Dealers Wild

We will make the acquaintance of five persons during this tale, all of them sailing in a palace; and we will start with two of the most sinister organisms afloat.

Mr. A. Margolies and Mr. John Rippler are two suave, well-polished gentlemen, first-class passengers on an Atlantic liner. So far as anyone knows, Mr. A. Margolies does not possess a first name; even his passport says A. (Only) Margolies. Nevertheless, he exists: short, chubby, bespectacled, rather more jovial than necessary for most of the social situations that he encounters: the small-American-executive type, not at all like the stereotype of the professional cardsharp. Yet that is what he is. The impression he creates is much to his advantage.

John L. Rippler does not enjoy this advantage. He is slight and swarthy, with keen darting eyes and a hairline mustache and a nervous way about him: in his appearance the very image of the international crook. Because of his name, his line of business, and his methods, he has long had to put up with the tag of Jack the Ripper among his colleagues. He would appear to be a good person for any other practitioner in the field to stay away from. However, for many years he and Margolies have enjoyed a close and profitable friendship.

Tonight they have met in the first-class bar on the eve of sailing, while the vessel is only an hour out of Southampton. They are not surprised to find each other there; indeed, they would have been much alarmed had it not been so. For they are embarking on a new venture this time, and its success depends on the closest coordination of plans.

"I trust you had a pleasant and rewarding summer," Jack the Ripper says.

"I did," Margolies replies. "I visited Paris, Zurich, Palermo, Aden, and finally Cairo. There were difficulties, but not insurmountable ones. The tour was successful."

"You got the stuff?"

"I got it." Margolies lets out with one of his big loose laughs, purely from habit. "In Cairo it came through." He leans closer. "One kilogram of pure heroin, and I have it down in my cabin now. Right through Egyptian and British customs without the slightest malfunction."

Jack the Ripper conceals his excitement. "What shape is it in?" he asks.

Margolies cannot help himself: he bellows with laughter; his eyes twinkle with the guileless good nature that has been the undoing of so many unwary card players in search of a friendly game. "Let's go take a look at it," he says.

Together they make their way to Margolies' stateroom, where he opens one of his suitcases. There, lying right on top, is a large leather vanity case full of toilet necessities for milady: row upon row of jars and boxes and implements and tubes, all done up elegantly in cellophane and bows.

"A clever fellow in Cairo put this together for me," he says, "and even tinted some of the drug pink. You see, it utterly disarms suspicion by being so very obvious. Some of it is window dressing, of course; it is those boxes of bath powder, talcum powder, face powder, and that tooth powder next to the toothbrush that are of interest; also, under the surface grease, the jars of cleanser and cold cream. It would take a callous and suspicious customs inspector indeed to profane their flawless beauty."

"And it would take a complete moron," Rippler says, "to pay you $20,000 for this box before he checked." Whereupon he takes up the container of tooth powder and carefully peels back the cellophane from the top; carefully he opens it and tilts it against his wetted finger, which he places on his tongue. His face, severe and cruel, does not yet relax. On a piece of paper he pours out the entire contents of the container, and again he conducts the taste test. Only then does his expression convey satisfaction.

"Good boy, A. Only," he says, as he pours the powder back. "This is pure snow. I hope you will pardon my little precaution, but I had to assure myself that you had not been bilked by some wily Arab."

"Perfectly understandable," Margolies says. "I believe my part of the contract has now been fulfilled. If you would be so good ----"

Rippler pulls out his shirttails and exposes a money belt, from which he counts out 40 five-hundred-dollar bills. He is glad to do so, knowing that he is buying something worth $100,000 in New York. Margolies pockets the money. "Now," he says, "after you have taken that case to your room, let us return to the bar and mingle with the passengers, to size up the prospects for a nice quiet game of poker."

"Well, about that," Rippler says. "With this big pile of snow still on hand, are we so smart to risk maybe getting into trouble over the cards?"

