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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,
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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.
"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
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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.
"That was a bit of a beetle-crusher," he said cheerfully. "Seems you're
holding the champions. What are the stakes?"
Bond left the answer to Drax. He was glad of the diversion. It could not have
been better timed. Drax had cut the blue cards to him. He married the two
halves and put the pack just in front of him, near the edge of the table.
"Fifteen and fifteen. On my left," said Drax.
Bond heard Basildon draw in his breath.
"Chap seemed to want to gamble, so I accommodated him. Now he goes and gets
all the cards& "
Drax grumbled on.
Across the table, M. saw a white handkerchief materialize in Bond's right
hand. M.'s eyes narrowed. Bond seemed to wipe his face with it. M. saw him
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