“If you’ll give me your car keys,” Nick said, “I’ll get your luggage.”
“The keys are in the car,” Johnny replied, “and the luggage consists of one second-hand suitcase. But don’t let that bother you.” He reached into his pocket and brought out the roll of bills he had won at Harry’s Club. He skimmed off one of the few small bills on the outside, a ten spot.
Nick’s eyes glowed. “You want me to get some change?”
“About nine dollars and ninety cents,” Sam Cragg snapped.
Johnny smiled. “Sam’s a comic. The bill’s yours, Nick, and if you’re a good boy you can make yourself another.”
“Oh, no,” said Nick, “I can’t. It’s against the law in Nevada.”
“Taking tips?”
“No — murder.”
“Who said anything about murder?”
“You said twenty bucks...”
“Sit down, Nick. I’m Johnny Fletcher, and this is Sam Cragg, the strongest man in the world. I want to ask you a couple of questions. Maybe you know the answers and maybe you don’t.”
“If I don’t I’ll find someone who does, Mr. Fletcher.”
“That’s the stuff, Nick. By the way, what’s your last name?”
“Nick Bleek. Silly name, ain’t it?”
“A man can’t help his name, Nick. Now, look, do you know a place in town that uses checks like this...?” Johnny took the purple check from his pocket and handed it to Nick. The bellboy turned it over in his hand.
“Yeah, sure, we used to use these here...”
“What!”
“They called them in about a month ago; now we use yellow ones.”
“I showed this to Bishop at the desk early this morning, asked him if they used them here. He said no...”
Nick grinned. “Well, we don’t — now. But we did up to three-four weeks ago. You understand, of course, that if all the checks aren’t turned in, the house is just so much ahead. But I’ll get the money for this check.”
“Maybe later. I’ll keep it for a while. Now, Nick, who’s a little lady staying here, a blonde, about twenty, twenty-one, who looks like Lana Turner, only more so...”
“Well, that’s hard to say. There’s a lot of good lookin’ babies stayin’ here. Personally, I like brunettes...”
“...She goes horseback riding before sunrise.”
“Oh, that’s Jane Langford — Mrs. Langford.” He pointed to the west wall. “Number 12...”
“Right next door!” Johnny peeled off the second ten dollar bill. “You’ve almost earned your money, Nick.” Johnny drew a deep breath and looked closely at Nick. “Who’s Nick?”
Nick’s eyes remained blank. “My name’s Nick.”
“I know, but I don’t think you’re the Nick I mean...”
“What’s his last name?”
“That’s the thing I don’t know. But a friend of mine over in California, told me to look up Nick, in Las Vegas...”
“And no last name? Gosh, there must be fifty Nicks in this burg. The second cook is named Nick. And so’s one of the dealers... Nick Fenton...”
“What does he deal?”
“Blackjack. The second table from the front. Short, dark-haired fella, ’bout forty. I think he’s on now...”
“I’ll run over in a little while. Well, thanks, Nick.”
“Anything else I can do...”
“...I’ll call for you!”
The bellboy left the room and Johnny sat down on one of the beds. “Boy, I could rip off about eighteen hours’ sleep...”
Sam Cragg came over and looked down at Johnny. “After this, I’m not going to say any more, Johnny...”
“...You’re going to play detective again...”
“Okay, don’t...”
“Because I asked about Nick?”
“Yes. This Nick, whoever he is, can get along without an old pack of playing cards...”
“You forget the twenty-five dollar check.”
“I’m not forgetting it, Johnny. And I’m not forgetting the blonde—”
“Mrs. Langford?”
“I’ve been through this before with you, Johnny. You’re a sucker for murders and blondes; put them together and I’m a cinch to get the hell beat out of me or wind up in the clink.”
“You haven’t had any exercise lately,” Johnny said, “and as for the couple of times you’ve landed in the hoosegow — I’ve always gotten you out, haven’t I?”
“There’s always a first time to miss,” Sam retorted gloomily. He threw himself down on the second bed. Johnny went into the bathroom and washed his face and hands. When he returned to the bedroom, Sam was snoring.
Shaking his head, Johnny left the room. Just outside he met the bellboy, carrying the suitcase and an armful of books.
“Cragg’s sleeping,” Johnny cautioned. “Take the stuff inside, but don’t make any noise.”
“Okay, Mr. Fletcher,” replied Nick. “And Fenton’s at his table — I just checked.”
“Thanks.”
Johnny went into the casino. Being still early there were only forty or fifty patrons in the room and the majority of these were about a crap table.
Chapter Six
Johnny strolled to the blackjack tables, of which there were five. They were high, felt-covered tables, shaped somewhat like the cabanas — semicircular, with the dealer on the inside. Nick Fenton was in his shirt sleeves. He was a rather short, smooth-looking chap in his late thirties.
He was leaning against his table, as he was without players at the moment. Johnny seated himself on a high stool.
“Hello, Nick.”
The dealer nodded acknowledgment and picked up a pack of cards. He riffled them three times about as smoothly as Johnny had ever seen cards riffled. Then he plunked down the deck for a cut and the dealer whisked the top card to the bottom, face up, so that he would know when he reached the end of the pack.
Johnny got out his roll of bills. “What’s the limit?”
“Hundred. Pay one and a half for blackjack.”
Johnny eased a hundred dollar bill out of his roll. He put it on the table. Nick whisked the ball away, stuck it into the slot and shoved it down into the box under the table, with the wooden plunger provided for that purpose. He placed four yellow chips in front of Johnny. Johnny let them remain.
Nick looked at him inquiringly. “The hundred?”
“Why not?”
Nick dealt Johnny a card, gave one to himself, then another to Johnny and a second turned face up to himself. It was a six. Johnny looked at his cards, found they were a king and an eight. He placed his chips on them. The dealer turned up his hole card, revealing a jack. He hit quickly — got an eight and broke.
“Always hit sixteen?” Johnny asked.
The dealer nodded. “We hit sixteen and stay on seventeen.” He scooped four yellow chips from his rack and placed them beside Johnny’s. Johnny drew back one of the stacks.
The dealer dealt out the cards again, turning up a nine for his second card. “Do I know you?” he asked suddenly.
“You called me by name... and I always remember the hundred dollar players... I don’t remember you.”
“I’m Johnny Fletcher. You’re Nick Fenton, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but damned if I can remember you...”
Johnny peeked at his cards, turned them up. “Blackjack.”
Nick put six chips beside Johnny’s four, scooped up the discards. Johnny reached into his pocket, brought out the purple check and placed it on the table. Nick shook his head. “You’ll have to turn that in to the cashier.”
“I’m keeping it for a lucky piece. Fellow gave it to me... over in California... Death Valley.”
“That so?” Nick’s tone was merely polite. He dealt the cards again, gave Johnny twenty and himself seventeen. Then Johnny turned up a second blackjack.