The Terrible Events in Santa Barbara

As He Drove the rented Ferrari up the coast toward Santa Barbara and disaster, Andy was increasingly aware of Margaret's anxiety about the weekend ahead. She'd been silent for the last ten miles but had been lighting one cigarette from another, and her tightened neck cords meant panic was on its way.

Suddenly, she burst out: "I tell you--I simply don't know what will happen to me if we don't win this weekend!" Her tone approached hysteria. "I honestly don't know! I'll just have to apply for welfare! I will! I really will!" Her tears started to dribble.

"Oh, will you knock it off, for Christ's sake?" Andy, too, was uptight. He needed to win as badly as Margaret did; he was afraid she might go to pieces under the strain of three days of fantastically high-stake bridge.

Andy was 43, overweight and getting bald, and he sweat a lot. People didn't much like him, nor did he like people, Margaret included. Both were single, but they'd never been to bed together and never would.

"We will win!" Andy said firmly. "With any luck at all, we'll win around five thousand over the weekend."

"I hope to God you're right!" Her lips trembled.

After a look at his watch, he said, "We still have half an hour. Let's do a little homework."

"All right." Margaret studied a hand, selected a cuticle and began to chew it.

Andy pondered and then said, "Say it's the twelfth of the month, and I'm wearing my red tie, and I clear my throat once, and I'm holding my cards in my right hand, and there's an unlit cigarette in my left, and we are not vulnerable, and I open with one diamond. What've I told you?"

Margaret was a pitifully thin virgin of 38 with protruding teeth. She wore too much rouge and had an unpleasantly harsh voice. "If we're not vulnerable, you have a six-card diamond suit and some high cards in spades and hearts, and you're likely void in clubs."

"No, damn it! I said it was the twelfth! One and two are three! That makes it an uneven day of the month, and with my red tie, we're using Four-B!"

"I'm sorry. I was watching that Cadillac up ahead. Using Four-B, you have short diamonds, a long but weak club suit and some top honors in hearts and spades."

"No! You're not functioning! I said the cigarette wasn't lit!"

"Oh. I'm sorry. Then you have a void in hearts, and your black suits are long but not strong, and you probably have the ace, king and queen of diamonds, alone."

"Right! Jesus! You have just got to concentrate! Now is hardly the time to get mentally sloppy, with a nutty old millionaire like Cyrus waiting and drooling to play against us and not giving a damn how much he loses!"

"But the system is getting so complicated!"

"It's got to be complicated! Our variables are our only protection against suspicious smartasses."

Margaret sighed. "Try me on another."

Andy thought. "It's after midnight, tonight."

"That'll be tomorrow, which is the eighteenth of December, and one and eight are nine, so it'll be basically system Two. Am I wearing a sweater?"

"Yes. And your garnet ring."

"That makes it Two-D."

"Correct. And I'm on lead against a no-trump contract, and you want me to lead you my highest diamond."

Margaret frowned. "This is really a tough one. I fluff my hair with my right hand, put down my cards, adjust my sweater with my left hand, and I ask whose lead it is. If you answer, 'I believe it's mine,' you have no diamond to lead me. If you say, 'I think it's mine,' you're leading a singleton diamond. But if you say, 'Isn't it mine?' you want me to return my highest spade if and when I get the lead. If you just say, 'Mine,', you want my highest heart back. Phew!"

Andy nodded. "Very good. You see--you can do it. Don't forget, though, that if I cross my legs as I say 'Mine,' I want your lowest heart back."

• • •

In his garden some 30 miles north, Cyrus Fletcher was about to rename some of his specimen rosebushes. Humming happily, the spry gentleman of 75 started down his rose walk, which led from his formal garden to his rhododendron grove. He carried seven large, neatly lettered plant labels, attached to yard-long sticks. Stopping at an orange-pink in glorious bloom, Cyrus pulled up a sign reading President Hoover and into the soft earth stuck one that read Charles H. Goren. A few yards down the walk, he replaced Charlotte Armstrong with Ely Culbertson. Farther along, Sutter's Gold became Harold S. Vanderbilt. Down and across the path, Peace was renamed Oswald Jacoby. Near the end of the walk, Talisman was relabeled Alfred Sheinwold. Two nearby roses were renamed Andrew Holder and Margaret Mills.

Chuckling, Cyrus tossed the previous signs over a hedge and out of sight, and then began to stroll back up the walk, speaking in a quiet voice. "Well, hello there, Andy and Margaret. I'm speaking to you from a distance of ten feet. Can you hear me? Now I'm six feet from you and I can read your labels, and now I'm passing you and approaching Alfred Sheinwold. Hi, there. Loved your column this morning--the one about the double squeeze. Now I'm passing Oswald Jacoby and coming to Harold S. Vanderbilt. I'm standing close and admiring you, Harold, partly because you're in full bloom today and partly because it was you who invented contract bridge, way back in 1925."

By the time he'd spoken a few words to Ely Culbertson and Charles H. Goren, Cyrus reached the end of the rose walk. He turned back and inspected his work. Smiling, he hurried up a side path, mounted the steps to the Italian terrace, rounded the reflecting pool and walked up to the Spanish promontory, which was the highest point in his 20-acre garden. He paused to catch his breath and admire the view. Far below him down the mountain (continued on page 254)Terrible Events(continued from page 132) lay Santa Barbara, and past its palm studded beach, the Pacific was molten in the setting sun.

Cyrus turned as his butler, Jonathan--black coat and black trousers, white shirt and green tie--came up the path from the garden, carrying a basket heaped with freshly cut snapdragons.

"My, those are beautiful, Jonathan."

