As he watched the casual downward glance at the cigarette-case between the two hands and felt the cool memory ticking up the card values as they passed over its surface, Bond cleared his mind of all regrets, absolved himself of all blame for what was about to happen, and focused his attention on the game. He settled himself more comfortably into his chair and rested his hands on the padded leather arms. Then he took the thin cheroot from between his teeth, laid it on the burnished copper surround of the ashtray beside him and reached for his coffee. It was very black and strong. He emptied the cup and picked up the balloon glass with its fat measure of pale brandy. As he sipped it and then drank ” again, more deeply, he looked over the rim at M. M. met his eye and smiled briefly.
“Hope you like it,” he said. “Comes from one of the Rothschild estates at Cognac. About a hundred years ago one of the family bequeathed us a barrel of it every year in perpetuity. During the war they hid a barrel for us every year and then sent us over the whole lot in 1945. Ever since then we’ve been drinking doubles. And,” he gathered up his cards, “now we shall have to concentrate.”
Bond picked up his hand. It was average. A bare two-and-a-half quick tricks, the suits evenly distributed. He reached for his cheroot and gave it a final draw, then killed it in the ashtray.
“Three clubs,” said Drax. No bid from Bond. Four clubs from Meyer. No bid from M.
Hm, thought Bond. He’s not quite got the cards for a game call this tune. Shut-out call-knows that his partner has got a bare raise. M. may have got a perfectly good bid. We may have all the hearts between us, for instance. But M. never gets a bid. Presumably they’ll make four clubs.
They did, with the help of one finesse through Bond. M. turned out not to have had hearts, but a long string of diamonds, missing only the king, which was in Meyer’s hand and would have been caught. Drax didn’t have nearly enough length for a three call. Meyer had the rest of the clubs.
Anyway, thought Bond as he dealt the next hand, we were lucky to escape without a game call.
Their good luck continued. Bond opened a No Trump, was put up to three by M., and they made it with an over-trick. On Meyer’s deal they went one down in five diamonds, but on the next hand M. opened four spades and Bond’s three small trumps and an outside king, queen were all M. needed for the contract.
First rubber to M. and Bond. Drax looked annoyed. He had lost £900 on the rubber and the cards seemed to be running against them.
“Shall we go straight on?” he asked. “No point in cutting.” M. smiled across at Bond. The same thought was in both their minds. So Drax wanted to keep the deal. Bond shrugged his shoulders.
“No objection,” said M. “These seats seem to be doing their best for us.”
“Up to now,” said Drax, looking more cheerful. And with reason. On the next hand he and Meyer bid and made a small slam in spades that required two hair-raising finesses, both of which Drax, after a good deal of pantomime and hemming and hawing, negotiated smoothly, each time commenting loudly on his good fortune.
“Hugger, you’re wonderful,” said Meyer fulsomely. “How the devil do you do it?”
Bond thought it time to sow a tiny seed. “Memory,” he said.
Drax looked at him, sharply. “What do you mean, memory?” he said. “What’s that got to do with taking a finesse?”
“I was going to add ‘and card sense’,” said Bond smoothly. “They’re the two qualities that make great card-players.”
“Oh,” said Drax slowly. “Yes, I see.” He cut the cards to Bond and as Bond dealt he felt the other man’s eyes examining him carefully.
The game proceeded at an even pace. The cards refused to get hot and no one seemed inclined to take chances. M. doubled Meyer in an incautious four-spade bid and got him two down vulnerable, but on the next hand Drax went out with a lay down three No Trumps. Bond’s win on the first rubber was wiped out and a bit more besides.
“Anyone care for a drink?” asked M. as he cut the cards to Drax for the third rubber. “James. A little more champagne. The second bottle always tastes better.”
“I’d like that very much,” said Bond.
The waiter came. The others ordered whiskies and sodas.
Drax turned to Bond. “This game needs livening up,” he said. “A hundred we win this hand.” He had completed the deal and the cards lay in neat piles in the centre of the table.
Bond looked at him. The damaged eye glared at him redly. The other was cold and hard and scornful. There were beads of sweat on either side of the large, beaky nose.
Bond wondered if he was having a fly thrown over him to see if he was suspicious of the deal. He decided to leave the man in doubt. It was a hundred down the drain, but it would give him an excuse for increasing the stakes later.
“On your deal?” he said with a smile. “Well,” he weighed imaginary chances. “Yes. All right.” An idea seemed to come to him. “And the same on the next hand. If you like,” he added.
“All right, all right,” said Drax impatiently. “If you want to throw good money after bad.”
“You seem very certain about this hand,” said Bond indifferently, picking up his cards. They were a poor lot and he had no answer to Drax’s opening No Trump except to double it. The bluff had no effect on Drax’s partner. Meyer said
“Two No Trumps” and Bond was relieved when M., with no long suit, said “No bid”. Drax left it in two No Trumps and made the contract.
“Thanks,” he said with relish, and wrote carefully on his score. “Now let’s see if you can get it back.”