"My friend," Margolies says, "look at it this way. We are known for what we are on every boat making the Atlantic run. The ships' officers warn the players every time, and almost every time the marks ignore the warning. Now, what would the officers suspect if suddenly we were pure as driven snow -- ho, ho, pun, get it?" And he lets loose another tiresome avalanche of chuckles.

"I get it," Rippler says sourly. "You're right. We'll carry on business as usual."

The two men have perfected a method to this end. After the initial sizing up, and during the evening of the second day out, when the bon-voyage hangovers have been dispelled by time, medication and the curative virtues of salt sea breezes, Margolies performs some card tricks in the lounge. Rippler is his audience, and is astonished no end. Soon a group has gathered; soon the prospects are being asked to take a card, any card. Cries of admiration and perplexity follow each trick. Margolies is asked how in the world he did that one; with jovial laughter he shows them. None of his tricks involve any sleight of hand.

"Well now," he says at last, "who'll join me in a few rounds of poker? There's nothing I love more than a friendly game of dealer's choice. You, sir? You look like a real river-boat gambler, ho ho."

"Well, I wouldn't mind a little game," Jack the Ripper answers, "if it's not too steep."

And within 10 minutes the two sharpies are seated at a table with five suckers, two of whom have been sized up as promising victims for the big kill on the final night. This first game is a very mild affair: quarter ante, two-dollar limit. Even so, three of the suckers manage to lose over a hundred dollars apiece. Margolies and Rippler break about even, and the two real prospects win all the money. They are, of course, much pleased, and make a date for a game the next evening. Civilities are exchanged and the players go their separate ways. The three losers actually do go their separate ways. Margolies and Rippler appear to part, but rejoin out of sight in the corridor.

"I think we got them hooked, those two," Jack the Ripper says, "They must have a couple of million between them and they play cards like they were thinking of something else. This might turn out to be a very good thing."

"I believe it will," Margolies says.

The two in question have not parted. They go to the bar for a nightcap. (They are, as you may have guessed by now, two more of the five persons adverted to in the lead sentence.) One of them is Jeff Hartley, Jr., a young man of 24, heir to the Hartley ball-bearing fortune and, not unnaturally, a rising executive in the firm, Vice President in Charge of Foreign Sales. Hence his presence on the boat. A week before, he was revisiting the hamlets and lanes of Normandy that he had first seen from above on D-Day-plus-1, floating down under an umbrella of nylon. He is a prepossessing fellow in a blond, energetic sort of way. He fancies himself a pretty good poker player.

The other is Artemus Charles Thorne, a man who has led a varied and offbeat life: white hunter in Kenya, gun runner, explorer, consulting engineer for hydroelectric projects in India and Alaska, and finally an oil prospector in Venezuela, where he made his bundle. Now he is a gentleman of leisure: tall, almost gaunt, impeccably dressed, he looks very distinguished in his sweeping white mustache, pince-nez and kilt. Yes, Mr. Thorne wears a kilt, and at the bar he explains why, with a faint burr.

" 'Tis a damned comfortable garment, Mr. Hartley," he says, "particularly in hot weather. Now that I am not obliged to consider what opinions powerful fools may form of me, I find it convenient to wear it."

Jeff chuckles, and Thorne inquires sharply the reason for his mirth.

"No offense, sir," Jeff says. "I was just thinking what the effect might have been if we had been so dressed when we were parachuted into France. The war might have taken a different course."

Thorne laughs long. While he is at it, Jeff Hartley, Jr., sees coming toward them a girl who is altogether too good to be true: tall, innately graceful in her movements; clear brow, fine skin, bulges at the right places, joints at elbow and knee. (She is, of course, No. 5.) Jeff makes immediate plans to break away from old Mr. Thorne.

"Oh, Mr. Hartley," Thorne says, "I'd like you to meet my daughter Miranda, child of my old age, after I became Prospero-us."

Jeff Hartley changes his plans at once."

"How do you do, Mr. Hartley," she says. "I hope you will pardon my father's unspeakable sense of humor. I cannot, being stuck with the name of Miranda. So," she continues, turning to her father, "you have been playing poker all evening. I presume you won?"