"Aren't they, sir? I picked them for the rooms of our arriving guests."

Jonathan was a dignified, self-educated black of 60. He'd been the Fletchers' butler for five years. Not only was he superlative at his job but he was so deeply religious that he reveled in honesty. However, not the least of the reasons Cyrus had hired him away from a neighboring friend was that Jonathan was an avid bridge player and a very good one. The game didn't conflict with his religion so long as he didn't play for money; he'd won more than ten master points at his local bridge club. Although Cyrus had forever lost the friendship of his neighbor, he'd gained an ever-available fourth for bridge.

Jonathan frowned, puzzled. "I noticed that you renamed some of our roses, after bridge masters. But who are Andrew Holder and Margaret Mills?"

Cyrus laughed. "Our guests, Jonathan. Our two Life Masters, coming for the weekend. It's a little joke, to please them." He had started toward his house, with Jonathan walking beside him, and soon they mounted the 30 marble steps that led up to the long, balustraded terrace at the rear of the house. "We're going to have a veritable orgy, Jonathan. Bridge and bridge and more bridge, the whole weekend."

"I wish you luck, sir."

"Oh, we're sure to lose our shirts to them. But it'll be well worth it. Playing with these two is like taking lessons."

On the terrace, Jonathan went left as Cyrus strode right and entered his house, which was often described by Santa Barbarans as a kind of poor man's San Simeon, because something close to $6,000,000 had gone into it. Cyrus could easily have afforded more--he'd netted over $76,000,000 when he sold his interest in Fletcher Electronics and retired. But he and his wife were childless and seldom had more than four house guests, and so the house was more than adequate.

As he walked down the long, high hall, Cyrus paused at a pedestal on which was a marble bust of Thomas Edison and said to it, "I'm back, dear. I've prepared the rose walk, so come down to the study."

Hazel Fletcher's voice came from the base of the bust. "Oh, you didn't!" Both amusement and reproach were in Hazel's voice. "Oh, you are a nut."

Whistling gaily, Cyrus walked down the long hall toward his study. Suddenly, after glancing to see that none of his six house servants was about, he did a little dance step--two skips and a hop and a turn--while snapping his fingers and saying, "Whoopdeedoo!"

Hazel was right. Cyrus had always been something of a nut in anything he undertook. In the past five years, he'd become a bridge fanatic. He and Hazel now spent a good part of the year traveling from city to city while Cyrus competed with grimly dedicated intensity in one important bridge tournament after another.

When he wasn't playing bridge, Cyrus was studying it. He was a mathematics wizard with a devilishly ingenious mind, but because he was essentially a gambler, he was doomed to remain only a fairly successful player. Still, in the past few years, playing in countless tournaments with hired experts as partners, he'd slowly earned the 100 master points that qualified him as a Senior Master. Two hundred more points lay between his present rank and that of Life Master; these points and that exalted rank he pursued with the same relentlessness--it bordered on mania--that had made him a millionaire at 37.

Cyrus also loved rubber bridge and didn't care if he played for toothpicks or lost thousands, as long as it was a tough, tight, wit-sharpening battle.

In his huge, two-story study, Cyrus walked to a carved desk and pushed a rosette. A paneled wall slid open, revealing a 20-foot-wide electronic control center. Below four TV monitor screens were hundreds of buttons and switches and dials. These were unlabeled; only Cyrus, who had built the center with his own hands, really knew how everything worked. He pushed two red buttons and one white one and heard his own voice say: "Well, hello there, Andy and Margaret. I'm speaking to you from a distance of ten feet. Can you hear me?" The volume rose with: "Now I'm six feet from you and I can read your labels, and now I'm passing you and approaching Alfred Sheinwold."

As the playback continued, Hazel Fletcher came into the study and stood listening. She was white-haired and tall and handsome, with an easy, affectionate manner. The Fletchers had celebrated the 50th year of their happy marriage the week before.

It was a happy marriage because Hazel had made it so. When she first met and fell in love with Cyrus, he was an eccentric, indigent basement inventor, living on boiled potatoes and canned milk. Hazel had always yielded to his whims, put up with his eccentricities, boosted his ego, calmed his angers and urged him onward and upward. His hobbies--from bird watching to rock collecting to yacht racing to bugging every room in his vast house--became genuinely hers. Hazel loved bridge and, to please Cyrus, she'd won some master points of her own. But she was careful not to win too many, lest Cyrus realize she was actually a better player than he.

The recording finished. "Oh, Cyrus! You should be ashamed of yourself. Oh, you are a naughty boy!"

"Why? The whole damn house is bugged. Why not the rose walk? Of course, if Andy and Margaret were married, I could listen to them in their bedroom. With the rose walk covered, they have no hiding place."

She laughed and then grew serious. "I'm sorry, dear, but I still think you're dead wrong about Andy and Margaret. I simply can't believe they'd actually use any kind of deliberate cheating system. It just isn't done in high-level bridge. It's ... almost unthinkable."

"I think it."

"But--but they'd each won a dozen tournaments before they even met--I mean, with lots of other partners. Besides, they're so good they don't have to cheat."

"I just have a damn good hunch they cheat--at least against us. It's--well, it's the way they stomp out their cigarettes, and stroke their chins, and tug at their ears, and clear their throats, and cross their legs. They're always ... fidgeting. I think they're exchanging secret signals."

"Oh, rubbish, dear. They're nervous players, that's all. A lot of champions are constantly fidgeting. What's-his-name from Dallas is forever pushing his glasses up or taking them off and biting the earpiece, and that fat woman from the Midwest is always chewing one knuckle or another. You surely don't think they're cheating."

