“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.