The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 18

Diokadu left, the now-familiar sheaf of papers tucked under his left arm, his right hand hitching up the folds of his ordona. Jenaro remained seated.

“You busy tonight?” he asked.

Shartelle looked at me. “I’m free,” I said.

“We’re two short at our poker school. You care to join us? It’s at my place.”

“I don’t know about Pete here, but I reckon I could stand a lesson.”

“It’s not that kind of a school, Clint,” I said. “It’s just what the British call a regular game.”

“That a fact? How much you play for, Jimmy?”

“Pot limit.”

“Man could get hurt in a game like that. What time’s it start?”

“Nine.”

“Pete?”

“I’ll play.”

“You take checks?”

“Sure,” Jenaro said.

“Who else is playing?”

“Me. A couple of Permanent Secretaries — British. And Ian Duncan, the ADC to Blackwelder. You met him. He married money, by the way, and plays a little wild.”

“No wild games, though?”

“No. Just five-card stud and draw.”

“Sounds like a most intelligent and relaxing way to spend an evening. We’ll be there at nine.”

Jenaro’s house was about a mile from us, a two-story affair with a three-car garage that housed his Jaguar, a new Ford station wagon, and a sedate Rover sedan. He met us at the door and introduced us to his wife — a young, pretty Albertian with an almost fair complexion and an impeccable British accent. She wore slacks and a sweater made out of some minor miracle fabric. Jenaro called her “Mamma” and introduced us to five of six children who, he said, were all his.

Servants bustled about getting us drinks and Mrs. Jenaro and Shartelle chatted about nothing in particular. Ian Duncan was the next to arrive, followed closely by a thin, redheaded man called William Hardcastle who was Permanent Secretary for the Ministry of Economic Development. Last to arrive was the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Home Affairs, Bryant Carpenter, who looked a little like Anthony Eden. Mrs. Jenaro saw that we all had drinks, then excused herself and herded the children to bed.

“Who wants to play poker?” Jenaro asked.

We followed him into a room that seemed to be furnished for nothing else. There was a seven-sided table covered with green baize that had shallow, wedge-shaped compartments where you could stack your chips. A green-shaded, Soo-watt lamp hung from the ceiling. Comfortable-looking chairs with arm rests were waiting for the gamblers. The only other furniture in the room was a sideboard that held ice, liquor, beer, glasses, and soda. There was also an air-conditioner that had brought the temperature down to around seventy. It looked like a place where a lot of money could be won or lost.

Jenaro brought out the chips and tossed six packs of Bicycles on the table. We all took seats. I found myself between Hardcastle and Carpenter. Shartelle was between Jenaro and Duncan.

“For the benefit of our American cousins,” Jenaro said, “I’ll repeat the rules. It’s dealer’s choice as long as you play five-card stud or draw. Pot limit with four raises. No wild cards, no joker. You mix your own drinks.”

He ripped open a pack of cards, shuffled, and fanned them out on the table. “Draw for deal.” While we drew he passed each of us a stack of blue, red and white chips. “Everybody starts with fifty pounds. The whites are a shilling, the reds are ten bob, and the blues are a pound.” He drew his card and turned it over. It was the nine of hearts. Ian Duncan won the deal with a queen of diamonds.

“Draw,” Duncan said. I watched him shuffle. He did it competently enough, but without flair. He was no mechanic.

“Jacks or better?” Shartelle asked.

“Jacks or better,” Duncan agreed.

“Those rules you spelled out were plain as sin, Jimmy,” Shartelle said, “but there’s one thing else I’d like to ask. I was just wondering if you all look kindly on check and raise? Some folks’ feelings get hurt when it’s used in a friendly game.”

“Check and raise is the norm, Mr. Shartelle,” Carpenter said drily. “It was introduced, I should add, by Chief Jenaro who described it as a basic American custom.”

“It’s just nice to see that some of the more civilized aspects of our culture are being adopted in foreign lands, Mr. Carpenter.”

I looked at my cards. I had drawn a pair of nines. Hard-castle opened for ten shillings and I stayed. So did everybody else. I drew three cards. Shartelle drew one; Jenaro, two; Hardcastle, one; Duncan, three, and Carpenter, three. I looked at mine. I had improved to two pairs — nines and fives.

Hardcastle bet a pound. I called. Carpenter folded. Jenaro saw the pound and Shartelle raised five pounds. Duncan folded. Hardcastle looked at Shartelle. “The raise from the one-card draw. I’ll only call.”

I folded. Jenaro tossed his hand into the discards. Shartelle said: “Jack-high straight” and laid out his cards.

