Bond lit another cigarette arid concentrated on the game, leaving his subconscious to digest the details of Drax’s appearance and manner that had seemed to him significant and that might help to explain the riddle of his cheating, the nature of which had still to be discovered.
Half an hour later the cards had completed the circle.
“My deal,” said Drax with authority. “Game all and we have a satisfactory inflation above the line. Now then, Max, see if you can’t pick up a few aces. I’m tired of doing all the work.” He dealt smoothly and slowly round the table, keeping up a running fire of rather heavy-handed banter with the company. “Long rubber,” he said to M. who was sitting smoking his pipe between Drax and Basildon. “Sorry to have kept you out so long. How about a challenge after dinner? Max and I’ll take on you and Commander Thingummy. What did you say his name was? Good player?”
“Bond,” said M. “James Bond. Yes, I think we’d like that very much. What do you say, James?”
Bond’s eyes were glued to the bent head and slowly moving hands of the dealer. Yes, that was it! Got you, you bastard. A Shiner. A simple, bloody Shiner that wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in a pro’s game. M. saw the glint of assurance in Bond’s eyes as they met across the table.
“Fine,” said Bond cheerfully. “Couldn’t be better.” He made an imperceptible movement of the head. “How about showing me the Betting Book before dinner? You always say it’ll amuse me.”
M. nodded. “Yes, Come along. It’s in the Secretary’s office. Then Basildon can come down and give us a cocktail and tell us the result of this death-struggle.” He got up.
“Order what you want,” said Basildon with a sharp glance at M. “I’ll be down directly we’ve polished them off.”
“Around nine then,” said Drax, glancing from M. to Bond. “Show him the bet about the girl in the balloon.” He picked up his hand. “Looks Eke I shall have the Casino’s money to play with,” he said after a rapid glance at his cards. “Three No Trumps.” He shot a triumphant glance at Basildon. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
Bond, following M. out of the room, missed Basildon’s reply.
They walked down the stairs and along to the Secretary’s office in silence. The room was in darkness. M. switched on the light and went and sat down in the swivel chair in front of the busy-looking desk. He turned the chair to face Bond who had walked over to the empty fireplace and was taking out a cigarette.
“Any luck?” he asked looking up at him. “Yes,” said Bond. “He cheats all right.”
“Ah,” said M. unemotionally. “How does he do it?”
“Only on the deal,” said Bond. “You know that silver cigarette-case he has in front of him, with his lighter? He never takes cigarettes from it. Doesn’t want to get fingermarks on the surface. It’s plain silver and very highly polished. When he deals, it’s almost concealed by the cards and his big hands. And he doesn’t move his hands away from it. Deals four piles quite close to him. Every card is reflected in the top of the case. It’s just as good as a mirror although it looks perfectly innocent lying there. As he’s such a good businessman it would be normal for him to have a first-class memory. You remember I told you about ‘Shiners’? Well, that’s just a version of one. No wonder he brings off these miraculous finesses every once in a while. That double we watched was easy. He knew his partner had the guarded queen. With his two aces the double was a certainty. The rest of the time he just plays his average game. But knowing all the cards on every fourth deal is a terrific edge. It’s not surprising he always shows a profit.”
“But one doesn’t notice him doing it,” protested M.
“It’s quite natural to look down when one’s dealing,” said Bond. “Everybody does. And he covers up with a lot of banter, much more than he produces when someone else is dealing. I expect he’s got very good peripheral vision-the thing they mark us so highly for when we take our medical for the Service. Very wide angle of sight.”