"Mr. Hartley and I both had the good fortune to win," says Thorne. "Furthermore, I believe we shall win even more tomorrow."

"Oh, it's to be one of those trips, is it?" she says. "Poker every night. Mr. Hartley -- --"

"Call me Jeff," he says. "Almost everybody does."

"I am not almost everybody," Miranda replies. "I may call you Jeff or I may not, depending on how things work out. So far you are still Mr. Hartley."

"As you can see," Thorne interjects, "Miranda is a girl of pronounced principle."

"I see," Jeff says. Privately he is pleased to note that her statement holds the door open for something to work out.

The next morning he seeks her, and finds her at last in a deck chair, next to an empty one. It is not his, but no matter: he eases himself into it.

"Good morning, Miss Thorne," he says.

"Good morning, Jeff," she replies.

"That didn't take as long as I thought it would," he says. "How did I make the grade so fast?"

Miranda bats her big eyes at him. "Well, last night Daddy told me how rich you are, and what a lousy poker player, and since I like rich men who are not gamblers I thought it would be a good idea to be nice to you. You see?"

Jeff is taken aback. This girl is obviously no ordinary dreamboat. There are many questions he wants to ask. "Miranda, didn't your father say you (continued overleaf) Dealers Wild (continued from page 22) were a girl of high principle?"

"Oh, I am," she answers.

"Then what caused you to refer so promptly to my wealth?"

"One of my foremost principles," she says sweetly, "is not to answer questions of that sort."

"Well, what's this stuff about how I'm a lousy poker player? I thought I did pretty good."

"You are horrible," she says, "and I could love you for it. I have had enough of wild plunges and uncertainty in my life, with Daddy dashing in and out of impossible ventures. He says you are simply not the gambling type, and that is good, and I decided I might just try you on for size."

"Miranda," he says hopefully, "will you be my girl?"

"Cool down, buster," she answers. "You have barely made it to first base. It's a long way around to home plate."

• • •

The game that evening is a cozy game, just the four of them. The three others have learned their lesson and withdrawn. Margolies makes a point of this.

"Well, it looks like the ribbon clerks found the diet too rich for their blood," he says, with a few whoops of glee. "No reason why we men shouldn't make the game a little more interesting. What do you say to a 10-dollar limit?"

"Sounds OK to me," says Jack the Ripper. "How about you fellows?"

"Not too rich for my blood," Jeff says. He is pretty mad at old Thorne for depreciating his playing, and tonight he is going to show him.

"Let's go," Thorne says.

So the game begins. It is really extraordinary what bad luck Margolies and Rippler have. Margolies will have three of a kind: Thorne will draw the fifth card to a straight or flush. Rippler will have a flush: Jeff gets a full on the last card. The losers make many lugubrious but good-natured comments on the way things are going. At midnight, when the game breaks up, they are out a matter of nearly $800 apiece, and Jeff has the greater part of it.

"I guess you fellows are too good for me," Margolies says, laughing long. "Still, I'm not one to give up. Maybe my luck'll change tomorrow. How about another try tomorrow?"

"Suits me," says Jeff, full of oats.

"I have nothing better to do," says Thorne.

"Those guys are chumps," Jeff says, when he and Thorne are alone. "And what's this business about my poor poker? Who has the twelve hundred bucks in his pocket?"

"Oh, Miranda squealed, did she?" Thorne remarks.

"She did. So why do you say things like that? It was obvious all evening that I was on top of the game."

"My boy," Thorne says, "before this trip is over I shall have some advice to give you, and I beg you to heed it."

"What advice? Let's have it."

"Later," Thorne says. "If I give it to you now, it will have an adverse effect on your game, which is now perfect in its mediocrity."

"There you go again," Jeff says. "Are you trying to brainwash me into something your daughter will accept as suitable prey -- the affluent non-gambler?"

"Ah," Thorne says, "I see that she has laid her soul bare. You are making good time, my boy. Yes, she is against gambling. But do not be deluded by what she has to say about money. She has plenty of that. What she is really looking for is a friend."

