DEATH IN THE CARDS
“EXCUSE me, gentlemen,” remarked Charles Blefken, rising from the bridge table. “Being the dummy this hand, I beg the privilege of finding out why that long-distance call from my wife has been delayed.”
The other three men laughed. The subject of the long-distance call had been discussed between hands during the evening. All the visitors were close friends of Charles Blefken.
One was Winthrop Morgan, another lawyer. James Rossiter was a physician. Felton Carew, the last of the group, was a gentleman of leisure — a wealthy clubman whose ability as a bridge player made him a welcome addition to any table.
“Charley’s been a bit restless all evening,” observed Morgan, when Blefken had left the room. “Hasn’t been playing as good a game as usual.”
“Worried about his wife,” said Rossiter. “She’s out in Cleveland. She hasn’t been well, you know.”
“Your lead, Rossiter,” said Carew.
Charles Blefken had crossed the hall between the cardroom and the lounge. There was a dim light showing through the open door of the latter room. Blefken entered and spoke in a soft whisper.
“All set, Joe?” he asked.
A grunt came from behind a massive chair set in the corner. Joe Cardona was hiding there, wondering why he had bothered to come on this mission.