"Wouldn't surprise me at all. One thing I've learned in life is that nobody gets to the top without cheating. You show me a real winner and I'll show you a clever cheater, and that applies to politicians and businessmen and bridge champions."

"Cyrus, that's not true--not about bridge champions, anyway! It's utter nonsense! You're on your way to being a cynical old fool. I do love you, clear, but I'm afraid you're growing slightly dotty."

Cyrus smiled smugly and said, "We'll see who's dotty! We'll just find out who's an old fool!"

• • •

The shiny new Ferrari was approaching Santa Barbara. Andy had rented the car on a credit card to create an aura of solvency for the benefit of the Fletchers, who would never play for stakes they thought others couldn't afford.

Andy and Margaret had become Life Masters without cheating. Even now, they played honestly in tournaments.

But for years, their only income had come from playing high-stake bridge against the wealthy. When they held fair cards, they could often win $1000 a week. But now and then, luck would run disastrously against them and they would sweat in helpless panic while their losses spiraled sickeningly upward.

It was only as insurance against these frightful, unaffordable financial disasters that they'd begun to cheat--just a little. At first--almost as a kind of lark--they merely assigned each of the four corners of the table to a suit. A flick of an eye toward a corner would indicate which suit to lead. As childishly simple as this was, it gave them a definite edge.

Andy and Margaret had no reason to think that anyone else in the world of high-level bridge deliberately cheated; they assumed that they alone had abandoned their self-respect by taking the shocking plunge into the icy waters of dishonesty. But after the first shock, they found them not unbearably cold and decided that as long as they'd gotten wet, they might as well swim around.

Describing their hands with normal bidding conventions had never presented great problems: their skill had made them Life Masters. But how to indicate a void or a singleton? Or even a vital ten-spot? How to call for that one killing lead? Above all, how to describe a hand that one hasn't been able to bid at all?

It was to exchange this kind of information that Andy and Margaret began assigning specific meanings to all the normal, unconscious movements and gestures common to all bridge players. And then, in order to avoid repetition, and thus possible detection, they introduced "variables," which gave every signal a completely different meaning.

Before long, their cheating system became so complex and contradictory that its mere comprehension would have boggled normal minds and its sheer retention would have staggered average memories.

They began to win far more and lose far less. But soon their success backfired. No one suspected them; it was just that their opponents grew weary of never being able to clobber them. Before long, Andy and Margaret found it increasingly difficult to find big-money games and, in order to keep on eating, they traveled farther and farther from their Los Angeles base and began to vampirize the larger tournaments, seeking out high-stake games in the hotel suites of the rich.

They had met Cyrus and Hazel in the bar of the Palmer House during the Summer Nationals in Chicago, in 1971. Andy had contrived a casual meeting with this well-known multimillionaire bridge nut, and within the hour, the four were playing for ten cents a point in the Fletchers' suite. By midnight, the older couple was down $1300.

Cyrus was a jovial loser and said that it was well worth it to be able to match wits with such brilliant players. He suggested a whole weekend of bridge in Santa Barbara, when they all returned to California.

Andy and Margaret greedily accepted. But then the Fletchers went off and traveled around most of the world, and it wasn't until December that Andy and Margaret received a firm invitation. By this time, their bank accounts were both down to two figures. Margaret was two months behind in her rent and Andy had eaten his way down to his canned spaghetti.

They drove high into the hills above Santa Barbara and at last they came to a high wire fence interrupted by two closed, scroll-patterned iron gates. A sign said, Fletcher. Another sign, below it, read, Danger! this Gate and Fence are Electrified! Do not Touch! To Gain Admittance, Push Button to Right of Gates and Speak into Box.

"Jesus," Andy said. "The old bastard is really a nut."

A voice from a hidden speaker boomed: "Well, hello there! Welcome! Smile, now--you're on my candid TV monitor! My, what a lovely Ferrari! Tell me what you kids would like to drink. I make a mean martini!"

Andy called, "We love martinis, Cyrus!"

"They'll be ready when you get here. Come on in and up the drive to the house."

The gates swung open; Andy drove through and started up a winding road that hair pinned through a manicured park.

Andy said, "That reminds me. Jim Whosis--the fat one who plays that wild version of the Texas convention? He and his wife spent the weekend here once and he said he got the feeling the whole damn house was bugged. So let's be careful. Not a word, inside the house. If we have to talk, we can always go for a walk in the garden."

Jonathan was standing outside as the Ferrari drove up to the front portico. While two Filipino houseboys opened the car doors and went off with the luggage, the butler introduced himself with a smile. "It's not too often we're honored with two Life Masters for the weekend."

A warm welcome awaited them in the study. As he poured the martinis, Cyrus asked Andy casually how things were going. Andy had a lovely lie ready, about a very rich old great-aunt of his who lived in North Carolina and had married into one of the big tobacco families. She had died and left him more than a little money, which is why he'd bought the new Ferrari. Also, he and Margaret could now afford to play for 25 cents a point, if the Fletchers felt like it.

Cyrus said that would be fine, took him over to show him the electronic panel and proudly told Andy some of the things it controlled. From here, Cyrus could turn all his sprinklers on and off, and add liquid fertilizer to the water, and empty and refill his swimming pool, and lock and unlock and open gates--

"Tell me," Andy interrupted, "is the front gate really electrified?"

"Yes, of course. Oh, it isn't on, if that's what you mean. The gate's always shut, but it can easily be opened by hand. I'm not about to electrocute little children who can't read, or even deer. The sign is just to scare away intruders." Cyrus smiled strangely. "But I can increase power to the electrocution level if the inevitable should happen in my lifetime."