Jeff takes up this question with Miranda the next day. He finds her leaning on the taffrail, watching the garbage in the vessel's wake. "Your daddy says you aren't so interested in money as you pretend to be. What you really want is a pal."

"A rich pal," Miranda amends.

"Miranda," he says, really a bit shocked, "is money all that important?"

"Yes," she replies. "Of course, it isn't everything. It's just almost everything. It makes the nice things of life accessible. Now you -- have you ever regretted you were born with silver forceps in your mouth?"

"Well, no," he says. "Not sincerely."

"So stop worrying about me. I'm just a good normal healthy kid. And of course my interest in you is not based --"

"Oh, you have an interest in me?"

"-- is not based solely on pelf. I like your broad shoulders and that look of intelligent bewilderment you go around with and -- oh, lots of things."

"Miranda," he says, "I think we are going to become good pals."

"Of course," she adds, "there is nothing personal in all this."

Jeff is in despair. "Nothing personal? I thought we were getting spectacularly personal."

"Oh no," she says. "What I like is not you so much as your correspondence with a sort of image that I have in my mind. You sort of fit the template. So it really has little to do with you as a person. You understand what I mean?"

"I understand that you are a very mixed-up character," he says strongly. "Template, shmemplate. What you have to ask yourself is, do I like this guy a lot, or a little, or not at all. Never mind this image business. Relations with people are with people, not with images."

Whereupon he takes his leave. But that afternoon they meet again and spend all the rest of the day playing shuffleboard, swimming, and talking about all sorts of things.

That evening, for a change, it is Rippler who proposes raising the stakes: he is losing a lot, he wants a chance to get even. Why not make it table stakes, pot limit, dealer's choice. There is no demur, and everyone puts a hundred dollars on the table. But alas, poor Jack is in for a bad time right from the start. In the very first pot, which he deals and which is five-card stud, Thorne gets kings back-to-back, and Jack spends his whole hundred dollars to find out that his queens are not good enough. By the end of the evening Thorne has won the gratifying total of $2200, and Jeff $1800. Margolies and Rippler are appropriately miserable; they beg for a chance at a comeback tomorrow, the last night before the boat reaches New York. Jeff is hoping to make a big play for Miranda at the farewell dance and tries to back out, but Thorne puts in a strong plea for giving the losers a break, and Jeff reluctantly agrees. There will be a final game on the last night out.

After they have left the game, Jack turns to Margolies with the look of a razor about to slit a throat. "We've made our investment," he says. "Tomorrow we gather in our capital gains."

"Let's put them a couple of hundred in the hole," Margolies says, "to give them the old loser's itch to get even. Then let's throw the killer at them and get it over with early."

"Right," says Jack. When he is in his stateroom, and more for the fun of it than anything else, he gives himself a workout. Twelve times he cuts the cards; 12 times there are exactly 18 cards in the part he has cut off. He is pleased.

While this is going on, Thorne, Miranda and Jeff have collected in the lounge. The steward brings their respective drinks. Thorne adjusts his sporran and addresses Jeff. "Well, young man, I imagine you are happy for this night's work."

"I thought I did all right," Jeff says cautiously. He figures the old boy is leading up to something, and he is right.

"Well, my boy," Thorne says, "it will perhaps come as a surprise to you to learn that you have been winning all this money with the active assistance of the two sea serpents in the game."

Jeff look's blank. "Sea serpents?" he asks.

"Pearl divers. Deep-sea fishermen," Thorne says impatiently.

Jeff still manifests incomprehension.

"Oh Daddy!" Miranda says. "He really is square about gambling, isn't he? Isn't that wonderful?" She turns to Jeff, (continued on page 28) Dealers Wild (continued from page 24) gently, protectively. "Those are terms used to describe professional swindlers who operate on ocean liners."

Jeff is astounded. "You?" he cries to Thorne. "Who's the other one?"

"Not me, you idiot," Thorne says. "Rippler and Margolies. They've been softening us up for the kill, which is to take place tomorrow."

