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.