“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.
Nearly every night for more than a hundred and fifty years there had been just such a scene, he reflected, in this famous room. The same cries of victory and defeat, the same dedicated faces, the same smell of tobacco and drama. For Bond, who loved gambling, it was the most exciting spectacle in the world. He gave it a last glance to fix it all in his mind and then he turned back to his table.
He picked up his cards and his eyes glittered. For once, on Drax’s deal, he had a cast-iron game hand; seven spades with the four top honours, the ace of hearts, and the ace, king of diamonds. He looked at Drax. Had he and Meyer got the clubs? Even so Bond could overbid. Would Drax try and force him too high and risk a double? Bond waited.
“No bid,” said Drax, unable to keep the bitterness of his private knowledge of Bond’s hand out of his voice.
“Four spades,” said Bond.
No bid from Meyer; from M.; reluctantly from Drax.
M. provided some help, and they made five.
One hundred and fifty points below the line. A hundred above for honours.
“Humph,” said a voice at Bond’s elbow. He looked up. It was Basildon. His game had finished and he had strolled over to see what was happening on this separate battlefield.
He picked up Bond’s score-sheet and looked at it.