Laurel and Hardy Murders Read Online Free Page B

peculiar striations and bends that age had marked them with. Of course, the condition of the cards could have worked to my advantage, too, after a few hands—except for the insane gin rummy convention that the winner, rather than the loser, deals the next hand.
    Having agreed to play, I deserved what I got. I was only angry at myself for not declining the game as soon as I got a glimpse of Butler’s cards. But my brain doesn’t function at its best late at night.
    Butler further befuddled me with a smokescreen, both literal and figurative. His cigars made my eyes smart, and the continual cracking of walnuts began to separate the lobes of my brain into two neat hemispheres. All the while, he kibitzed about the proposed plans for the New York Philly joint SOTD convention in the fall. Since this conversation was the chief reason I’d come to Pennsylvania, I had to pay attention, even though it further interfered with my already impaired card sense.
    “We’ll throw the whole blast at Valley Forge, if that’s okay with you. There’s a good place there, cheap, plenty room.” He paused to swig gin. “You’ll hafta charter a bus to bring down your members. Whaddaya say?”
    C-r-r-rack.
    “I’ll bring it up at the executive committee meeting next week,” I replied, throwing away a deuce.
    “Gimme!” He swooped down on it; Butler had a habit of picking up my discards. “How about if I drive up to New York next week and sit in on that session, get things done faster, how’s that sound?”
    C-r-r-rack.
    “Sounds fine to me.”
    “Swell, boy, I’ll be there. Gin.”
    I paid off while he munched walnuts.
    By the time we called it quits, it was nearly light out. I hastily declined his offer to drive me to my hotel. I needed the fresh air, and if there were any muggers still awake, I figured I had a better chance of survival with them than with Butler’s driving.
    I didn’t want to insult him, but I felt I needed to know the truth. As I pulled on my topcoat, I asked him point-blank if he’d been cheating. “I won’t get mad if the answer’s yes, I just want to know why I didn’t spot it if you were. You didn’t false-shuffle or misdeal. The only thing I can figure is you recognize some of the cards by their backs.”
    He chortled in his joy. “So the Old Man’s too sharp for you, hey, boy? Tell you what...you bring your own deck next week, and I’ll play you again. Fair enough?”
    I nodded.
    Butler flopped down on the cot and started pulling off his shoes and socks. “Like some friendly advice, boy?”
    “What is it?”
    “Like Mark Twain says, ‘I was a stranger and they took me in...’ ” He gave me a broad wink and grinned.
    The attribution was wrong, but I got the point of the quote.

T HE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE, hereinafter known as “the committee” or as “those loud bastards at the corner table,” shall consist of the officers, past presidents, heads of standing committees and delegates-at-large. The latter will only be seated if they are not too fat to squeeze in and if they can refrain from constant catcalls. General members may attend individual committee meetings if they are invited by the president, or if they plan to buy booze all around.
    —from The Sons of the Desert Guidelines to Decorous Behaviour (by-laws)
    According to the postcard O. J. mailed me, the meeting would begin at 7:30 P.M. Wednesday. That evening, I turned off Broadway and took my time strolling east on 44th. It was ten minutes before eight, but I wasn’t worried about being late.
    Halfway down the block, I entered the sedate building that housed The Lambs and nodded to the doorkeeper. It was a balmy evening in May, so I hung my coat in the foyer before proceeding into the still-bustling dining room.
    It was a warm, festive place, festooned with brass plaques, pewter drinking cups, and oil paintings of former Shepherds of the club, as well as pictures, letters, and similar memorabilia of members, past and present. The