Margaret Maron: The Right Jack

Molly Baldwin had learned this very quickly. She had also learned that what Madame Ronay didn't know couldn't be used against anyone. Especially since the only two times the imperturbable Mr. Flythe had been annoyed were both her fault.

The Maintenon provided a lavish setting, but Graphic Games saw to the actual tournament equipment: the boards, the playing cards, and the scoring sheets. Since the tournament was also an advertising ploy, three long display cases along the wide hall outside the d'Aubigné Room were filled with samples of Graphic Games products. There were exquisitely detailed chess sets, board games that could be stored on one's bookshelves and then unfolded into large intricate playing surfaces, old familiars like Chinese checkers whose marbles were subtly colored metamorphic rocks and quartzites, and, of course, each case featured one of Graphic Games' beautiful cherry cribbage boards.

Molly had ordered the cases brought up from storage. They were beveled glass boxes on mahogany legs, banded in brass, and the maids had polished them to the gleam of burnished gold and crystal. One of the seamstresses had produced some dark blue velvet that made an effective backdrop for the game pieces and Mr. Flythe had arranged everything to his satisfaction on Thursday morning.

On Thursday afternoon, it was discovered that one of the cribbage boards was missing.

Molly Baldwin was stricken. She hadn't thought to lock the cases and, conscious of her guilt, she listened to a mild lecture by Mr. Flythe and came away shocked. It had not previously registered that the hand-enameled chess set was cast in solid silver, nor that a Chinese checkers game could cost several hundred dollars. Chastened, she had hurriedly located keys to the cases, but when she returned to lock the barn doors, she found Mr. Flythe even more vexed than previously.

'Miss Baldwin, I'm certain I made it clear that the pairings were not to be posted until immediately before the room opened tomorrow night,' he'd fumed.

The tournament was limited to five hundred players, and those names had been fed into a computer at Graphic games for random pairing. Mr. Flythe retained a copy of the print-out and had given one to Molly, who had passed it on to the Maintenon's visual arts man. He, in turn, had drawn a seating diagram, mounted both the pairing list and diagram on velvet-covered tagboard, and set the board upon a delicate brass display easel just inside the ballroom sometime on Thursday.

Molly vaguely recalled Mr. Flythe's original admonitions, but she really didn't understand his insistence on such secrecy and said so. Besides, she added reasonably, the list was inside the ballroom, not out in the public areas where any passerby might read it. None of the staff could be interested in who played whom and at which table-staff members and their families were strictly barred from the tournament-so surely no harm was done?

Mr. Flythe had gazed upon her troubled blue eyes and earnest young face and his wrath had melted. Mr. Flythe was at least fifteen years older than Miss Baldwin, but he had been with Graphic Games less than a year and this was his first solo tournament, too-although he had no intention of letting Miss Baldwin know that.

Instead, he had raked his dark head into a neat point, smiled at Miss Baldwin and invited her to dinner.

Now, as Lucienne Ronay swept along the upper hall for a final inspection of the d'Aubigné Room, Molly followed like a nervous shadow. La Reine would flit around the room to twitch a tablecloth into smoother drapes or position a pink satin matchbook stamped with the Maintenon's silver crest into the exact center of an ashtray, but with a little luck that was all she would find to fault Miss Baldwin with tonight.

LIKE the Cristal Galerie, the d'Aubigné Room was clearly designed and furnished by someone enamored of the decorative arts which had flourished under the Bourbons. Proto-baroque motifs first seen under Henry IV were indiscriminately mixed with the rocaille of Louis XVI. Florid paints of Greek gods and goddesses en famille alternated with mirrored panels., and both were framed by fanciful scrolls, wreaths and shells carved of gilded plaster. Nymphs in plaster relief sported chastely on the coved ceiling amid dazzling chandeliers.

Heedless of the nymphs above, Mr. Wolferman was enjoying the pre-tournament social hour immensely. He had taken a glass of wine with a schoolteacher, a plumber and an insurance broker, and had heard the president's economic programs lauded and damned with equal fervor until the plumber tactfully insisted they change the subject to cards; whereupon Mr. Wolferman slipped away to replenish his glass and join a promising-looking group of hearty outdoorsman types.

At the last moment, he recognized Sam Babcock, a piratical old tycoon who had evidently sailed down from Newport for the tournament with a contingent of fellow yachtsmen. He'd hear nothing from them he couldn't hear over lunch at any one of his clubs every day, so he veered off sharply before they recognized him and almost sloshed his wine on a very attractive woman.

"I do apologize!" he exclaimed. "It's crowded in here, but I should never forgive myself if I've spoiled your pretty red frock."

Commander T. J. Dixon smiled at his quaint turn of phrase and assured him that no harm was done. She glanced discreetly at his name tag. "No harm at all, Mr. Wolferman."

Her voice immediately charmed Mr. Wolferman. It was soft, but absolutely clear, with bell-like overtones that suddenly reminded him of childhood summers in Switzerland. He leaned forward to read her name tag. " Commander T. J. Dixon?"

"United States Navy," she nodded. "And what does T. J. stand for?" he inquired.

"That, Mr. Wolferman, is a closely guarded military secret," she laughed, and the pure tones of her laughter tugged even more strongly at the fringes of deep-seated memory and made him helpless.

"Forgive me saying it, but you have the most enchanting laugh. Would you object to meeting my cousin Haines?"

He saw her give his wineglass a considering glance. "Forgive me again, Commander," he said hastily. "I assure you I'm neither inebriated nor a lunatic. My cousin is here tonight, also a contestant. He has a much finer ear than I and I'm sure that if he could but hear you speak or laugh, he'd be able to explain why your voice reminds me so clearly of our boyhood."

Intrigued, Commander Dixon agreed. "Only we have to wait until-" She stood on tiptoes to search the crowd, then waved to a tall bearlike man whose glowering face broke into a happy grin when he spotted her. He carried two brimming wineglasses, one of which he handed to her as delicately as if it were a stemmed eggshell, then beamed at Mr. Wolferman as the small woman said, "Mr. Wolferman, may I present Comrade Vassily Ivanovich of the Soviet trade delegation?"

"Charmed, charmed," said Mr. Wolferman and guided them through the crowd toward his cousin.

After an unobtrusive glance in one of the gilt-framed mirrors to reassure himself that his tie was knotted properly. Detective Tildon joined the crowd gathered around the list of pairings. He saw the figure 102 beside his name and scanned the placard for his opponent. He might have known the other 102 was a Commander T. J. Dixon. He'd be sunk by the Navy before the evening even began, he thought gloomily. Probably some grizzled old mustang who'd come up through the ranks and polished off amateur cribbage players like him before morning chow.

He tugged at his tie again. It was a rich brown rep, heavier than his usual workday ties. The kids had given it to him on his last birthday and they'd made him wear it today for good luck. Tillie miserably decided he'd rather be home reading them a bedtime story right now.