The young man's brows had lowered. His frown darkened. Pure malice was reflected in his eyes.
"And besides, Masden, I just happen to dislike you very much. You're scum, nothing but scum. I wouldn't mind taking the risk of getting hurt, or even of getting killed, for the privilege of being able to take a crack at you."
Rick Masden, although he really didn't make a movement, nevertheless squirmed in his chair, and his right hand seemed to twitch. "So you and I are going to have a knife fight, huh, mister?" he asked.
"We certainly are if you get up from that chair."
Masden took a long drink from his glass, draining it finally, and grimacing at the burn of the liquor. He scowled at Duquay, then blustered:
"Okay, you start it, dad. Go ahead, start something."
"I didn't say I was going to start anything," Duquay answered. "I've only been telling you what I intended to do if you started anything."
Now the silence was deep and lengthy. The two men faced each other, each with both hands visible on the table. In Masden's right hand was the kitchen knife. Both of Duquay's hands were empty. But Masden's gaze flicked over to the desk, saw the dagger there, came quickly back again. Seconds and minutes ticked away.
Then Masden said, "Why don't you give me what I want? A few bucks, a suit of clothes, and your car keys. You got insurance. Then neither one of us gets hurt. Why don't you?"
"Certainly not."
Masden chewed his lips now, thoughtfully. "Then what happens, dad? We just sit here? You said if I make a move you're going to upset the table and grab that knife. Then the fight starts. We either fight or sit here, huh? I gotta get moving…"
Quite suddenly then a new light flashed in the fugitive's gray eyes. He started to stand up, then changed his mind, but his body quivered now under the restraint of the other's threat.
"I get it, I get it now," Masden said between clenched teeth. "You're expecting some guys here to play cards, and you're trying to keep me here till they come."
Duquay remained calm. "I'm doing a pretty good job of it, don't you think, Masden?" he asked. "Yes, I'm expecting them in a few minutes."
"But you're not going to get away with it."
"You can still make a choice. You leave your chair, I upset the table and go for my dagger. You can still try your luck that way."
"I'd be nuts to just wait here…" The thin body trembled irresolutely.
"There's one more alternative, of course, Masden."
"What do you mean?" Hope was in the fugitive's voice now.
"Well, if we fight, I'll be taking a risk too. I'm not anxious to take that risk just for its own sake. So I might be willing to make a trade. My safety for your escape. Your empty-handed escape, I might add."
Rick Masden wasn't as confident or as truculent as he had been previously. "I'm listening to you, dad," he said.
"Well, it's like this. I feel in danger as long as you're holding that knife. You jump up suddenly, how do I know whether you intend to attack me or run away. So whatever you intend, if you do jump up, I have to defend myself. Then the battle's joined, whether we intended it that way or not. See what I mean?"
Masden nodded. "I think so."
"The key to the whole situation then is in your knife. You want to escape from here. I don't want to have to fight you if I don't have to help you and co-operate with you. But as long as you have that knife in your hand, you can't move in any direction without starting a fight. So the only way out I can see is for you to toss your knife to the center of the table."
"What!"
"That's right. Then neither of us will be armed."
"Then what happens to me? You're a football player. I suppose you…"
"The table is between us. You have that much of a head start. You ought to be able to get out of here before I can catch you."
"But you'll telephone the cops."
Duquay smiled. "You're a smart boy, Masden. I hadn't thought about it, but as a public-spirited citizen, I probably would have. All right, I'll make a deal with you. My phone for your knife."
"How do you mean?"
"My phone's right here within arm's reach on my desk. If you'll allow me, I'll reach around and rip it out of its connection. I'll go first, of course. I'll rip out the phone first, and then you throw your knife to the center of the table and start running. What dp you say?"
The young man's brows contracted. He was thinking furiously. Now and then he looked at Duquay, measuring his man, his width of shoulder, his tenacity of purpose.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "You jerk out the phone. But first. I'll keep my knife while you do. And if you go for that dagger of yours instead of the phone…"
"You just keep an eye on me, Masden."
Slowly, not making any sudden movements, and managing to keep his eyes on his adversary all the while, Duquay half turned in his chair, extended his left arm to the side and behind him, reached the phone, got a good grip on it. Then he pulled firmly and steadily. Finally there was a snapping sound, and the cord dangled loose.
"Satisfied that it's out?" Duquay asked. He dropped the phone and it landed on the thick rug with a soft thud. "Now your knife, please. In the center of the table where neither of us can reach it too easily."
They eyed each other again, neither still quite believing in the other's word, still not trusting each other. There was a long pause while neither moved.
"Come on, Masden. As long as you're holding the knife, you can't leave that chair."
Silently, with obvious reluctance and regret, the young man conceded the point. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the shiny object spinning toward the center of the table. It pirouetted through two revolutions, then lay still.
"Now keep your seat, dad," Masden said, "because I'm taking off."
"I'm sorry I can't wish you good luck, Masden," Duquay replied.
They said their farewells silently. And then both the farewells and the silence were interrupted by a small noise. Both men at the table heard it.
Masden didn't hesitate in reacting to it. His chair flew back behind him as he left the table on the run. Duquay didn't move, but instead gripped both arms of his chair and shouted at the top of his voice, "Sam, stop that man, he's a criminal!"
There was yelling and scuffling and cursing out in the other room. Byron Duquay didn't go to join it or watch it. He sat where he was, content with listening. The scuffling sounds reached a crescendo, till finally one tremendous single sound ended it all — the solid crash of fist on bone.
Duquay sat back and relaxed. The bright light over the card table revealed sweat on his upturned face…
…Captain Sam Williams put in his second appearance at Byron Duquay's poker game about two hours later. It had taken about that long to dispose of Rick Masden, to put him back behind bars, and to fill out a complete report giving all details of the capture.
"Byron," he said, shaking his grizzled head, "I don't know whether I dare sit down at a poker table with you any more. Man, I never realized you had such a capacity for bluffing."
"You flatter me, Sam," Duquay said. "I was lucky, that's all. Before Virginia left this evening, I insisted she help me out of the wheelchair and put me here. Sometimes I prefer receiving you gentlemen in a regular chair, you see. Makes me feel less like an invalid. If I'd been in my wheelchair, I could never have bluffed Masden, not for one single moment."
Sam nodded in agreement. His gaze wandered through the open bedroom door, to where a pair of silvery wheels gleamed in the semi-darkness. Rick Masden had missed seeing those. Or if he had seen them, he just hadn't connected them with the man at the table.