YES, I killed him, but
why?
Why is it that you
can put the black six
only on a red seven?
Why is it that you
must get out your ace
before you can put up the deuce?
It is fate. It was inevitable. It is
one of the rules of the game. He taught
it to me, and it dragged me down. Therefore
I killed him that the pack might
be complete. He was the Jack of Hearts.
It was many years ago. I had complained
to him that I had trouble in getting
to sleep. He said to try solitaire,
and that two or three games before retiring
would drive away all the business
cares and disturbing thoughts, leaving a
sort of auto-hypnotic condition that
would develop into refreshing slumber.
It was at his home that he told me this,
and taking a pack of cards from a drawer
he showed me the game. You may
know the one — seven piles with an exposed
card on the top of each. You
build downwards, black on red — but no.
I will not be guilty of placing temptation
in another's way. Sooner would I inoculate
you with the opium craving. It
is less insidious and degrading.
When he had shown me how it was
done or rather how you try to do it, he
gave me the cards and I took them home.
That night I tried the game three times
but never got past the five of clubs. He
was right. I slept as I never had slept
before. The next night I got up to the
ten of spades after several attempts, and
again I slept, but this time I dreamed
that the ace of clubs was nailed to the
table face downwards, and I had no
nail-puller.
Then my struggle began. The third
night I determined to run out the whole
pack. I sat up until three o'clock in the
morning, and finally fainted from
exhaustion in my chair. They found me
the next morning, still unconscious, and
my first words were: "If I can get a
black eight I can move the seven of hearts
over, and I think the five of diamonds
is underneath."
I soon recovered and went to my store.
I had a prosperous dry-goods business
then. All that day I went around in a
sort of hazy dream, snipping little pieces
of red and black cloth from bolts here and
there, and arranging them in little piles
on the counter, in an effort to get relief.
But it was no use. I left the store early,
went home and told my wife I was feeling
ill. I locked myself in my room,
took out the cards, and sat down
determined to conquer if it took a week.
Of what follows I have only a faint
recollection. I remember a blur of red
and black, a procession of spades, hearts,
clubs and diamonds which would not fit
together, until at last the snap of the
pasteboards sounded like a boiler factory
working on a rush order, and I could
stand it no longer, and had to rest awhile.
But I did not lose consciousness. At
least I was gaining in endurance. I did
not go to bed that night, and in the morning
when they called me for breakfast I
hid the cards and went downstairs. After
this meal I telephoned to the store that I
was not well and might not be down for
a few days.
The cards I had been using were by
this time pretty badly used up, so I went
to the nearest drug store and bought a
new deck. Then I returned to my room
and started in again.
Along toward the middle of the afternoon
it was all becoming mechanical by
now I was suddenly startled from my
half-dazed condition by the realization
that I had all the cards out but two. Only
a deuce and tray of clubs remained on the
table, but the tray was on top and the
deuce was face down. Still, it was an
encouraging sign, and with renewed
energy I went at the game with fresh
hope.
About midnight I got it, and gave three
cheers. Napoleon had nothing on me.
I ran shouting to my wife's room.
"I 've got it! I 've got it! "I yelled.
"Got what?" she cried in terror. "Delirium
tremens?"
"Solitaire" I shouted.
"Never mind," she said soothingly.
"Never mind, Henry. Perhaps it is n't
fatal. Send for Dr. Martin."
"You dont understand" I said scornfully.
"'But how can you. You have no
conception of what it means. But I'll
show you. Come with me."
I dragged her out of bed and forced
her to sit beside me while I showed her
how it was done. At least I tried to
show her, but I simply could not win.
"Let me try," she cried, with a fitful,
feverish light beginning to glow in her
eyes; but I shook her off savagely.
"Get a pack of your own," I said. It
was the first cross word I had ever
spoken in our five years of married life.
Then I remembered the pack my false
friend had given me and gave it to her.
She sat opposite me and there we remained
throughout the night, racing to
see which of us could get out the most
cards.
