'Messieurs, mesdames, les jeux sont faits. Un banco de cinq cent mille,' and as the Greek at Number 1 tapped the table in front of his fat pile of hundredmille plaques, 'Le banco est fait.'
Le Chiffre crouched over the shoe. He gave it a short deliberate slap to settle the cards, the first of which showed its semicircular pale pink tongue through the slanting aluminium mouth of the shoe. Then, with a thick white forefinger he pressed gently on the pink tongue and slipped out the first card six inches or a foot towards the Greek on his right hand. Then he slipped out a card for himself, then another for the Greek, then one more for himself
He sat immobile, not touching his own cards.
He looked at the Greek's face.
With his flat wooden spatula, like a long bricklayer's trowel, the croupier delicately lifted up the Greek's two cards and dropped them with a quick movement an extra few inches to the right so that they lay just before the Greek's pale hairy hands which lay inert like two watchful pink crabs on the table.
The two pink crabs scuttled out together and the Greek gathered the cards into his wide left hand and cautiously bent his head so that he could see, in the shadow made by his cupped hand, the value of the bottom of the two cards. Then he slowly inserted the forefinger of his right hand and slipped the bottom card slightly sideways so that the value of the top card was also just perceptible.
His face was quite impassive. He flattened out his left hand on the table and then withdrew it, leaving the two pink cards face down before him, their secret unrevealed.
Then he lifted his head and looked Le Chiffre in the eye.
'Non,' said the Greek flatly.
From the decision to stand on his two cards and not ask for another, it was clear that the Greek had a five, or a six, or a seven. To be certain of winning, the banker had to reveal an eight or a nine. If the banker failed to show either figure, he also had the right to take another card which might or might not improve his count.
Le Chiffre's hands were clasped in front of him, his two cards three or four inches away. With his right hand he picked up the two cards and turned them face upwards on the table with a faint snap.
They were a four and a five, an undefeatable natural nine.
He had won.
'Neuf à la banque,' quietly said the croupier. With his spatula he faced the Greek's two cards, 'Et le sept,' he said unemotionally, lifting up gently the corpses of the seven and queen and slipping them through the wide slot in the table near his chair which leads into the gib metal canister to which all dead cards are consigned. Le Chiffre's two cards followed them with a faint rattle which comes from the canister at the beginning of each session before the discards have made a cushion over the metal floor of their oubliette.
The Greek pushed forward five plaques of one hundred thousand and the croupier added these to Le Chiffre's half million plaque which lay in the centre of the table. From each bet the Casino takes a tiny percentage, the cagnotte, but it is usual at a big game for the banker to subscribe this himself either in a prearranged lump or by contributions at the end of each hand, so that the amount of the bank's stake can always be a round figure. Le Chiffre had chosen the second course.
The croupier slipped some counters through the slot in the table which receives the cagnotte and announced quietly:
'Un banco d'un million.'
'Suivi,' murmured the Greek, meaning that he exercised his right to follow up his lost bet.
Bond lit a cigarette and settled himself in his chair. The long game was launched and the sequence of these gestures and the reiteration of this subdued litany would continue until the end came and the players dispersed. Then the enigmatic cards would be burnt or defaced, a shroud would be draped over the table and the grassgreen baize battlefield would soak up the blood of its victims and refresh itself.
The Greek, after taking a third card, could achieve no better than a four to the bank's seven.
'Un banco de deux millions,' said the croupier.
The players on Bond's left remained silent.
'Banco,' said Bond.
CHAPTER 11 - MOMENT OF TRUTH
Le Chiffre looked incuriously at him, the whites of his eyes, which showed all round the irises, lending something impassive and dolllike to his gaze.
He slowly removed one thick hand from the table and slipped it into the pocket of his dinnerjacket. The hand came out holding a small metal cylinder with a cap which Le Chiffre unscrewed. He inserted the nozzle of the cylinder, with an obscene deliberation, twice into each black nostril in turn, and luxuriously inhaled the benzedrine vapour.
Unhurriedly he pocketed the inhaler, then his hand came quickly back above the level of the table and gave the shoe its usual hard, sharp slap.
During this offensive pantomime Bond had coldly held the banker's gaze, taking in the wide expanse of white face surmounted by the short abrupt cliff of reddishbrown hair, the unsmiling wet red mouth and the impressive width of the shoulders, loosely draped in a massively cut dinnerjacket.
But for the highlights on the satin of the shawlcut lapels, he might have been faced by the thick bust of a blackfleeced Minotaur rising out of a green grass field.
Bond slipped a packet of notes on to the table without counting them. If he lost the croupier would extract what was necessary to cover the bet, but the easy gesture conveyed that Bond didn't expect to lose and that, this was only a token display from the deep funds at Bond's disposal.
The other players sensed a tension between the two gamblers and there was silence as Le Chiffre fingered the four cards out of the shoe.
The croupier slipped Bond's two cards across to him with the tip of his spatula. Bond, still with his eyes holding Le Chiffre's, reached his right hand out a few inches, glanced down very swiftly, then as he looked up again impassively at Le Chiffre, with a disdainful gesture he tossed the cards face upwards on the table.
They were a four and a five — an unbeatable nine.
There was a little gasp of envy from the table and the players to the left of Bond exchanged rueful glances at their failure to accept the two million franc bet.
With a hint of a shrug, Le Chiffre slowly faced his own two cards and flicked them away with his fingernail. They were two valueless knaves.
'Le baccarat,' intoned the croupier as he spaded the thick chips over the table to Bond.
Bond slipped them into his righthand pocket with the unused packet of notes. His face showed no emotion, but he was pleased with the success of his first coup and with the outcome of the silent clash of wills across the table.
The woman on his left, the American Mrs Du Pont, turned to him with a wry smile.
'I shouldn't have let it come to you,' she said. 'Directly the cards were dealt I kicked myself.'
'It's only the beginning of the game,' said Bond. 'You may be right the next time you pass it.'
Mr Du Pont leant forward from the other side of his wife: 'If one could be right every hand, none of us would be here,' he said philosophically.
'I would be,' his wife laughed. 'You don't think I do this for pleasure.'
As the game went on, Bond looked over the spectators leaning on the high brass rail round the table. He soon saw Le Chiffre's two gunmen. They stood behind and to either side of the banker. They looked respectable enough, but not sufficiently a part of the game to be unobtrusive.