"What inevitable?"

"The revolution," Cyrus said simply. "This will, of course, be one of the first places they'll march on."

"You're not serious."

"Of course I'm serious!" Cyrus studied him. "I see. You don't think it will ever happen in this country?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

The old man shrugged. "Welcome to the illustrious company of Louis the Sixteenth, George the Third, Charles the First, Czar Nicholas the Second, King Farouk and the emperor Maximilian. In their infinite wisdom, they knew for sure that the mobs would never dare attack the moneyed classes."

As if on cue, Jonathan came in and set down a silver tray with a silver tureen of crushed ice in which rested a crystal bowl containing two pounds of caviar. A pretty, uniformed maid named Martha followed him in with a tray of toast, chopped egg and minced onion.

"Help yourself," Cyrus said when the servants had left. "It's fresh. I have it flown in from Iran, via New York. It costs the earth, but then, I practically lived on boiled potatoes when I was young and I don't see why in hell I can't have as much fresh caviar as I want--at least until the damn mob starts surging up the hill with murder in their hearts."

Andy said dryly, "I'm afraid your gates and fence won't stop them for long."

"Oh, I know. But at least I can barbecue quite a few before they get in and slaughter the lot of us."

Dinner that night consisted of five magnificent courses and five wonderful wines. After dinner, the four walked down the hall to a small room that had been designed for just one quiet table of bridge. The carpet was thick and the chairs comfortable and the lighting perfect. A fire glowed. The only sound came from a little German clock that chimed the hours.

While Jonathan served coffee and brandy, new decks were broken and shuffled and cut, and 25 cents a point was agreed upon.

Cyrus cut high and dealt. Jonathan stood behind him, watching, as Cyrus opened with the stupendous bid of "Six hearts."

Margaret indicated by taking off an earring with her left hand and rubbing her ear lobe with her right that she had nothing but garbage. She passed.

"Seven hearts," Hazel said.

Andy passed. Eventually, Margaret led. Andy soon saw that Cyrus could make the hand only by executing a complex double squeeze against Andy, and he felt sure the old man wouldn't know how to do it. He was wrong.

"Brilliantly played," Jonathan said, after Cyrus had taken 13 tricks.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Cyrus said, deservedly proud. The butler left and the game continued.

This grand slam was only the beginning. The Fletchers' cards were so magnificent they bid and made game after game, and when they didn't have a game, they had a slam.

Only three times in the first two hours did Andy and Margaret get enough cards to bid reasonable contracts. Three times they were doubled. Thanks to wildly improbable distribution, three times they were badly set. As the Fletchers' good luck continued, Andy and Margaret were helpless to stop the slaughter. They knew the exact content of each other's hands, but it wasn't worth knowing. Before long, they were down over $900 and were getting frightened.

Cyrus and Hazel prided themselves on playing correct bridge. They didn't discuss the hands in play, or chatter about other things, or hem or haw or smile or wince or groan. They even policed each other. At one point, Cyrus reprimanded Hazel for a "slow pass," which conveyed information. Later, she reproached him for using a tone of voice that implied that he wanted the contract left where he'd put it.

Occasionally, Hazel would ask her guests if they were warm enough, or if anyone wished a drink or candy or nuts. Cyrus coughed now and then when he smoked, and Hazel would beg him once again to stop smoking, reminding him that so-and-so among their friends had just developed emphysema or lung cancer. But except for such natural interruptions, the Fletchers played quietly.

By 11, Cyrus and Hazel had won eight straight rubbers and were $1400 ahead. But then their luck began to fade and good cards started coming to Andy and Margaret. Still, the hands weren't lay-downs; every contract was a struggle to hid and make. A complete knowledge of each other's holdings was essential; but, happily, their system was working smoothly and secret information was flashing back and forth across the table like a message stream on a well-functioning Atlantic cable.

But Andy was growing more and more uncomfortable. Cyrus was an intense and attentive player, whose mind never left the game and whose eyes never roamed from the table. When it was his opponents turn to bid or play, he turned to look at them and studied them with crafty eyes, as if hoping to sneak into their minds and learn their secrets. Andy was used to this: it didn't bother him when he was playing honest bridge. But now, feeling as guilty as he did, he became conscious of how the old man's eyes kept darting from Margaret to him. It seemed to Andy as if Cyrus were studying every movement and gesture, on the watch for secret signals.

As the play continued. Andy could almost hear him thinking: "Aha! Margaret flicked her cigarette ash three times. What does that mean? Aha! Andy just re-sorted his cards and crossed his legs! What is he telling her? Aha! Now Margaret has taken off her glasses and is rubbing her eyes! What secret information is she conveying now? Mmmmmm?"

The more he imagined Cyrus' speculations--if, indeed, he was imagining them--the more unnerved and the more self-conscious Andy became, and he began to sweat, and he wished he could tell Margaret to cut out all signals and simply play honest bridge. But there was no signal to call off signals. Andy resolved that he must invent one, and as he pondered about what it could be, he absently scratched his head behind his right ear. He was completely unaware he'd done it.

But to Margaret, at this point in the bidding, his head scratching clearly meant--in system Three-C--that Andy had top honors in diamonds. In truth, he had no diamonds at all. Margaret went to two no-trump, which indicated beyond doubt to Andy that she had the diamonds stopped, and so he went to three no-trump, and Hazel doubled, and Margaret confidently redoubled, and Hazel was on lead and rattled off five diamond tricks and Cyrus later took two hearts and a club. Down four, redoubled and vulnerable. Two thousand two hundred points, or $550, for the Fletchers, who looked at these two Life Masters in disbelief.