"Well, that's fine," Jeff says, recovering swiftly from the wound to his amour-propre. "We just won't play tomorrow."

"Yes, we will," Thorne declares. "These malefactors must be scathed, and I have a scheme whereby we can have them hoist with their own petard, so to speak. I will now explain to you what will happen, and our course of action."

And he does so. It would be foolish to divulge this information now, when we can do so later in terms of tense, gripping action. So we will skip to the following day, around nine P.M., when the players are collected for the game.

"Listen, fellows," Margolies says, "I'm in the hole pretty bad. This is our last chance to get even, so what do you say to a no-limit game this last time?"

"No limit?" says Jack the Ripper. "Gee, I'm losing too, but that could get to be a pretty tough game."

"Oh, I don't think we'd be likely to let it get out of hand," Margolies says. "Just a game where a fellow has a chance to get even."

" 'Tis not a bad idea," Thorne says. "But gentlemen, if there should happen to be some heavy action, I think we'd all want some assurance that the losses would be paid."

"As for me," Margolies says promptly, "I am prepared to play for cash." And he pulls out Jack's $20,000 wad.

"I happen to have these traveler's checks," Jack the Ripper says, producing a tremendous stack. "I hope we don't get into a situation where I have to use them."

"I'm afraid it's no go," Jeff says. "I haven't got more than a couple of thousand in fluid assets."

"Mr. Hartley -- and you too, Mr. Thorne," Margolies says, with great sincerity, "I think I am speaking for Mr. Rippler too when I say that your personal checks will be perfectly acceptable."

So far everything has gone exactly as Thorne predicted. "Well, in that case," Jeff says. "I guess I don't mind a no-limit game. Mr. Thorne, you?"

"Let us proceed," Thorne says. "A little excitement on the last night won't hurt us."

The men sit down to the table: reading clockwise, Rippler, Margolies, Thorne, Hartley. Jeff shuffles and deals out cards face up, first jack to deal. It falls to himself.

"A little game of seven-card stud," he says. No excitement develops as three tens beat kings up, and Rippler pulls in a pot of hardly two hundred dollars. The next hand, five-card stud, is even less interesting: Margolies wins on an ace-queen. In fact, there is no reason to detail the early stages of this game; the big action comes about two hours later, after both Jeff and Thorne, in slow dribbles, have lost about a thousand apiece. Rippler has just dealt seven-card and Jeff has won back almost half his losses with a full house against Rippler's flush. Margolies gathers the cards in, with much good-natured banter. He shuffles.

"Well, fellows," he says, "that was a little excitement. Maybe this game is about to come to life. Where's that steward, anyway? My glass has been empty for half an hour. Steward! Steward!"

Jeff and Thorne turn to see where he is. In this instant Margolies removes the shuffled deck from the table and picks up the cold deck that Rippler has placed on his knee.

"Oh, he'll be back," Margolies says. "Cut, please."

Jack the Ripper lifts exactly 18 cards from the top of the deck. Margolies puts the deck back together and deals. "Let's see what this will bring. Ante 50 for straight draw, jacks to open."

It brings, needless to say, plenty. Thorne finds himself with three kings. Jeff holds four cards to a straight flush, six to nine of hearts. So does Rippler: the eight, nine, ten, jack of clubs. Margolies has nothing.

It is for Thorne to bet, and he comes out with a hundred. Jeff raises a hundred. Rippler says. "Man, this hand calls for a substantial raise," and puts in $700. Margolies folds. Thorne knows that the moment has come; he kicks Jeff in the ankle; then he raises the pot a thousand. Jeff ponders a moment and raises another thousand.

"Well," Margolies exclaims, laughing long, "here we are, getting some action, and it's just my luck to be out of it."

The pot now contains $5300. Rippler is afraid things may be moving a bit too fast, and merely calls the raises. Thorne pretends to consider what to do. "Tell me again," he says. "Is it correct that the card with one pip is worth more than the card with two pips?" This calls forth shrieks of overwrought laughter. He thereupon raises a thousand.

