‘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.
Orlando did not place any bets for twenty minutes. He watched the play. Pirate had lit a foul-smelling cigar, the smoke rising in planes towards the ceiling. He opened his sketchbook and did a rapid drawing of Grandad’s Little Friend. She turned into a Degas ballerina, very scantily clad. Orlando stared in astonishment at the ceiling. He hadn’t looked closely at it before. Up there, gazing happily at the gamblers below were three naked women, who might have been the Three Graces. All were smoking cigars.
Bank Manager had been placing a series of small bets, mostly on the odd numbers. His pile of chips was diminishing rapidly. At seven minutes to twelve Orlando made his first move. He placed his largest chip, a bright pink one, on red. He was betting two and a half thousand pounds. Grandma and Pirate followed suit. The croupier spun the wheel and flipped the ball around the bowl. Rien ne va plus, no more bets. The wheel slowed down, the ball hovered agonizingly between the black 33 and the red 16. Orlando held his breath. Pirate, he noticed, had closed his one good eye. Grandma was clutching at a crucifix round her neck.
‘Seize,’ said the croupier impassively. ‘Rouge.’
Orlando now had a fortune of just over twenty thousand pounds, the minimum he thought necessary to marry his Imogen. Damn it, they might become poor after a while. He resolved to press on.
‘Merde!’ said the manager in his hidden box. ‘Merde!’
‘Do not upset yourself,’ said the Professor. ‘The night is yet young.’
From outside came the faint rumble of the last train to Nice. The moon had gone
in and the sea front was dark, some rich men’s yachts bobbing rhythmically up and down in the harbour.
Orlando was unruffled. He backed red for the next four spins of the wheel. