“No bid,” said Meyer, feeling in the air the electricity of just that crisis he had hoped to avoid. Why the hell hadn’t he gone home before this last rubber? He groaned inwardly.
“No bid,” said M. apparently unperturbed. “Double.” The word came viciously out of Drax’s mouth. He put down his hand and looked cruelly, scornfully at this tipsy oaf who had at last, inexplicably, fallen into his hands. “That mean you double the side-bets too?” asked Bond. “Yes,” said Drax greedily. “Yes. That’s what I meant.”
“All right,” said Bond. He paused. He looked at Drax and not at his hand. “Redouble. The contract and the side-bets. £400 a trick on the side.”
It was at that moment that the first hint of a dreadful, incredible doubt entered Drax’s mind. But again he looked at his hand, and again he was reassured. At the very worst he couldn’t fail to make two tricks.
A muttered “No bid” from Meyer. A rather strangled “No bid” from M. An impatient shake of the head from Drax.
Basildon stood, his face very pale, looking intently across the table at Bond.
Then he walked slowly round the table, scrutinizing all the hands. What he saw was this:
And suddenly Basildon understood. It was a laydown Grand Slam for Bond against any defence. Whatever Meyer led, Bond must get in with a trump in his own hand or on the table. Then, in between clearing trumps, finessing of course against Drax, he would play two rounds of diamonds, trumping them in dummy and catching Drax’s ace and king in the process. After five plays he would be left with the remaining trumps and six winning diamonds. Drax’s aces and kings would be totally valueless.
It was sheer murder.
Basildon, almost in a trance, continued round the table and stood between M. and Meyer so that he could watch Drax’s face, and Bond’s. His own face was impassive, but his hands, which he had stuffed into his trouser pockets so that they would not betray him, were sweating. He waited, almost fearfully, for the terrible punishment that Drax was about to receive-thirteen separate lashes whose scars no card-player would ever lose.
“Come along, come along,” said Drax impatiently. “Lead something, Max. Can’t be here all night.”
You poor fool, thought Basildon. In ten minutes you’ll wish that Meyer had died in his chair before he could pull out that first card.
In fact, Meyer looked as if at any moment he might have a stroke. He was deathly pale, and the perspiration was dropping off his chin on to his shirt front. For all he knew, his first card might be a disaster.
At last, reasoning that Bond might be void in his own long suits, spades and hearts, he led the knave of diamonds.
It made no difference what he led, but when M.’s hand went down showing chicane in diamonds, Drax snarled across at his partner. “Haven’t you got anything else, you dam’ fool? Want to hand it to him on a plate? Whose side are you on, anyway?”
Meyer cringed into his clothes. “Best I could do, Hugger,” he said miserably, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
But by this time Drax had got his own worries.
Bond trumped on the table, catching Drax’s king of diamonds, and promptly led a club. Drax put up his nine. Bond took it with his ten and led a diamond, trumping it on the table. Drax’s ace fell. Another club from the table, catching Drax’s knave.
Then the ace of clubs.
As Drax surrendered his king, for the first time he saw what” might be happening. His eyes squinted anxiously at Bond, waiting fearfully for the next card. Had Bond got the diamonds? Hadn’t Meyer got them guarded? After all, he had opened with them. Drax waited, his cards slippery with sweat.
Morphy, the great chess player, had a terrible habit. He would never raise his eyes from the game until he knew his opponent could not escape defeat. Then he would slowly lift his great head and gaze curiously at the man across the board. His opponent would feel the gaze and would slowly, humbly raise his eyes to meet Morphy’s. At that moment he would know that it was no good continuing the game. The eyes of Morphy said so. There was nothing left but surrender.