‘Make it two,’ said Mr Du Pont. ‘Doubles.’ The wine waiter hurried off. Mr Du Pont sat back and produced his cigarettes and lighter. He looked round the room, answered one or two waves with a smile and a lift of the hand and glanced at the neighbouring tables. He edged his chair nearer to Bond’s. ‘Can’t help the noise, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. ‘Only come here for the crabs. They’re out of this-world. Hope you’re not allergic to them. Once brought a girl here and fed her crabs and her lips swelled up like cycle tyres.’
Bond was amused at the change in Mr Du Pont – this racy talk, the authority of manner once Mr Du Pont thought he had got Bond on the hook, on his payroll. He was a different man from the shy embarrassed suitor who had solicited Bond at the airport. What did Mr Du Pont want from Bond? It would be coming any minute now, the proposition. Bond said, ‘I haven’t got any allergies.’
‘Good, good.’
There was a pause. Mr Du Pont snapped the lid of his lighter up and down several times. He realized he was making an irritating noise and pushed it away from him. He made up his mind. He said, speaking at his hands on the table in front of him, ‘You ever play Canasta, Mr Bond?’
‘Yes, it’s a good game. I like it.’
‘Two-handed Canasta?’
‘I have done. It’s not so much fun. If you don’t make a fool of yourself – if neither of you do – it tends to even out. Law of averages in the cards. No chance of making much difference in the play.’
Mr Du Pont nodded emphatically. ‘Just so. That’s what I’ve said to myself. Over a hundred games or so, two equal players will end up equal. Not such a good game as Gin or Oklahoma, but in a way that’s just what I like about it. You pass the time, you handle plenty of cards, you have your ups and downs, no one gets hurt. Right?’
Bond nodded. The martinis came. Mr Du Pont said to the wine waiter, ‘Bring two more in ten minutes.’ They drank. Mr Du Pont turned and faced Bond. His face was petulant, crumpled. He said, ‘What would you say, Mr Bond, if I told you I’d lost twenty-five thousand dollars in a week playing two-handed Canasta?’ Bond was about to reply. Mr Du Pont held up his hand. ‘And mark you, I’m a good card player. Member of the Regency Club. Play a lot with people like Charlie Goren, Johnny Crawford – at bridge that is. But what I mean, I know my way around at the card table.’ Mr Du Pont probed Bond’s eyes.
‘If you’ve been playing with the same man all the time, you’ve been cheated.’
‘Ex-actly.’ Mr Du Pont slapped the table-cloth. He sat back. ‘Ex-actly. That’s what I said to myself after I’d lost -lost for four whole days. So I said to myself, this bastard is cheating me and by golly I’ll find out how he does it and have him hounded out of Miami. So I doubled the stakes and then doubled them again. He was quite happy about it. And I watched every card he played, every movement. Nothing! Not a hint or a sign. Cards not marked. New pack whenever I wanted one. My own cards. Never looked at my hand -couldn’t, as I always sat dead opposite him. No kibitzer to tip him off. And he just went on winning and winning. Won again this morning. And again this afternoon. Finally I got so mad at the game – I didn’t show it, mind you’ – Bond might think he had not been a sport – ‘I paid up politely. But, without telling this guy, I just packed my bag and got me to the airport and booked on the first plane to New York. Think of that!’ Mr Du Pont threw up his hands. ‘Running away. But twenty-five grand is twenty-five grand. I could see it getting to fifty, a hundred. And I just couldn’t stand another of these damned games and I couldn’t stand not being able to catch this guy out. So I took off. What do you think of that? Me, Junius Du Pont, throwing in the towel because I couldn’t take the licking any more!’