As a pupil to a teacher, Cyrus asked Andy, "Tell me--how did that frightful debacle happen?"

Andy had no idea, but he said, "Well, when Margaret bid diamonds, I assumed that--"

"I never bid diamonds!" Margaret snapped.

"You didn't? My God. I must be losing my mind. I was sure you bid diamonds. Maybe I'm just getting tired."

"We're tired, too," Hazel said. "Let's just finish this rubber and call it a night. We're both vulnerable."

The really frightful disaster happened at midnight, during the same, long-fought rubber. Margaret had dealt, and as she arranged her cards, the little German clock began chiming slowly, but her mind was on her signals and by a series of gestures--she was still using Three-C--she told Andy that she held the ace of hearts and nothing else. She passed, and so did Hazel, and then Andy. Cyrus opened the bidding with two spades.

At midnight, this being now an even-numbered day, the system was supposed to shift to Two-D, in which every signal meant something else. Andy assumed that Margaret had heard the clock strike and had shifted, and in Two-D she'd informed him she had the two black kings. Andy held the singleton king of hearts, and the king and two little diamonds, and he signaled these facts to Margaret in Two-D. But, by coincidence, these same signals in Three-C meant that he held the ace of hearts; and, since she had it, she knew something was very wrong, indeed. She realized that Andy had switched to Two-D and so should she.

But as the Fletchers bid upward toward a probable slam, Andy realized it was impossible from their bidding that they lacked all four kings, and concluded that Margaret had not switched at midnight and was still in Three-C, which system he accordingly went back to; but now his Three-C signals meant nothing to her in Two-D, and so she logically changed back into Three-C just as Andy went back to Two-D, and complete confusion followed and fast degenerated into mutual panic and then into utter despair.

By the time Cyrus reached six spades, Andy was literally in such a sweat that he unbuttoned his shirt collar and loosened his tie, quite forgetting that this was a strong and overriding signal that meant to Margaret that he was suddenly moving into Four-A. She secretly thanked him for clarifying the situation, but Andy was in blissful ignorance and still in Two-D, and he signaled to her that he had no defense against the slam, but in Four-A he was telling her to double the contract, which she did. Cyrus thought for a long time and redoubled.

In Two-D, Andy signaled for any lead but hearts, but in Four-A, Margaret clearly read him for a lead of any ace she might have, and so she led the ace of hearts and Andy's lone king fell under it, which set up all the rest of the hearts for Cyrus and he made his slam with no trouble at all.

"That was a terrible redouble," Hazel told him. "If the king of hearts doesn't happen to fall under the ace, you're down."

Cyrus chortled. "So call the police!"

As Andy watched Cyrus total the score, he realized that this last hand alone had cost them $380, and he wished he could leap across the table and choke Margaret to death. For her part, Margaret wished she had a sharp cleaver and a solid hour in which to hack Andy into little bloody bits. But they merely exchanged tired smiles.

"Ah, well," Andy sighed. "These things do happen."

"One gets used to them," Margaret said pleasantly.

Hazel said, "I think it's perfectly wonderful--how sweet you are to each other. If I'd ever dropped Cyrus' king like that, he'd murder me."

Cyrus tried not to gloat as he announced the total score. "I'm afraid you two young people are down two thousand four hundred and sixty dollars."

Margaret was afraid for a moment she would be sick.

Andy managed a laugh. "We'll win it back."

Cyrus said, "I'm sure you will and I hope you do."

Andy and Margaret said good night to the Fletchers in the hall, at the foot of the main staircase, and waved and smiled as they went up; but when they reached the upper hall and were out of sight, Margaret grabbed Andy's arm and her eyes flashed hatred and she whispered into his face, "You idiot! You moron! You stupid shithead!"

Andy clapped a hand over her mouth and pointed with his free hand to his ears and then to their surroundings.

Downstairs, Cyrus had scurried into his study and flicked some switches. Andy and Margaret soon appeared on a TV monitor and their voices came clearly over a speaker as they walked down the upper hall toward their rooms.

"Well, that wasn't too successful an evening," Andy said.

"Well, sometimes it's just not one's night," Margaret said.

Hazel walked into the study to hear this.

"I'm sorry about that king of hearts," Andy said.

"I'm sorry I led the ace. It was all my fault, sweetie."

When Margaret had gone into her bedroom and Andy continued down the hall toward his, Hazel said, "Admit it, Cyrus. Admit you were wrong. They don't cheat. They never did."

"What makes you so sure?" Cyrus asked, narrow-eyed.

Hazel indicated the monitor. "Well, those two certainly didn't sound like cheaters."

"They could suspect the house is bugged."

"Perhaps. But surely, if they were exchanging signals, they'd never have got to that disastrous three no-trump and his king would never have fallen under her ace."

"I think they just got their signals crossed."

"Oh, Cyrus! These two supposed cheaters lost nearly twenty-five hundred dollars tonight! What will it take to get you to admit you're wrong?"

"A little private conversation down on the rose walk."

• • •

Saturday the sky was black with clouds, but there was a soft breeze from the Pacific and Jonathan went about turning on lamps and opening windows to air the rooms. Cyrus found him in the study.

"Good morning, Jonathan. I have to call New York after breakfast. Will you make a point of reminding me?"

At 8:30, Andy and Margaret came down separately and joined Hazel and Cyrus for breakfast, which was served in a glassed-in porch overlooking the garden. The meal was a breakfast lover's dream, with fruits and cheeses and small steaks and lamb chops and kidneys and eggs and pancakes and bacon and sausages.