Much to his annoyance, Bond couldn’t. The cards still ran for Meyer and Drax and they made three hearts and the game.
Drax was pleased with himself. He took a long swallow at his whisky and soda and wiped down his face with his bandana handkerchief.
“God is with the big battalions,” he said jovially. “Got to have the cards as well as play them. Coming back for more or had enough?”
Bond’s champagne had come and was standing beside him in its silver bucket. There was a glass goblet three-quarters full beside it on the side table. Bond picked it up and drained it, as if to give himself Dutch courage. Then he filled it again.
“All right,” he said thickly, “a hundred on the next two hands.”
And promptly lost them both, and the rubber.
Bond suddenly realized that he was nearly £1,500 down. He drank another glass of champagne. “Save trouble if we just double the stakes on this rubber,” he said rather wildly. “All right with you?”
Drax had dealt and was looking at his cards. His lips were wet with anticipation. He looked at Bond who seemed to be having difficulty lighting his cigarette. “Taken,” he said quickly. “A hundred pounds a hundred and a thousand on the rubber.” Then he felt he could risk a touch of sportsmanship. Bond could hardly cancel the bet now. “But I seem to have got some good tickets here,” he added. “Are you still on?”
“Of course, of course,” said Bond, clumsily picking up his hand. “I made the bet, didn’t I?”
“All right, then,” said Drax with satisfaction. “Three No Trumps here.”
He made four.
Then, to Bond’s relief, the cards turned. Bond bid and made a small slam in hearts and on the next hand M. ran out in three No Trumps.
Bond grinned cheerfully into the sweating face. Drax was picking angrily at his nails. “Big battalions,” said Bond, rubbing it in.
Dax growled something and busied himself with the score.
Bond looked across at M., who was putting a match, with evident satisfaction at the way the game had gone, to his second cheroot of the evening, an almost unheard of indulgence.
“Traid this’ll have to be my last rubber,” said Bond. “Got to get up early. Hope you’ll forgive me.”
M. looked at his watch. “It’s past midnight,” he said. “What about you, Meyer?”
Meyer, who had been a silent passenger for most of the evening and who had the look of a man caught in a cage with a couple of tigers, seemed relieved at being offered a chance of making his escape. He leapt at the idea of getting back to his quiet flat in Albany and the soothing companionship of his collection of Battersea snuff-boxes.
“Quite all right with me,”Admiral,” he said quickly. “What about you, Hugger? Nearly ready for bed?”
Drax ignored him. He looked up from his score-sheet at Bond. He noticed the signs of intoxication. The moist forehead, the black comma of hair that hung untidily over the right eyebrow, the sheen of alcohol in the grey-blue eyes.
“Pretty miserable balance so far,” he said. “I make it you win a couple of hundred or so. Of course if you want to run out of the game you can. But how about some fireworks to finish up with? Treble the stakes on the last rubber? Fifteen and fifteen? Historic match. Am I on?”
Bond looked up at him. He paused before answering. He wanted Drax to remember every detail of this last rubber, every word that had been spoken, every gesture.
“Well,” said Drax impatiently. “What about it?”
Bond looked into the cold left eye in the flushed face. He spoke to it alone.
“One hundred and fifty pounds a hundred, and £1,500 on the rubber,” he said distinctly. “You’re on.”
CHAPTER VII
THE QUICKNESS OF THE HAND
THERE WAS a moment’s silence at the table. It was broken by the agitated voice of Meyer.
“Here I say,” he said anxiously. “Don’t include me in on this, Hugger.” He knew it was a private bet with Bond, but he wanted to show Drax that he was thoroughly nervous about the whole affair. He saw himself making some ghastly mistake that would cost his partner a lot of money.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Max,” said Drax harshly. “You play your hand. This is nothing to do with you. Just an enjoyable little bet with our rash friend here. Come along, come along. My deal, Admiral.”
M. cut the cards and the game began. Bond lit a cigarette with hands that had suddenly become quite steady. His mind was clear. He knew exactly what he had to do, and when, and he was glad that the moment of decision had come.
He sat back in his chair and for a moment he had the impression that there was a crowd behind him at each elbow, and that faces were peering over his shoulder, waiting to see his cards. He somehow felt that the ghosts were friendly, that they approved of the rough justice that was about to be done.
He smiled as he caught himself sending this company of dead gamblers a message, that they should see that all went well.
The background noise of the famous gaming room broke in on his thoughts. He looked round. In the middle of the long room, under the central chandelier, there were several onlookers round the poker game. ‘Raise you a hundred.’ ‘And a hundred.’ ‘And a hundred.’ ‘Damn you. I’ll look’, and a shout of triumph followed by a hubbub of comment. In the distance he could hear the rattle of a croupier’s rake against the counters at the Shemmy game. Nearer at hand, at his end of the room, there were three other tables of bridge over which the smoke of cigars and cigarettes rose towards the barrelled ceiling.
