20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

Chapter 6-2

"So we do," Her Majesty said with a little regretful sigh. "Very

well, then. Just one more hand."

"It's a shame to lose you," the cowboy said to her, quite

sincerely. He had been winning steadily ever since Her Majesty sat

down, and Malone thought that the man should, by this time, be

awfully grateful to the United States Government. Somehow, he

doubted that this gratitude existed.

Malone wondered if she should be allowed to stay for one more

hand. There was, he estimated, about two thousand dollars in front

of her. Then he wondered how he was going to stop her.

The cards were dealt.

The first man said quietly: "Open for two hundred."

Malone looked at the Queen's hand. It contained the Ace, King,

Queen and ten of clubs—and the seven of spades.

Oh, no. He thought. She couldn't possibly be

thinking of filling a flush.

He knew perfectly well that she was.

The second man said: "And raise two hundred."

The Queen equably tossed (counting, Malone thought, the ante)

five hundred into the pot.

The cowboy muttered to himself for a second, and finally shoved

in his money.

"I think I'll raise it another five hundred," the Queen said

calmly.

Malone wanted to die of shock.

Unfortunately, he remained alive and watching. He saw the last

man, after some debate internal, shove a total of one thousand

dollars into the pot.

"Cards?" said the dealer. The first man said: "One."

It was too much to hope for, Malone thought. If that first man

were trying to fill a straight or a flush, maybe he wouldn't make

it. And maybe something final would happen to all the other

players. But that was the only way he could see for Her Majesty to

win.

The card was dealt. The second man stood pat and Malone's green

tinge became obvious to the veriest dunce. The cowboy, on Her

Majesty's right, asked for a card, received it and sat back without

a trace of expression.

The Queen said: "I'll try one for size." She'd picked up poker

lingo, and the basic rules of the game, Malone realized, from the

other players—or possibly from someone at the hospital itself,

years ago.

He wished she'd picked up something less dangerous instead, like

a love of big-game hunting, or stunt-flying.

But no. It had to be poker.

The Queen threw away her seven of spades, showing more sense

than Malone had given her credit for at any time during the game.

She let the other card fall and didn't look at it.

She smiled up at Malone and Boyd. "Live dangerously," she said

gaily.

Malone gave her a hollow laugh.

The last man drew one card, too, and the betting began.

The Queen's remaining thousand was gone before an eye could

notice it. She turned to Boyd.

"Sir Thomas," she said. "Another five thousand, please. At

once."

Boyd said nothing at all, but marched off. Malone noticed,

however, that his step was neither as springy nor as confident as

it had been before. For himself, Malone was sure that he could not

walk at all.

Maybe, he thought hopefully, the floor would open up and swallow

them all. He tried to imagine explaining the loss of $20,000 to

Burris and some congressmen, and after that he watched the floor

narrowly, hoping for the smallest hint of a c***k in the palazzo

marble.

"May I raise the whole five thousand?" the Queen said.

"It's okay with me," the dealer said. "How about the rest of

you?"

The four grunts he got expressed a suppressed eagerness. The

Queen took the new chips Boyd had brought her and shoved them into

the center of the table with a fine, careless gesture of her hand.

She smiled gaily at everybody. "Seeing me?" she said.

Everybody was.

"Well, you see, it was this way," Malone muttered to himself,

rehearsing. He half-thought that one of the others would raise

again, but no one did. After all, each of them must be convinced

that he held a great hand, and though raising had gone on

throughout the hand, each must now be afraid of going the least

little bit too far and scaring the others out.

"Mr. Congressman," Malone muttered. "There's this game called

poker. You play it with cards and money. Chiefly money."

That wasn't any good.

"You've been called," the dealer said to the first man, who'd

opened the hand a year or so before.

"Why, sure," the player said, and laid down a pair of aces, a

pair of threes—and a four. One of the threes, and the four, were

clubs. That reduced the already improbable chances of the Queen's

coming up with a flush.

"Sorry," said the second man, and laid down a straight with a

single gesture.

The straight was nine-high and there were no clubs in it. Malone

felt devoutly thankful for that.

The second man reached for the money but, under the popeyed gaze

of the dealer, the fifth man laid down another straight—this one

ten high. The nine was a club Malone felt the odds go down, right

in his own stomach.

And now the cowboy put down his cards. The King of diamonds. The

King of hearts. The Jack of diamonds. The Jack of spades. And—the

Jack of hearts.

Full house. "Well," said the cowboy, "I suppose that does

it."

The Queen said: "Please. One moment."

The cowboy stopped halfway in his reach for the enormous pile of

chips. The Queen laid down her four clubs—Ace, King, Queen and ten—

and for the first time flipped over her fifth card.

It was the Jack of clubs.

"My God," the cowboy said, and it sounded like a prayer. "A

royal flush."

"Naturally," the Queen said. "What else?"

Her Majesty calmly scooped up the tremendous pile of chips. The

cowboy's hands fell away. Five mouths were open around the

table.

