He broke the other pack across the baize with a vicious jerk of his hand that was as eloquent as a movement could be.
"Straight poker — with the joker wild. Let's go."
To Simon Templar the game had the same dizzy unreality that it would have had if he had been supernaturally endowed with a genuine gift of clairvoyance. He knew the value of every card as it was dealt, knew what was in his own hand before he picked it up. Even though there was nothing mysterious about it, the effect of the glasses he was wearing gave him a sensation of weirdness that was too instinctive to overcome. It was mechanically childish, and yet it was an unforgettable experience. When he was out of the game, watching the others bet against each other, it was like being a cat watching two blind men looking for each other in the dark.
For nearly an hour, curiously enough, the play was fairly even: when he counted his chips he had only a couple of hundred dollars more than when he started. Mercer, throwing in his hand whenever the Saint warned him by a pressure of his foot under the table that the opposition was too strong, had done slightly better; but there was nothing sensational in their advantage. Even Mr. Naskill's magic lenses had no influence over the run of the cards, and the luck of the deals slightly favoured Yoring and Kilgarry. The Saint's clairvoyant knowledge saved him from making any disastrous errors, but now and again he had to bet out a hopeless hand to avoid giving too crude an impression of infallibility.
He played a steadily aggressive game, waiting patiently for the change that he knew must come as soon as the basis of the play had had time to settle down and establish itself. His nerves were cool and serene, and he smiled often with an air of faint amusement; but something inside him was poised and gathered like a panther crouched for a spring.
Presently Kilgarry called Mercer on the third raise and lost a small jackpot to three nines. Mercer scowled as he stacked the handful of chips.
"Hell, what's the matter with this game?" he protested. "This isn't the way we usually play. Let's get some life into it."
"It does seem a bit slow," Simon agreed. "How about raising the ante?"
"Make it a hundred dollars," Mercer said sharply. "I'm getting tired of this. Just because my luck's changed we don't have to start playing for peanuts."
Simon drew his cigarette to a bright glow.
"It suits me."
Yoring plucked at his lower lip with fingers that were still shaky.
"I dunno, ole man—"
"Okay." Kilgarry pushed out two fifty-dollar chips with a kind of fierce restraint. "I'll play for a hundred."
He had been playing all the time with grim concentration, his shoulders hunched as if he had to give some outlet to a seethe of violence in his muscles, his jaw thrust out and tightly clamped; and as the time went by he seemed to have been regaining confidence. "Maybe the game is on the level," was the idea expressed by every line of his body, "but I can still take a couple of mugs like this in any game."
He said, almost with a resumption of his former heartiness:
"Are you staying long, Mr. Templar?"
"I expect I'll be here for quite a while."
"That's fine! Then after Mr. Yoring's got some new glasses we might have a better game."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said the Saint amiably.
He was holding two pairs. He took a card, and still had two pairs. Kilgarry stood pat on three kings. Mercer drew three cards to a pair, and was no better off afterwards. Yoring took two cards and filled a flush.
"One hundred," said Yoring nervously.
Mercer hesitated, threw in his hand.
"And two hundred," snapped Kilgarry.
"And five," said the Saint.
Yoring looked at them blearily. He took a long time to make up his mind. And then, with a sigh, he pushed his hand into the discard.
"See you," said Kilgarry.
With a wry grin, the Saint faced his hand. Kilgarry grinned also, with a sudden triumph, and faced his.
Yoring made a noise like a faint groan.
"Fix us another drink, Eddie," he said huskily.
He took the next pack and shuffled it clumsily. His fingers were like sausages strung together. Kilgarry's mouth opened on one side and he nudged the Saint as he made the cut.
"Lost his nerve," he said. "See what happens when they get old."
"Who's old?" said Mr. Yoring plaintively. "There ain't more 'n three years—"
"But you've got old ideas," Kilgarry jeered. "You could have beaten both of us."
"You never had to wear glasses—"
"Who said you wanted glasses to play poker? It isn't always the cards that win."
Kilgarry was smiling, but his eyes were almost glaring at Yoring as he spoke. Yoring avoided his gaze guiltily and squinted at the hand he had dealt himself. It contained the six, seven, eight and nine of diamonds, and the queen of spades. Simon held two pairs again but the card he drew made it a full house. He watched while Yoring discarded the queen of spades and felt again that sensation of supernatural omniscience as he saw that the top card of the pack, the card Yoring had to take, was the ten of hearts.
Yoring took it, fumbled his hand to the edge of the table, and turned up the corners to peep at them. For a second he sat quite still, with only his mouth working. And then, as if the accumulation of all his misfortunes had at last stung him to a wild and fearful reaction like the turning of a worm, a change seemed to come over him. He let the cards flatten out again with a defiant click and drew himself up. He began to count off hundred-dollar chips.
Mercer, with only a pair of sevens, bluffed recklessly for two rounds before he fell out in response to the Saint's kick under the table.
There were five thousand dollars in the pool before Kilgarry, with a straight, shrugged surrenderingly and dropped his hand in the discard.
The Saint counted two stacks of chips and pushed them in.
"Make it another two grand," he said.
Yoring looked at him waveringly. Then he pushed in two stacks of his own.
"There's your two grand." He counted the chips he had left, swept them with a sudden splash into the pile. "And twenty-nine hundred more," he said.
Simon had twelve hundred left in chips. He pushed them in, opened his wallet and added crisp new bills.
"Making three thousand more than that for you to see me," he said coolly.
Mercer sucked in his breath and whispered: "Oh boy!"
Kilgarry said nothing, hunching tensely over the table.
Yoring blinked at him.
"Len' me some chips, old man."
"Do you know what you're doing?" Kilgarry asked in a harsh strained voice.
Yoring picked up his glass and half emptied it. His hand wobbled so that some of it ran down his chin.
"I know," he snapped.
He reached out and raked Kilgarry's chips into the pile.
"Eighteen hunnerd," he said. "I gotta buy some more. I'll write you a check—"
Simon shook his head.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm playing table stakes. We agreed on that when we started."
Yoring peered at him.
"You meanin' something insultin' about my check?"
"I don't mean that," Simon replied evenly. "It's just a matter of principle. I believe in sticking to the rules. I'll play you a credit game some other time. Tonight we're putting it on the line."
He made a slight gesture towards the cigar box where they had each deposited five thousand-dollar bills when they bought their chips.
"Now look here," Kilgarry began menacingly.
The Saint's clear blue eyes met his with sapphire smoothness.
"I said cash, brother. Is that clear?"
Yoring groped through his pockets. One by one he untangled crumpled bills from various hiding places until he had built his bet up to thirty-two hundred and fifty dollars. Then he glared at Kilgarry.