«That’s about it,» he said slowly. «I don’t know much more than you do. A wonderful story. Extraordinary man.» He paused, reflecting. «There’s only one thing…» M. tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth.
«What’s that, sir?» asked Bond.
M. seemed to make up his mind. He looked mildly across at Bond.
«Sir Hugo Drax cheats at cards.»
CHAPTER III
’BELLY STRIPPERS’, ETC.
«CHEATS AT cards?»
M. frowned. «That’s what I said,» he commented drily. «It doesn’t seem to you odd that a multi-millionaire should cheat at cards?»
Bond grinned apologetically. «Not as odd as all that, sir,» he said. «I’ve known very rich people cheat themselves at Patience. But it just didn’t fit in with my picture of Drax. Bit of an anti-climax.»
«That’s the point,» said M. «Why does he do it? And don’t forget that cheating at cards can still smash a man. In so-called Society, it’s about the only crime that can still finish you, whoever you are. Drax does it so well that nobody’s caught him yet. As a matter of fact I doubt if anyone has begun to suspect him except Basildon. He’s the Chairman of Blades. He came to me. He’s got a vague idea I’ve got some thing to do with Intelligence and I’ve given him a hand over one or two little troubles in the past. Asked my advice. Said he didn’t want a fuss at the club, of course, but above all he wants to save Drax from making a fool of himself. He admires him as much as we all do and he’s terrified of an incident. You couldn’t stop a scandal like that getting out. A lot of MPs are members and it would soon get talked about in the Lobby. Then the gossip-writers would get hold of it. Drax would have to resign from Blades and the next thing there’d be a libel action brought in his defence by one of his friends. Tranby Croft all over again. At least, that’s how Basildon’s mind is working and I must say I can see it that way too. Anyway,» said M. with finality, «I’ve agreed to help and,» he looked levelly at Bond, «that’s where you come in. You’re the best card-player in the Service, or,» he smiled ironically, «you should be after the casino jobs you’ve been on, and I remembered that we’d spent quite a lot of money putting you through a course in card-sharping before you went after those Roumanians in Monte Carlo before the war.»
Bond smiled grimly. «Steffi Esposito,» he said softly. «That was the chap. American. Made me work ten hours a day for a week learning a thing called the Riffle Stack and how to deal Seconds and Bottoms and Middles. I wrote a long report about it at the time. Must be buried in Records. He knew every trick in the game. How to wax the aces so that the pack will break at them; Edge Work and Line Work with a razor on the backs of the high cards; Trimming; Arm Pressure Holdouts—mechanical gadgets up your sleeve that feed you cards. Belly Strippers—trimming a whole pack less than a millimetre down both sides, but leaving a slight belly on the cards you’re interested in—the aces, for instance. Shiners, tiny mirrors built into rings, or fitted into the bottom of a pipe-bowl. Actually,» Bond admitted, «it was his tip about Luminous Readers that helped me on that Monte Carlo job. A croupier was using an invisible ink the team could pick out with special glasses. But Steffi was a wonderful chap. Scotland Yard found him for us. He could shuffle the pack once and then cut the four aces out of it. Absolute magic.»
«Sounds a bit too professional for our man,» commented M. «That sort of work needs hours of practice every day, or an accomplice, and I can’t believe he’d find that at Blades. No, there’s nothing sensational about his cheating and for all I know it might be a fantastic run of luck. It’s odd. He’s not a particularly good player—he only plays bridge by the way—but quite often he brings off bids or doubles or finesses that are absolutely phenomenal—quite against the odds. Or the conventions. But they come off. He’s always a big winner and they play high at Blades. He hasn’t lost on a weekly settlement since he joined a year ago. We’ve got two or three of the finest players in the world in the Club and none of them has ever had a record like that over twelve months. It’s getting talked about in a sort of joking way and I think Basildon’s right to do something about it. What system do you suppose Drax has got?»
Bond was longing for his lunch. The Chief of Staff must have given him up half an hour ago. He could have talked to M. about cheating for hours, and M., who never seemed to be interested in food or sleep, would have listened to everything and remembered it afterwards. But Bond was hungry.
«Assuming he’s not a professional, sir, and can’t doctor the cards in any way, there are only two answers. He’s either looking, or else he’s got a system of signals with his partner. Does he often play with the same man?»
«We always cut for partners after each rubber,» said M. «Unless there’s a challenge. And on guest nights, Mondays and Thursdays, you stick to your guest. Drax nearly always brings a man called Meyer, his metal broker. Nice chap. Jew. Very fine player.»
«I might be able to tell if I watched,» said Bond.
«That’s what I was going to say,» said M. «How about coming along tonight? At any rate you’ll get a good dinner. Meet you there about six. I’ll take some money off you at piquet and we’ll watch the bridge for a little. After dinner we’ll have a rubber or two with Drax and his friend. They’re always there on Monday. All right? Sure I’m not taking you away from your work?»
«No, sir,» said Bond with a grin. «And I’d like to come very much. Bit of a busman’s holiday. And if Drax is cheating, I’ll show him I’ve spotted it and that should be enough to warn him off. I wouldn’t like to see him get into a mess. That all, sir?»
«Yes, James,» said M. «And thank you for your help. Drax must be a bloody fool. Obviously a bit of a crank. But it isn’t the man I’m worried about. I wouldn’t like to chance anything going wrong with this rocket of his. And Drax more or less is the Moonraker. Well, see you at six. Don’t bother about dressing. Some of us do for dinner and some of us don’t. Tonight we won’t. Better go along now and sandpaper your fingertips or whatever you sharpers do.»
Bond smiled back at M. and got to his feet. It sounded a promising evening. As he walked over to the door and let himself out he reflected that here at last was an interview with M. that didn’t cast a shadow.
M’s secretary was still at her desk. There was a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk beside her typewriter. She looked sharply at Bond, but there was nothing to be read in his expression.
«I suppose he gave up,» said Bond.
«Nearly an hour ago,» said Miss Moneypenny reproachfully. «It’s half-past two. He’ll be back any minute now.»
«I’ll go down to the canteen before it closes,» he said. «Tell him I’ll pay for his lunch next time.» He smiled at her and walked out into the corridor and along to the lift.
There were only a few people left in the officers’ canteen. Bond sat by himself and ate a grilled sole, a large mixed salad with his own dressing laced with mustard, some Brie cheese and toast, and half a carafe of white Bordeaux. He had two cups of black coffee and was back in his office by three. With half his mind preoccupied with M.’s problem, he hurried through the rest of the NATO file, said goodbye to his secretary after telling her where he would be that evening, and at four-thirty was collecting his car from the staff garage at the back of the building.
«Supercharger’s whining a bit, sir,» said the ex-RAF mechanic who regarded Bond’s Bentley as his own property. «Take it down tomorrow if you won’t be needing her at lunch-time.»
«Thanks,» said Bond, «that’ll be fine.» He took the car quietly out into the park and over to Baker Street, the two-inch exhaust bubbling fatly in his wake.