Hardcastle shrugged and displayed two queens. “Openers,” he said.

It went much like that for two hours. I won five good pots and managed to stay even. Shartelle was the big winner. He played smart, cold poker. Jenaro was good, but tended towards flashiness. Duncan played hunches and was down fifty pounds. Hardcastle and Carpenter were erratic players, sometimes lucking out. I decided it was only a matter of time before they were caught.

We took a break at eleven and Jenaro’s steward served sandwiches. I drank a bottle of beer with mine.

“How do you predict the election, Mr. Shartelle?” Hard-castle asked through a mouthful of roast beef and bread.

“Looks better and better. But since you’re in the Ministry of Home Affairs, I’d say you’d be in a much better position to judge than me.”

“We just look after the police, the firemen, the post office, and government printing, plus a few other odd jobs. We let chaps like you and Jimmy here look to the politics.”

“Are you leaving before or after independence?” Duncan asked Hardcastle.

“I’m here another six months. The Minister has demanded that I stay on for at least that long. He says I’m the only one who understands the blessed postal system. Of course, he’s wrong. I have young Obaji coming along nicely. He should be more than well-suited by then. Very intelligent fellow.”

“They run their Ministries much better than they play poker, Clint,” Jenaro said.

“How long have we been playing together?” Carpenter asked.

“Five years now — at least I’ve been in the school that long,” Duncan said. “And I’ve lost a pile, too, I don’t mind saying.”

“Upshaw,” Hardcastle said, “d’you find it rather strange business, hopping into a country like this, sizing up the political situation, and then trying to change it or influence it, overnight, so to speak?”

“It’s different,” I said. “But it seems to be a growing industry. In England or the States a candidate won’t blow his nose in public until he’s consulted his public relations counselor.”

“Do you actually believe that public relations is a business?”

“Sure. I know it is.”

“But is it a profession?”

“Like a doctor or lawyer or certified public accountant?”

“Quite.”

“No. I’d say it was a calling — just like the lay ministry. You don’t need any special training or education, you just get the call, announce you’re a public relations expert, whatever that is, and you’re in business.”

“That sounds suspiciously as if you’d like to see some sort of licensing regulation,” Duncan said.

“Not at all. To be a real success in public relations, you have to be half charlatan and half messiah. The same qualifications make a good teacher or a good Member of Parliament or U.S. Senator. In fact, you can go a long way in just about anything with those qualifications. Look at Shartelle, for example.”

“You’re not in public relations, are you, Shartelle?” Carpenter asked.

“No, sir, I’m not. I’m just a man who dabbles in politics because it’s a pleasant way to make a living without having to carry a briefcase full of papers home every night. And you don’t have to catch the 8:22 or 9:17 of a morning. When I was starting out in life I had to make a choice. I could have been either a professional gambler, an oil wildcatter, or a political manager. Same man offered me all three jobs that very same day. I chose the political route and you know what he said to me?”

“What?” said his reliable straight man, Peter Upshaw.

“He said: ‘Boy, you probably made the right choice. But don’t ever get to feeling that you’re better or smarter than your candidate, because they’re smart enough and rich enough to hire you, and you ain’t smart or rich enough to hire them. And don’t ever run for anything yourself because of necessity, you’d wind up with a liar as a candidate. Now, I followed his advice and I can’t say I’m sorry.”

Hardcastle produced a cigar and lighted it. “The thing that bothers me is that the Americans are making it impossible for the average chap to run for office, not only in their own country, but it’s getting that way at home. Now this election in Albertia is costing a packet. These fans you ordered through our Ministry, Jimmy. Where’s the money coming from, although I dare say you won’t give me a straight answer.”

Jenaro grinned. “Sure I will, Mr. Permanent Secretary. The money’s coming from the people.”

Hardcastle grunted. “Clever idea though. Using cottage industries to make the fans. Should drum up a bit of support, although we had the devil’s own time convincing the Minister that his village shouldn’t get the entire order. But if you have any more ideas like that, come see us.”

The talk went on for ten or fifteen minutes more and then it was back to the cards. The game settled down to five-card stud more often than draw. I played careful, dull poker, pairing only a couple of times on the first three cards and once going for a heart flush that busted on the fifth card with a three of clubs. Then Hardcastle, on my right, got the deal and announced a game of draw. I looked at the cards he dealt me and found four sixes and a nine of spades. It was my open. I checked and prayed. Carpenter opened for a pound and Jenaro bumped him five pounds. Jenaro had hit. Shartelle stayed; so did Duncan and Hardcastle. Then it was six pounds to me and I raised the bet by ten pounds.

