Orlando Blane hardly heard him. He was counting his winnings. ‘Tomorrow night, monsieur,’ Orlando said very quietly, ‘I shall draw in the style of Degas.’
Now he was eighteen thousand pounds ahead. Was that enough? Would eighteen thousand be enough to marry his Imogen? Should he pay his bill, check out of his miserable auberge, head for the railway station and take the train home to London? Orlando did not. He did check out of his auberge. He booked himself into the grandest hotel in Monte Carlo and prepared himself for one final apocalyptic night of glory.
The doors of the casino closed at four o’clock that morning. At five minutes past the manager convened an emergency meeting in his room.
‘We cannot go on like this,’ he said. ‘Soon we may be in severe financial difficulties. This Englishman is winning too much. The other players too, they are putting their money on the red. They are winning too. What, in God’s name, is happening?’
The senior croupier shook his head. ‘I do not know, sir,’ he said. ‘He is not cheating. He is not interfering with the play in any way. It’s just red, red, red.’
‘Where is that damned Professor?’ said the manager angrily. The casino had summoned a Professor of Mathematics from the University of Nice, an expert in chance and probability, in the theory of patterns and numbers.
‘He was wandering round the gaming rooms the last time I saw him,’ said the casino security manager. ‘In fact he wasn’t actually upright, he was lying on the floor, checking that the table was perfectly level. Which it is, apparently.’
‘He was what?’ shouted the manager. ‘We are in danger of losing everything and this fool is crawling about on the floor! Is he drunk?’
‘No, I am not drunk,’ said the Professor of Mathematics. The Professor was in his middle fifties, with receding hair and thick glasses and a worried air. His hobby was collecting notes on the weather. He believed that if he kept his records long enough the day would come when he could predict with almost total certainty, ninety-three per cent probability in his private estimation, what the weather would be the following day. So far he had thirty years of weather records, originally kept in the back room of his house, now stored in a very large shed in his garden.
‘It is a most interesting phenomenon,’ the Professor began, looking at the casino staff as if they were a particularly dense collection of first year mathematics students, ‘this run of numbers should not have happened. But it has. For a student of probabilities, it could become a classic case. It will feature in the textbooks for years.’
‘Never mind your bloody textbooks, Professor,’ said the casino manager angrily. ‘This run has been going on for five days. Will it continue? Or will it stop?’
The Professor of Mathematics looked back in the notebook where the numbers were stored. He filled three pages with calculations written in a small spidery hand.
‘I am seventy-five per cent sure that the run on red will stop tomorrow. But it might not. It could, logically, carry on for ever, but I do not think it will.’ He smiled at the casino staff.
The manager stared at the Professor of Mathematics. He was used to these probabilities by now. He had yet to hear the man from the University of Nice get as far as a hundred per cent sure. Ninety-eight per cent was as good as it got.
‘But what do we do?’ said the manager. ‘We can’t close the casino down. They are a very superstitious lot, these winning gamblers. If we moved the table with a different wheel to a different room, what would you say the chances were of the Englishman continuing to play?’
The Professor leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. The three other men watched while the calculations whizzed round in his head.
‘Based on the studies of Professor Kuntzbuhl in Vienna, and Professor Spinetti of Rome, on the psychology of gamblers, based admittedly on work with prisoners in jail for non-payment of gambling debts in their respective cities, I should say the chances are between twenty-five and thirty per cent. They are very superstitious, these gamblers. Change the table, change anything at all and they feel their luck has gone. They stop playing.’
‘No more bets? None at all?’ said the manager sadly.
‘No more bets,’ said the Professor, firmly.
‘What else do you suggest, Professor?’ the casino manager felt sure the balding academic would have some suggestion. The casino didn’t pay him five thousand a year as a consultant for nothing.
‘For the moment, I regret to say, I have nothing to suggest. Chance follows its own logic, however irrational it may seem to the uninitiated. Chance’s logic says the table must return to normal.’
‘There is one other question,’ said the croupier. ‘I have been watching this young man very carefully. I think he has a figure in his mind for his winnings. I suspect he may be quite close to it. He may, of course, keep on gambling after he has passed it and throw it all away. Gamblers on a run tend to think they are immortal. Should we increase the size of the maximum stake? It is the most likely way to recoup the money, is it not, Professor?’
‘Seventy-eight per cent probability, I should say,’ the Professor replied. ‘Probably Assuming he comes, that is. I cannot put a figure on that though I should say it is over sixty-three per cent.’
‘He’ll come,’ said the manager firmly. ‘I feel it in my bones. Ninety-nine per cent probability. And when he comes, the table, gentlemen, will carry double the size of the maximum stake. On reflection, don’t double it. Make it two hundred and fifty thousand francs, two thousand five hundred pounds. The largest stakes ever seen in this casino, maybe in the whole of France. Come, Englishman, come, we shall be ready for you. Mesdames et messieurs, je vous en prie. Faites vos jeux.’
The hotel had cleaned Orlando’s clothes. As he made his way to the casino shortly after eleven o’clock he wondered if that would bring him bad luck. The sea was very calm, a crescent moon shining on the water. Carriages were bringing the night’s gamblers to the tables. Orlando changed all his money at the caisse. He considered playing with only half of his winnings until he reflected that his system depended on a long run of play. He slid quietly into his normal place at the table, to the left of the croupier. Two of the other players were known by sight. They had followed him on his last two visits to the roulette wheel, copying his bets, although with smaller stakes. One was a little old lady with white hair who Orlando privately referred to as Grandma. The other was dressed in military uniform. He had a very long face with a deep scar running down his cheek and a black eye patch over his left eye. He was Pirate. On the other side of the table was an erect old gentleman, accompanied by a remarkably pretty girl. Orlando suspected that the casino employed a cluster of female beauties to make friends with the male customers and ensure that they spent the maximum amount on the cards or at the wheel. She became Grandad’s Little Friend. The final player was an officious-looking middle-aged man, permanently checking his watch, as if time gave clues to the final destination of the roulette ball. He became Bank Manager. Behind him his artistic friend whispered into his ear as he sat down. ‘Good evening, my friend. You still have the sketchbook, I see. Degas tonight, did you say?’
Behind an enormous mirror across the Salon Vert from Orlando’s position the manager of the casino and the Professor of Mathematics were seated at a little table, opera glasses in their hands. The mirror was two-way. The casino men had a perfect view.
‘Well,’ said the manager to the Professor. ‘Are you confident?’
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘But we shouldn’t expect it to become apparent immediately.’
The manager worried about the lack of a percentage. He worried if he had been right to raise the stakes to this incredibly high level. He took a deep pull on his cigar and settled down to wait.