When they'd finished their coffee, Hazel excused herself until ten o'clock to tend to chores. Andy said that he and Margaret were going for a stroll in the garden. Cyrus said he'd go with them, because he had something to show them down on the rose walk. Andy said that would be nice. How could he say that he and Margaret had to have a talk?

But then Jonathan came in and said, "Sir, you asked me to remind you to call New York."

To his relieved guests, Cyrus said, "I'm sorry. It's business. You'll have to take your walk alone. But come here." He took them to the windows overlooking the garden. "See those tall poplars? Directly under them is my lose walk. I'm an amateur rose breeder, you see, and I like to name my new varieties after ... certain people. Study the labels. You'll be in for a little surprise."

In his study, with the door closed, Cyrus said to his wife, "They're on their way to the rose walk! Soon, we shall hear what we shall hear!" He chuckled as he pushed some buttons on the panel. From a speaker came the chirping of birds.

Hazel smiled. "Cyrus, I'll bet you a thousand dollars of my own money that you'll be proven wrong."

"You're on!"

Andy and Margaret didn't speak till they reached the reflecting pool, some 70 yards from the house. Andy said, "Let's go down to his rose walk and look at his goddamn labels."

They went down some steps and were soon under the poplars and at the top of the rose walk.

In the study, Cyrus and Hazel could hear their approaching footsteps. Grinning, Cyrus pushed a button and started a tape recorder.

"'Charles H. Goren,' "they heard Andy say.

" 'Ely Culbertson,'" Margaret read aloud. "Oh, I see. He names his roses after bridge masters."

"Now we can talk," Andy said and grew furious. "Why in hell, for Christ's sake, didn't you change to Two-D at midnight?"

"Why did you tell me you had diamonds stopped?"

"I didn't tell you I had diamonds stopped!"

"You did, you did, you did! You scratched your head behind your right ear!"

"Oh. Well, I didn't mean to!"

"You didn't mean to! Christ!"

In the study, Hazel was looking at Cyrus, aghast. She put a hand over her eyes. "Oh, dear Lord."

"Who is an old fool, Hazel dear? Who is growing slightly dotty? Who owes whom a thousand dollars? Mmmmm?"

"Oh, be quiet and listen."

Soon, Margaret and Andy left vituperation behind and tried to figure out what had gone wrong, and as they paced up and down the rose walk, they discussed a dozen or so gestures and what each meant. Every word came over the speaker in the study.

"Heh-heh-heh!" Cyrus gloated. "Hee-hee-hee!"

"Oh, look," Margaret said. "'Andrew Holden' and 'Margaret Mills'! Cyrus has named two roses for us."

"Bully for Cyrus."

"That must be the surprise he mentioned."

"Yeah. Well, let's go back and try to win a little something for a change."

As their voices and footsteps faded, Cyrus stopped the recording and continued to cackle in gleeful triumph. "Heh-heh-heh! So nobody cheats at bridge, do they? Hee-hee-hee!"

"Oh, do stop it, dear. You sound like that villain in that silly movie about the auto race."

"Like Jack Lemmon? Well, maybe I do. Heh-heh-heh! So it's unthinkable, is it?"

When Andy and Margaret came up the steps from the garden to the terrace, Cyrus was waiting for them.

"How was your walk?"

"Delightful," Andy said.

Margaret took Cyrus' hand. "How sweet of you, to name roses after us. What a nice surprise!"

"Come with me to my study. I've another surprise."

As the three entered the study, Hazel said, "Come and sit on the sofa next to me, Margaret."

"Make yourself comfortable, Andy," Cyrus said. Andy sat.

Margaret asked, "What's the surprise?"

Cyrus paused and lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of his desk and finally said, "We know that you two cheat at bridge. I mean, that you really cheat."

Adrenaline started pumping.

"We what!?" Margaret cried in genuine shock and horror.

Andy rose and his face was red and he blustered: "You'd better be careful with that kind of reckless and irresponsible talk, Cyrus. That's a frightful accusation, and--"

"Do you deny it?" Cyrus demanded.

"Deny it!" Andy shouted. "Of course we deny it! It's--"

"Oh, shut up!" Cyrus snapped, "Do you think I'm an idiot?" He pushed a button on his control panel and they all heard:

Margaret: You signaled in Four-A that you wanted me to lead any ace I had--I mean, you cleared your throat once and ran the fingers of your left hand through the little hair you have left, and--

Andy: I was telling you in Two-D not to lead a heart!

As the playback continued to reveal more sickening secrets, Margaret first glanced about for an escape route, and then began to cry, helplessly. Hazel slipped an arm around her.

As he listened, Andy's blood pressure rose and his anger grew as he realized the enormity of Cyrus' perfidious plot, and he wanted to strangle this old man, here and now. But he finally managed to control himself and he smiled and laughed and waved and said, "That's enough! Turn the damn thing off!"

Cyrus did and studied Andy.

"All right, you sly old fox," Andy said. "You caught us, dead to rights. I compliment you. I really do. You're the only one who's ever even suspected us. And now you've got the goods on us." He smiled again, engagingly. "Congratulations."

Cyrus beamed and said, "Well, I did go to a great deal of trouble."

Although the tension in the room had eased, Margaret looked anxiously at Andy, as if asking: What's going to happen to us now?

Andy had something in mind, but he hesitated, shrinking from the horrendous slander he was about to utter. Finally, he said, "You sure did. And of course, if you ever wanted to go to a great deal more trouble, you could probably expose the others."

Hazel frowned. "What ... others?"

Andy swallowed and forced himself, and then shrugged. "Nearly every great bridge champion--past and present--you could name. They all cheat like crazy. They're forever conveying information by secret signals."