From that moment my life was
wrecked. We had our meals brought in,
and bolted them, grudging every minute
away from the game. This continued
two weeks, and one day a clerk from
the store came to the house.
"The bookkeeper had run away with
the head saleslady," he said. "I think
he has stolen several thousand dollars."
"Tell your troubles to the police," I
said. "You dont happen to have a four
of hearts with you, I suppose?"
He fled, and I thought no more about
the incident. But a few days later a
deputy from the sheriff's office arrived
and handed me a long paper. I threw
it on the floor, for he had interrupted me
when victory was just in sight.
"'Your creditors have brought action to
declare you an involuntary bankrupt,"
he said.
I waved him away, and turned up the
final card.
"I win," I shouted.
"Not on your life," the officer replied.
"You lose. Its the booby hatch for
yours."
In a few hours he came back with five
policemen.
"There's a man downstairs wants to
see you," said the captain.
"Tell him I 'm busy," I replied.
"But its a matter of life and death," he
said.
"Cant help it. If I win again I break
my record of twice in one day. Dont
interrupt me."
"Grab him, boys, he may be violent,"
ordered the officer.
I fought them off as well as I could,
but they overpowered me. But before
they took me away I persuaded them to
let me take my cards along. They told
me I was accused of insanity but I didn't
care so long as they gave me a table
long enough to spread out seven cards
in a row with room for four aces above.
They took my wife to her parents' home
and after six weeks pronounced her
cured, but I was too far gone. They
sent me to the asylum, hugging the now
priceless pack of cards I had rescued
from the wreck.
Once in my padded cell I discovered
that the pack was the tattered one that
had been given me at the outset, and I
was glad. I had never been able to win
with it, and now I had plenty of leisure,
no interruptions, and I started in with
new energy to break what I then supposed
was a mere hoodoo.
For weeks I kept it up but was always
baffled, until one day, almost by accident,
I discovered the reason.
It was a short deck! There was no
Jack of Hearts!
Did you ever play solitaire with a short
deck for weeks upon weeks without discovering
the fact? No, you did not, or
you would now be here where I am. But
with that discovery my mind seemed to
clear suddenly. My friend had given me
a short deck. In attempting to win the
game with it I had become a solitaire
fiend. The absent Jack of Hearts had
caused all my trouble.
Then like a flash the truth broke in upon
me. It was a symbol. My friend
had given me a short deck. The pack
was incomplete. The Jack of Hearts
was missing. My friend was the Jack
of Hearts, and the pack would never be
perfect until he was with the other cards.
Then I became cunning, for I had a task
to perform. Heretofore I did not care
whether they thought me insane or not,
but now I must escape, and the only
way to do this was to persuade my keepers
that I was sane. So I dissembled.
"Deal or die," I commanded.
He sat down at the table, and his
hands trembling, dealt out the cards. and
began to play. Then I knew I had him,
and put the revolver away. Soon he
became fascinated and I watched with
sinister joy.
Three times he got as far as the Jack
of Hearts, and was stuck, but he dealt
again and again. Toward morning he
began to gibber idiotically.
"Jack of Hearts, Jack of Hearts," he
kept repeating in a nervous mumble.
Again the missing card had stuck him.
"Look through the deck for it," I said,
and he turned the cards face upward on
the table.
"It is n't there!" he cried.
"It never has been there," I shouted
exultingly. "The deck was short when
you gave it to me."
"Then why "—
"Do you know where that Jack of
Hearts is?" I hissed.
"No," he gasped.
I pointed an accusing finger at him.
"You're the Jack of Hearts," I
shrieked.
"Ridiculous!" he cried, but I could see
that he was in mortal terror.
I pointed the revolver at him.
"You are the Jack of Hearts," I repeated
slowly. "Now I will complete the
deck." And I shot him where he stood.
The next day they broke down the
door and found me there, the cards arranged
on the floor in the order of the
suits, with my friend lying between the
ten and the queen of hearts, and they
took me back to the asylum.
They now believe that I am incurably
insane, but I do not care. The pack is
complete, and I won the game
(THE END)