“The sandbag just landed on the back of my neck,” Jenaro said. I smiled politely. Carpenter folded. Jenaro raised my ten pounds another ten and Shartelle stayed. Duncan called and Hardcastle, after a moment’s hesitation, tossed in his hand. I called and raised twenty. Carpenter folded, Jenaro, Shartelle, and Duncan called.

“Cards?” the dealer asked.

“One,” I said.

“None,” Jenaro said.

“Well, now,” Shartelle said. “I’ll take two.”

“I’ll play these,” Duncan said.

I had drawn a queen of hearts. I waited for someone to say something. “First raise bets,” the dealer said. “Your bet, Jimmy.”

Jenaro looked at me and grinned. “The first pat hand bets twenty-five quid into the sandbag raise.” He shoved some chips into the center of the table.

Shartelle shook his head sadly and tossed his hand into the discards. Duncan, also holding a pat hand, shoved twenty-five pounds into the pot. “Call,” he said.

“Up to you, Pete,” Jenaro said.

“See your twenty-five and raise fifty,” I said.

“Call,” he said.

“Call,” Duncan said.

It was a nice pot. I put my cards down carefully, face up, and tried to keep from looking smug. I didn’t call my hand; I was going to let somebody else do that, but nobody ever did. The door to the poker room burst open and the steward darted over to Jenaro and babbled at him in the dialect.

Jenaro got up quickly, said “excuse me,” and hurried out of the room. He took his cards with him. We sat and waited for him to come back. He returned in three minutes and beckoned Carpenter, the Permanent Secretary of Home Affairs. “You’d better get on the blower.” The man who resembled Anthony Eden moved quickly through the door. He asked no questions.

“What’s the trouble?” Duncan asked. “I couldn’t follow your steward, he was going too fast.”

Jenaro tossed his hand on the table. He had a low spade flush. “The game’s over,” he said. “The Captain of police has been found murdered in a driveway.” He looked at Shartelle and then at me. “The driveway belongs to you two.”

Carpenter came back into the poker room. “It’s Cheatwood, I’m afraid. I’ve just talked to a couple of Privates on the force who identified him.” He turned to Shartelle. “Your watch night found him. Multiple stab wounds.”

The three Englishmen looked at Jenaro. “You call it, Minister,” Duncan said softly. There was a tone of encouragement in his voice, and there was also deference. They were the trained civil servants. Jernaro was The Minister. They had brought him along, coached him in the art of administration, and now he was to act. He was a star pupil; they wanted him to act well. Jenaro didn’t hesitate.

“Who’s next in line to Cheatwood?” he asked Carpenter.

“Lieutenant Oslako.”

“Ring up your Minister and tell him to appoint Oslako Acting Captain. And tell Bekardo that I said we need him made Acting Captain tonight, not tomorrow. That means Bekardo will have to go down to the Ministry. If he objects, tell him to call me. You get the necessary paperwork moving, Bryant.”

“Right. I’ll call Oslako first and tell him to take charge of the investigation.”

“Ian,” Jenaro said to the aide-de-camp. “This isn’t your cup of tea, I know, but would you ring up my Permanent Secretary and tell him to get his butt down to the Ministry and start getting a statement manufactured on Cheatwood’s death. It’s to be issued in the Premier’s name.”

“Right away,” Duncan said. “Anything else?”

“No. Just tell him I’ll be there shortly. He’ll know what to do.” He turned to Hardcastle. “You knew Cheatwood well?” Hardcastle nodded. “Can you take care of the family — Mrs. Cheatwood, the children? Get a doctor if need be — break the news? I’m giving you the toughest job.”

“Not at all, Jimmy. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks very much.” The three of them left and Jenaro turned to us.

“We’d better get over there. You follow me so I can identify you before you get shot.”

We followed the Jaguar and made the mile in a little over a minute. Three police cars were there by the time we arrived and Jenaro took charge. He beckoned a Sergeant, the only noncommissioned officer in sight. The Sergeant moved over smartly, came to attention, and saluted. “Sah!”

“How long have you been here?”

“Five minutes, Sah. No more.”

“You’re to take full command until Lieutenant Oslako arrives. Follow your normal routine. Keep the curious out. Don’t touch anything.”

“Sah!” the sergeant barked and saluted again. By now there was a small crowd composed mostly of servants from the various compounds. Silex, our watch night, was telling — with descriptive gestures — how he’d found the body and promptly reported the matter to the police and Chief Jenaro. I had the feeling he would be telling the story for years.