Hazel leaned forward, her eyes wide. "Are you serious, Andy?"

"Certainly I'm serious. All the top people in bridge know it, but they're afraid to blow the whistle, because if one falls, they'll all fall, and there goes the contract-bridge business, which brings in a hundred million a year."

"I knew it!" Cyrus cried joyously. "I knew it all along!"

Margaret had recovered enough to join the act. "Oh, yes. The big problem is to keep it from the public."

Hazel said, "Why, that's the most shocking thing I've ever heard."

Andy nodded. "I was shocked, too, when I first learned of it."

Margaret contributed: "The Culbertsons, of course, were the first, and the worst."

"The Culbertsons, too?" Cyrus asked eagerly.

"Oh, yes," Andy said. "As a matter of fact, old Ely is supposed to have left the details of his cheating system in a safe-deposit box--not to be opened until fifty years after his death."

Cyrus chuckled happily. "Let's have some champagne."

"I could sure use some," Andy said. He was sweating and his stomach was churning. Not even he could take these lies about his revered heroes in stride.

Cyrus pushed a button on his desk, and then said, almost proudly, "Hazel and I cheat, too, of course."

Andy and Margaret stared at him incredulously.

"But it's quite childish, compared with your system. When Hazel asks if anyone wants a drink, the D in drink means diamonds. She has a good diamond suit, or she wants a diamond lead. If she says, 'Something to drink,' the S refers to spades. 'Candy,' of course, means clubs, and 'How about something to drink?' means hearts."

"That's very clever," Margaret said, still shocked.

"And when I cough and Hazel tells me so-and-so has developed emphysema or something, the number of syllables in so-and-so's name, plus its initial letter, plus where he's supposed to live--all these put together tell me a good deal about her hand. Where's that butler?"

"Probably out picking flowers, dear. Try the pantry direct."

Cyrus pushed a button and a voice said, "Pantry, sir. Martha here."

"Martha, I can't seem to locate Jonathan, and I'd like two bottles of champagne in the bridge room and some of that Scottish smoked salmon. Right away." He turned to his guests. "I was pretty damn sure back in Chicago that you were cheating, but I had to prove it to myself and to Hazel."

Cyrus continued, "Because only then could I make you a certain proposition, which is this: I'll pay each of you twenty thousand a year, plus all your expenses, and in return for this, you'll teach us your system. When we've mastered it and are finally on the same level as all these champions who constantly cheat, the four of us will sally forth to the big tournaments, and Andy and I will play together in the men's pairs, and Margaret and I in the mixed pairs, and Hazel will play with you, too. And we'll win masses and masses of master points." He paused. "Well, what do you say?"

"I'm agreeable," Andy said quickly.

"So am I," Margaret said.

"It's a deal, then," Cyrus said and added, almost pitifully, "I have so little time, you see. I must become a Life Master fairly soon. Do you understand?"

"You'll be a Life Master next year," Andy said.

"Shall we go have some champagne?" Hazel asked them. "And we can play some bridge."

As the four left the room, Cyrus said to Andy, "By the way, your loss of last night doesn't count. From now on, we won't play for money."

As he followed Cyrus down the hall, Andy thought that this had turned out to be the best of all possible worlds.

The champagne was already in the bridge room in two wine coolers, beside a platter of smoked salmon and slices of buttered brown bread. The room was dark, but Hazel flicked on all the lights and touched a match to a newly laid fire. "That'll make things a little cozier," she said.

Cyrus had opened the champagne and filled the glasses, which were now lifted and clinked all round.

"To the successful future of the four of us," Cyrus said.

Jonathan walked into the room and stood, just inside the door. He wore a gray suit and had a black raincoat over an arm.

Cyrus finally noticed him. "Jonathan? Where've you been?"

"Packing, sir."

Now they saw how he was dressed. Hazel frowned. "Packing? Packing what?"

"My things," Jonathan answered and stood proud. "I'm leaving your employ, Mrs. Fletcher."

"Leaving?" Cyrus looked annoyed. "Why? What's all this about?"

The butler stood, hesitating. No one spoke as he advanced toward the champagne drinkers. He stopped and suddenly raised both hands and stretched out ten fingers accusingly, and his neck muscles tightened and he shouted: "You four are a stench in the nostrils of contract bridge!

"Yesterday, when I noticed that Mr. Fletcher had renamed some of our roses, I saw that there were little microphones on every new label. And while I'm quite used to living in a house where every room is bugged, I wondered what he wanted to overhear on the rose walk, and why."

He paced, back and forth. Andy and Margaret exchanged frightened glances.

"This morning, when I reminded him to call New York, I heard him direct our guests to the rose walk. Why is this? I thought. And why did Mr. Fletcher not call New York? Naturally, I was curious, and so I later stationed myself just outside the open window of the study, where I learned that our guests--these two honored Life Masters--that they cheated! Cheated!" Jonathan's voice lowered to a whisper. "I have never in my entire life been so shocked and so horrified!" He went back to his normal voice. "But I knew--or at least I assumed--that Mr. Fletcher was going to expose these two despicable pieces of scum to the world and punish them." He paused, dramatically. "But what did I hear, instead? What did I hear?"

"That's enough, Jonathan," Cyrus said severely.

"It is not enough!" the butler insisted loudly. "I then heard this Life Master here utter the most terrible, the most frightful lies about our great bridge masters! And then, I heard--"

"That is enough!" Cyrus shouted. "Be quiet! Whatever we four might do is absolutely no business of yours!"

