friends, whether you reckon by Fahrenheit or Centigrade, and twenty-one’s the best they come. And so long as you remember not to break that twenty-one-mile speed limit, you can buy as many more cards as you like and... but I don’t think you’re going to have much trouble in following things.
It was the speed with which hand followed hand that surprised all the on-lookers, since our challenger (“Call me Bart”) was clearly no stranger to the Lukesberry rules and five or six hands were through every minute. Slap! A dollar bill in the kitty. Slap! A dollar bill on top. Flick, flick; flick, flick; buy; stick; bust. Dollar, dollar; flick, flick; quicker, ever quicker. Soon I’m standing behind Barty and I can see his cards. He picks up a ten, and a four; and without mulling it over for a micro-second he says, “Stick.” Then Lukey turns over a seven, and an eight — and then he flicks over another card for himself: a Jack. Over the top! And Barty pockets yet another kitty; and it’s back to that dollar-dollar, flick-flicking again. And when Bart wins again, Luke asks him nicely if he’d like to deal. But Bart declines the kind offer. “No,” he says. “I’m on a nice li’l winnin’ streak here, pal, so just you keep on dealing them pretty li’l beauties same as before — that’s all I ask.”