Her Majesty stood up. She smiled sweetly at the men around the

table. "Thank you very much, gentlemen," she said. She handed the

chips to Malone, who took them in nerveless fingers. "Sir Kenneth,"

she said, "I hereby appoint you temporary Chancellor of the

Exchequer—at least until Parliament convenes."

There was, Malone thought, at least thirty-five thousand dollars

in the pile. He could think of nothing to say.

So, instead of using up words, he went and cashed in the chips.

For once, he realized, the Government had made money on an

investment. It was probably the first time since 1775.

Malone thought vaguely that the government ought to make more

investments like the one he was cashing in. If it did, the National

Debt could be wiped out in a matter of days.

He brought the money back. Boyd and the Queen were waiting for

him, but Barbara was still in the ladies' lounge. "She's on the way

out," the Queen informed him, and, sure enough, in a minute they

saw the figure approaching them. Malone smiled at her, and,

tentatively, she smiled back. They began the long march to the exit

of the club, slowly and regally, though not by choice.

The crowd, it seemed, wouldn't let them go. Malone never found

out, then or later, how the news of Her Majesty's winnings had gone

through the place so fast, but everyone seemed to know about it.

The Queen was the recipient of several low bows and a few drunken

curtsies, and, when they reached the front door at last, the

doorman said in a most respectful tone: "Good evening, Your

Majesty."

The Queen positively beamed at him. So, to his own great

surprise, did Sir Kenneth Malone.

Outside, it was about four in the morning. They climbed into the

car and headed back toward the hotel.

Malone was the first to speak. "How did you know that was a Jack

of clubs?" he said in a strangled sort of voice.

The little old lady said calmly: "He was cheating."

"The dealer?" Malone asked. The little old lady nodded. "In

your favor?"

"He couldn't have been cheating," Boyd said at the same instant.

"Why would he want to give you all that money?"

The little old lady shook her head. "He didn't want to give it

to me," she said. "He wanted to give it to the man in the cowboy's

suit. His name is Elliott, by the way—Bernard L. Elliott. And he

comes from Weehawken. But he pretends to be a Westerner so nobody

will be suspicious of him. He and the dealer are in cahoots—isn't

that the word?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Boyd said. "That's the word." His tone was

awed and respectful, and the little old lady gave a nod and became

Queen Elizabeth I once more.

"Well," she said, "the dealer and Mr. Elliott were in cahoots,

and the dealer wanted to give the hand to Mr. Elliott. But he made

a mistake, and dealt the Jack of clubs to me. I watched him, and,

of course, I knew what he was thinking. The rest was easy."

"My God," Malone said. "Easy." Barbara said: "Did she win?"

"She won," Malone said with what he felt was positively

magnificent understatement.

"Good," Barbara said, and lost interest at once.

Malone had seen the lights of a car in the rear-view mirror a

few minutes before. When he looked now, the lights were still

there—but the fact just didn't register until, a couple of blocks

later, the car began to pull around them on the left. It was a

Buick, while Boyd's was a new Lincoln, but the edge wasn't too

apparent yet.

Malone spotted the g*n barrel protruding from the Buick and

yelled just before the first shot went off.

Boyd, at the wheel, didn't even bother to look. His reflexes

took over and he slammed his foot down on the brake. The

specially-built FBI Lincoln slowed down instantly. The shotgun

blast splattered the glass of the curved windshield all over—but

none of it came into the car itself.

Malone already had his hand on the butt of the .44 Magnum under

his left armpit, and he even had time to be grateful, for once,

that it wasn't a smallsword. The women were in the back seat,

frozen, and he yelled: "Duck, damn it, duck!" and felt, rather than

saw, both of them sink down onto the floor of the car.

The Buick had slowed down, too, and the g*n barrel was swiveling

back for a second shot. Malone felt n***d and unprotected. The

Buick and the Lincoln were even on the road now.

Malone had his revolver out. He fired the first shot without

even realizing fully that he'd done so, and he heard a piercing

scream from Barbara in the back seat. He had no time to look

back.

A .44 Magnum is not, by any means, a small g*n. As handguns go—

revolvers and automatics—it is about as large as a g*n can get to

be. An ordinary car has absolutely no chance against it.

Much less the glass in an ordinary car.

The first slug drilled its way through the window glass as

though it were not there, and slammed its way through an even more

unprotected obstacle, the frontal bones of the triggerman's skull.

The second slug from Malone's g*n followed it right away, and

missed the hole the first slug had made by something less than an

inch.

The big, apelike thug who was holding the shotgun had a chance

to pull the trigger once more, but he wasn't aiming very well. The

blast merely scored the paint off the top of the Lincoln.

The rear window of the Buick was open, and Malone caught sight

of another glint of blued steel from the corner of his eye. There

was no time to shift aim—not with bullets flying like swallows on

the way to Capistrano. Malone thought faster than he had imagined

himself capable of doing, and decided to aim for the driver.