"No business of mine!" Jonathan cried angrily. "I'm a member of the American Contract Bridge League! I'm the chairman of the ethics committee of my bridge club! It's my business to expose people like you and drive them out of the game!" More quietly, he continued, "I am a close friend of Mr. Jenkins, the club's director. I've taken the tape recording from the control center, and I'll play it for Mr. Jenkins, and he will send it on to our national headquarters. And you will never be allowed to play tournament bridge again. Never, so long as you live!" He walked to the door, stopped and turned back. "Also, as I'm sure you realize, it won't be long before the truth leaks out to the entire bridge world. You four will be scorned and shunned by decent people for all time."

Jonathan hurried from the room.

"Oh, my God!" And moaned. "Cyrus, you've got to do something!"

"Yes!" Hazel said. "Go after him, Cyrus. Talk some sense into him! Plead with him. He's been a close friend to us for five years!"

Cyrus nodded and started off, but stopped and turned to Andy. "One thing. I've got to be sure of my ground. Were you lying, about the champions' cheating?"

"Yes! Yes! It was the only way we could get out of it!"

Cyrus looked at him with contempt for a second, and then strode from the room.

In the front driveway, Jonathan was opening the door of his Toyota as Cyrus hurried up to him. The back seat of the car was piled with suitcases.

"Jonathan--wait. We've got to have a talk."

"There is nothing to discuss, Mr. Fletcher."

"There most certainly is. You claim to be an honest man. But that tape you stole is my property! If you take it from this house, you'll be a thief. A thief, Jonathan--pure and simple."

The butler hesitated and thought and seemed ashamed. He brought the reel of tape from his pocket and handed it to Cyrus. "I won't need it, really. I have a perfect memory of what I heard. Mr. Jenkins will, I know, believe me, and national headquarters will believe him." He started to get into his car.

Cyrus stopped him with a hand and said emotionally, "Jonathan, you can't do this to Mrs. Fletcher and myself. It's been five years. We've paid you handsomely, we've treated you well. We--we've loved you. Have you--no affection for us? No loyalty to us?" The old man pleaded with his eyes. "I will give you my solemn word that none of the four of us will ever play tournament bridge again. But please--don't expose us. Think of the shame it will bring upon us."

"I'm very sorry, sir."

"Please, Jonathan!" There were tears in the old man's eyes. "Have pity on us. Your Lord Jesus was capable of pity. He even forgave the men who crucified him. I beg you to have pity, Jonathan."

Firmly, the butler said, "My Lord Jesus drove the corrupt and venal moneychangers from the temple. My Lord Jesus tells me you deserve to be shamed for your sins." He broke away from Cyrus' grip and got into his car.

Cyrus held the door open. "You must know, Jonathan, what every church in the world knows. It takes money to fight the Devil. I will make you a present. I will give you a million dollars. Use it in God's work."

Jonathan looked at him pityingly. "I'm sorry, sir. I must do what I must do." Jonathan drove off, down the long winding driveway toward the gate and the road to Santa Barbara.

Cyrus looked after him, then turned and hurried into his house, and went to his study for a moment. In the bridge room, the three waited anxiously until he came into the room. He smiled. "It's all right." He brought out the tape. "I have the tape and his promise of silence."

"But how?" Andy asked.

"I promised to give him a million dollars, to be used for religious purposes."

"Phew!" Andy wiped the sweat from his forehead and his neck. "Well, I thank you, Cyrus. Very much, indeed."

Hazel said, "I didn't think that Jonathan could ever be bought."

"I didn't buy him off, really. I just convinced him that the million dollars could fight more sin than merely turning us in would."

"How wonderfully clever of you," Margaret said.

"Can we still play bridge?" Andy asked.

"Yes," Cyrus said. "But we will never cheat. I gave him my word." He smiled. "Let's have some more champagne and play a little honest bridge. Eh?"

As he walked over to the side table, the lights in the room suddenly dimmed, almost to darkness. Cyrus stopped short and winced and shut his eyes tightly. In a few seconds, the lights grew bright again.

"What do you think caused that?" Hazel asked him.

He shrugged and poured himself some champagne. "Oh, some temporary malfunction. A short somewhere. Jonathan must have touched something he shouldn't have." Cyrus added quickly, "I mean--he may well have accidentally flicked some switch when he was removing the tape." He put a slice of salmon on some bread. "He never has really learned how that control panel works."

At the bridge table, Andy spread the deck. "Shall we cut for deal?"

"By all means," Cyrus said. "By the way, my proposition to you two still goes. We just play honest bridge, that's all."

This is, indeed, Andy thought, the best of all possible worlds.

The maid came into the room and spoke to Cyrus. "Sir, Jonathan is wanted on the phone, but I can't find him in the house."

"Who wants him?" Cyrus asked.

"A Mr. Jenkins, sir."

"Oh?" Cyrus frowned. "I'll take it here, Martha." The maid left the room as Cyrus walked over and picked up the receiver. "Hello? Mr. Jenkins? This is Cyrus Fletcher. Jonathan drove off about ten minutes ago. Can I be of any help to you?" There was a long silence on the line. "Mr. Jenkins?"

In a moment, an embarrassed voice said, "Well, I--that is, I'm sorry, but I --I'm afraid you're the very last person in the world I want to talk to, Mr. Fletcher--I mean, after all the details of --well, put bluntly, after all the pretty sickening things Jonathan told me on the phone a little while ago. I only called to tell him not to come to the club but to my home, where I have a machine to play the tape he's bringing me. But I'll wait for him here at the club. I'm sure he'll be along any minute." There was a click.

After a long moment, Cyrus replaced the receiver and stared, slack-mouthed, into space.