«And in that commodity business after the war, with all the regulations and restrictions, I expect it was often a case of being able to drop a thousand pounds in the right pocket. Officials. The ones who understand nothing but addition, division—and silence. The useful ones.»
M. paused while the next course came. With it arrived the champagne in a silver ice-bucket, and the small wicker-basket containing M.’s half-bottle of claret.
The wine-steward waited until they had delivered a favourable judgment on the wines and then moved away. As he did so a page came up to their table. «Commander Bond?» he asked.
Bond took the envelope that was handed to him and slit it open. He took out a thin paper packet and carefully opened it under the level of the table. It contained a white powder. He took a silver fruit knife off the table and dipped the tip of the blade into the packet so that about half its contents were transferred to the knife. He reached for his glass of champagne and tipped the powder into it.
«Now what?» said M. with a trace of impatience.
There was no hint of apology in Bond’s face. It wasn’t M. who was going to have to do the work that evening. Bond knew what he was doing. Whenever he had a job of work to do he would take infinite pains beforehand and leave as little as possible to chance. Then if something went wrong it was the unforeseeable. For that he accepted no responsibility.
«Benzedrine,» he said. «I rang up my secretary before dinner and asked her to wangle some out of the surgery at Headquarters. It’s what I shall need if I’m going to keep my wits about me tonight. It’s apt to make one a bit overconfident, but that’ll be a help too.» He stirred the champagne with a scrap of toast so that the white powder whirled among the bubbles. Then he drank the mixture down with one long swallow. «It doesn’t taste,» said Bond, «and the champagne is quite excellent.»
M. smiled at him indulgently. «It’s your funeral,» he said. «Now we’d better get on with our dinner. How were the cutlets?»
«Superb,» said Bond. «I could cut them with a fork. The best English cooking is the best in the world—particularly at this time of the year. By the way, what stakes will we be playing for this evening? I don’t mind very much. We ought to end up the winners. But I’d like to know how much it will cost Drax.»
«Drax likes to play for what he calls ‘One and One’,» said M., helping himself from the strawberries that had just been put on the table. «Modest sounding stake, if you don’t know what it stands for. In fact it’s one tenner a hundred and one hundred pounds on the rubber.»
«Oh,» said Bond respectfully. «I see.»
«But he’s perfectly happy to play for Two and Two or even Three and Three. Mounts up at those figures. The average rubber of bridge at Blades is about ten points. That’s £200 at One and One. And the bridge here makes for big rubbers. There are no conventions so there’s plenty of gambling and bluffing. Sometimes it’s more like poker. They’re a mixed lot of players. Some of them are the best in England, but others are terribly wild. Don’t seem to mind how much they lose. General Bealey, just behind us.» M. made a gesture with his head, «doesn’t know the reds from the blacks. Nearly always a few hundred down at the end of the week. Doesn’t seem to care. Bad heart. No dependants. Stacks of money from jute. But Duff Sutherland, the scruffy-looking chap next to the chairman, is an absolute killer. Makes a regular ten thousand a year out of the club. Nice chap. Wonderful card manners. Used to play chess for England.»
M. was interrupted by the arrival of his marrow bone. It was placed upright in a spotless lace napkin on the silver plate. An ornate silver marrow-scoop was laid beside it.
After the asparagus, Bond had little appetite for the thin slivers of pineapple. He tipped the last of the ice-cold champagne into his glass. He felt wonderful. The effects of the benzedrine and champagne had more than offset the splendour of the food. For the first time he took his mind away from the dinner and his conversation with M. and glanced round the room.
It was a sparkling scene. There were perhaps fifty men in the room, the majority in dinner jackets, all at ease with themselves and their surroundings, all stimulated by the peerless food and drink, all animated by a common interest—the prospect of high gambling, the grand slam, the ace pot, the key-throw in a 64 game at backgammon. There might be cheats or possible cheats amongst them, men who beat their wives, men with perverse instincts, greedy men, cowardly men, lying men; but the elegance of the room invested each one with a kind of aristocracy.
At the far end, above the cold table, laden with lobsters, pies, joints and delicacies in aspic, Romney’s unfinished full-length portrait of Mrs Fitzherbert gazed provocatively across at Fragonard’s Jeu de Cartes, the broad conversation-piece which half-filled the opposite wall above the Adam fireplace. Along the lateral walls, in the centre of each gilt-edged panel, was one of the rare engravings of the Hell-Fire Club in which each figure is shown making a minute gesture of scatological or magical significance. Above, marrying the walls into the ceiling, ran a frieze in plaster relief of carved urns and swags interrupted at intervals by the capitals of the fluted pilasters which framed the windows and the tall double doors, the latter delicately carved with a design showing the Tudor Rose interwoven with a ribbon effect.
The central chandelier, a cascade of crystal ropes terminating in a broad basket of strung quartz, sparkled warmly above the white damask tablecloths and George IV silver. Below, in the centre of each table, branched candlesticks distributed the golden light of three candles, each surmounted by a red silk shade, so that the faces of the diners shone with a convivial warmth which glossed over the occasional chill of an eye or cruel twist of a mouth.
Even as Bond drank in the warm elegance of the scene, some of the groups began to break up. There was a drift towards the door accompanied by an exchange of challenges, side-bets, and exhortations to hurry up and get down to business. Sir Hugo Drax, his hairy red face shining with cheerful anticipation, came towards them with Meyer in his wake.
«Well, gentlemen,» he said jovially as he reached their table. «Are the lambs ready for the slaughter and the geese for the plucking?» He grinned and in wolfish pantomime drew a finger across his throat. «We’ll go ahead and lay out the axe and the basket. Made your wills?»
«Be with you in a moment,» said M. edgily. «You go along and stack the cards.»
Drax laughed. «We shan’t need any artificial aids,» he said. «Don’t be long.» He turned and made for the door. Meyer enveloped them in an uncertain smile and followed him.
M. grunted. «We’ll have coffee and brandy in the card room,» he said to Bond. «Can’t smoke here. Now then. Any final plans?»
«I’ll have to fatten him up for the kill, so please don’t worry if I seem to be getting high,» said Bond. «We’ll just have to play our normal game till the time comes. When it’s his deal, we’ll have to be careful. Of course, he can’t alter the cards and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t deal us good hands, but he’s bound to bring off some pretty remarkable coups. Do you mind if I sit on his left?»
«No,» said M. «Anything else?»
Bond reflected for a moment. «Only one thing, sir,» he said. «When the time comes, I shall take a white handerchief out of my coat pocket. That will mean that you are about to be dealt a Yarborough. Would you please leave the bidding of that hand to me?»
CHAPTER VI
CARDS WITH A STRANGER
DRAX and Meyer were waiting for them. They were leaning back in their chairs, smoking Cabinet Havanas.