"Well," says Jeff, "I think the time has come to separate the grocers from the men of lofty vision. I'll call that thousand and raise five."

Jack the Ripper takes a long look at him while he is writing the check. He knows what Jeff holds and he is thinking that nobody is crazy enough to bet that sort of money on the come, not even for a straight flush. Moreover, the main action is supposed to take place after the draw, not before. He begins to suspect that all is not as it should be. Again he merely calls. Thorne, feeling that things have gone far enough, calls also.

The pot now contains $26,300. The next four cards in the deck are, in order, the fourth king, the five of hearts, the 10 of hearts and the queen of clubs. Whether Thorne draws one card (being cagey) or two, Jeff will fill his hand. If Thorne does draw one, and Jeff draws one (as he must), Rippler would stand to get the 10 of hearts -- a card of no use to him -- were it not that Margolies is a master at dealing the second card from the top. So nothing can go wrong.

But something does go wrong.

"How many?" Margolies says.

"Two," Thorne says. He gets them.

Margolies looks inquiringly at Jeff. "Just a minute," Jeff says. "Let me give that deck a cut, just for luck."

Margolies blanches. "A cut?" he whispers.

"Why not?" Jeff says. "A player can cut the deck any time he wants to -- you know that. And boy, I sure need some luck."

Margolies is helpless. He does not, however, show any sign of distress. He lays the pack on the table, knowing that Rippler will in his turn call for a cut and restore the original order. But Thorne has warned Jeff of this possibility, and Jeff swiftly extracts the center section of the talon, places it on top, and cuts again in the ordinary fashion. Not even Rippler can reconstruct that one.

"Now, give me a card," Jeff says. "And make it right." He is not surprised that it is not right.

Jack the Ripper is already making plans for revenge; but right now, without a word, he discards one card. There is still one chance in 28 that he will catch the other end of his straight flush, the seven of clubs.

Thorne knows that he has nothing to gain by betting out: he checks. Jeff looks ruefully at his hand and checks also. Rippler, still without a word, bets $10,000. He is bluffing, but it is his last chance to salvage the pot. Thorne is confronted by the possibility that Rippler may have hit, or that something may have gone amiss, or that Jeff may have held three of a kind too, while Rippler held a pat four aces from the start. It is only after some thought that he writes out the check.

Jeff folds, of course. Rippler simply tosses in his hand.

"I was lucky," Thorne says. "I made four kings." He rakes in the pot. "Upon (continued on page 74) Dealers Wild(continued from page 28) my word, what a dandy pile of sugar."

Rippler stands up, and at last he speaks. "I've had enough." He transfixes first Thorne, then Jeff. "I hope you gentlemen realize," he says softly, "that you will not escape the consequences of this evening's tomfoolery."

"I can't imagine what you mean," Thorne says suavely. "Come on, Jeff, I believe Miranda would like you to take her dancing." And, bowing politely to the two others, they leave.

"Why, those crooks!" Margolies exclaims with sincere indignation. "They were stringing us along the whole trip! They took us for around $22,000."

"They will have cause to regret it," Rippler says. "Nobody -- nobody! -- pulls a stunt like that on Jack the Ripper."

"My boy," Thorne says, when they are seated in the ballroom with the beautiful Miranda, "let us now divvy up the spoils."

"Oh, your filthy conspiracy worked," Miranda says. Her face falls.

"Perfectly!" her father answers. "Jeff, you were masterly."

Jeff stares mournfully at Miranda. This success is costing him sore. Miranda won't even look in his direction.

"Here's your share," Thorne says, handing over $18,150, of which about $9000 is profit. "I think we handled the situation rather well."

"I guess so," Jeff says miserably. Then inspiration visits him. "But there's one thing I never understood about this maneuver. What if you had got the incomplete straight flush and I had had the three of a kind?"

Thorne falls back in his chair, flabbergasted. "Young man, do you mean to say that you went into this thing in ignorance of what you had to do?"

"It looks that way," Jeff confesses.