Cheatwood’s body lay in the dirt and gravel halfway up our driveway in a pool of light furnished by the headlamps of a police car. The left side of his face rested in the dirt; his green eyes were open and empty. His left hand was in a position that could have helped him to rise if he had been alive. It clutched half of his ebony walking stick. The other half was a few feet away. I thought that he might have smacked somebody with it. The back of his shirt was soaked with blood and the earth and gravel around him were darkened with it. Alive, he seemed to have been a quiet, calm man. Dead, he seemed to be in a violent spasm that was temporarily suspended. Jenaro turned and talked to one of the policemen. Shartelle and I walked over to the body.

“Reckon he had something to tell us?”

I shrugged.

“Take a look,” Shartelle said. “By his right hand.” The hand had the index finger extended stiffly. The finger had dug two shallow trenches in the dirt and gravel. The first trench was a curve; the second was a straight line.

“Could be a ‘C’ and an ‘I,’” I said.

Shartelle nodded and stepped casually on the scrabblings in the dirt, erasing them under his shoe. “Could be an ‘A’ is missing.”

“Could be,” I said. “If it is, I think we’d better know it before anybody else does.”

Jenaro walked over to us. “Buddy, could you spare a drink?”

“Sure.”

“I could use it,” he said. “The Lieutenant won’t be here for ten minutes or so and there’s no sense in me trying to play Inspector Jenaro.”

Inside, Shartelle mixed the drinks and handed one to Jenaro who took a large swallow. “You know,” he said, “we’ve inherited some of the British traditions that will be with us for a long time. Like general disapproval of having a cop killed. Cheatwood had been here a long time. He knew a lot of people.”

“Lots of enemies?” I asked.

“A policeman’s usual accumulation. He was fair — that was his reputation. Even scrupulous. You’d met him, hadn’t you?”

“He called on us the other day,” Shartelle said. “Dropped in to let us know we had neighbors.”

“They’ll bury him tomorrow.”

“I don’t think we knew him well enough to attend the funeral,” I said.

A medium-sized Albertian knocked on the edge of the folded French doors. He wore the police uniform and the insignia of a Lieutenant.

“Chief Jenaro,” he said politely. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Jenaro introduced us to Lieutenant Oslako whose uniform was a stiffly-starched khaki shirt, equally stiff khaki walking shorts, a Sam Browne belt, a visored cap that he kept tucked under his arm, thick white wool socks that almost reached his knees, and high-topped shoes — the kind that are called clodhoppers in some sections of the States. Shartelle’s section, I thought.

“You were informed that you are Acting Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The killer or killers must be found, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. I considered Captain Cheatwood my friend.”

“Carry out the investigation with that in mind.”

“May I ask a question, sir?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask Mr. Shartelle and Mr. Upshaw whether they heard—”

“They were with me,” Jenaro said. “Ask their watch night and their servants.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant saluted, did a smart about-face and went out into the night to find out who had killed his boss.

“I’d hate to think they killed Cheatwood just to mess up the vote counting,” Shartelle said.

“No chance,” Jenaro said. “If that were true, I’d be the prime suspect. He’d worked out the handling of the ballots months in advance with the people in Barkandu and in the Ministry of Home Affairs here. It’ll go just the way he planned it.”

Jenaro took a final swallow and rose. “Thanks for the drink. I have to go down to my Ministry.”

“What or who killed him, Jimmy, in your opinion?”

Jenaro smiled slightly. “He was white. That helped kill him. Maybe he had a couple of pounds in his pocket. That would help, too. Or maybe for no reason at all other than it was time to kill someone.”

“Independence fever?” Shartelle asked.

“Something like that. Africa Now, maybe. I doubt that we’ll ever know really. But someone wanted him dead; they stabbed him enough.”

After Jenaro had gone, and after the police had crawled around the lawn on their hands and knees with flashlights, looking for the murder weapon and knowing damned well they weren’t going to find it, and after they had taken away Cheatwood’s body and sprinkled sand on the spot where he had bled on the dirt and gravel, Shartelle and I decided to have a night-cap.

“Who do you think killed him?” I asked Shartelle.

“Not you, not me, not Jenaro, and not those three bad poker players, although they’re real nice fellows. I figure that leaves about twenty million live suspects.”

“He was too smart a cop to be taken by a drunk-roller.”

Shartelle nodded. “I was just wondering how much grit you’ve got to have to lie out there in the dirt with the life oozing out of you while you try to find the strength to claw a name in the ground with your finger. It must have been something mighty important.”

“It was to him,” I said. “I wonder if it ever will be to anybody else?”