Miranda perks up. "He's a real dope about gambling, isn't he?" she asks hopefully.

"By George, it seems so," her father answers. "In the event you mention, Hartley, I cut the cards and your three of a kind beats his incomplete flush. My God, what a narrow squeak we had!"

"Golly, I guess we were pretty lucky," Jeff says, playing it solely for Miranda.

"Because if I'd ended up with just three of a kind, I'd have lost my nerve and folded when Rippler bet out after the draw."

Miranda is the happiest girl in the world. "Jeff," she says, "if you ask me to dance, I'll dance."

And they dance. His cheek is contiguous to hers.

• • •

The vessel enters New York harbor at 10 the next morning, and in the hubbub of arrival, with all the passengers on deck looking at the Statue of Liberty and the skyline, it is a simple matter for Rippler to enter Thorne's stateroom unperceived. With him he has one of the round boxes of "face powder" from the vanity case. This he insinuates into one of Thorne's suitcases, under the dirty shirts. He figures that this act is costing him about $10,000, and -- so vengeful is his nature -- he figures it is worth every penny. Thorne is well known as an adventurer and speculator; he will have a hard time explaining the possession of so much heroin; he will, if things work out right, have much leisure time to reflect on the folly of double-crossing Jack the Ripper, who now returns to his cabin and rearranges the contents of the vanity case to conceal the missing item.

There is the usual chaos on the dock as the luggage is unloaded and arranged alphabetically on the long counter for customs inspection. During this time Rippler makes a phone call to the Customs Office on the pier. He says, when he has the Chief Inspector on the line, "First-class passenger Artemus Thorne is smuggling in a big load of heroin, disguised as face powder. Thorne. T-h-o-r-n-e."

"Who are you?" the Chief Inspector asks.

"A friend of the law," says Jack the Ripper, and hangs up. Then he strolls down to the Ts to see what happens. It happens at once: the Thornes get almost the fastest servicing ever received by a passenger on an incoming liner. A gaggle of officials swoops in and begins a systematic perscrutation of their baggage. A crowd gathers to watch, so fervid is their zeal. Rippler haunts its fringe, unobserved.

"What is the meaning of this intemperate visitation?" Thorne asks.

"Quiet, Mac," a narcotics agent answers, peering into Thorne's sporran. "Where you got it hid?"

Within a minute or so they find the box of powder in its fancy cellophane. They place it triumphantly on the counter. "What is in this container?" the Chief Inspector asks.

"I have no idea," Thorne replies. "I never saw it before in my life. How did that get in there?"

The narcotics agent breaks it open. He removes the powder puff. He smells it. He dips his finger into the powder and tastes. He turns the box upsidedown and tastes what was on the bottom. Then he takes another taste in the middle.

"Talcum powder," he announces. "Keep looking."

Rippler has heard enough. This is really too much, being played for a sucker twice on one trip. He returns to his baggage and removes the container of tooth powder -- how stupid it was of him, when he made his spot check, to let Margolies force the obvious one on him, like the greenest mark at a carny. With the tooth powder in his pocket he strolls up the long line to the Ms, where Margolies is waiting.

"They ought to figure out some better way to do this," Margolies says. "All these people standing around for hours." He laughs -- for the last time in eight years.

"All in due course," Jack says, gently slipping the container into the pocket of Margolies' topcoat. After an exchange of pleasantries he wanders off toward the phone booth. Five minutes later a flying detachment of agents descends on Margolies' pocket. He had expected his perfidy to be detected, but not before he was on his way to Buenos Aires, and not at the hands of the Bureau of Narcotics. Now he is dreadfully unhappy, poor fellow. Let us temper our blame with pity.

And, while we are about it, let us pity also Mr. John Rippler, who now has no single friend in the world, who is out $32,000, and who, until he finds another partner, is out of a job. Truly, crime does not pay.

But, if you will ask Jeff Hartley, he will tell you that being a lousy gambler pays. Oh, it pays! And, of course, having a million clams in the bank. That helps too.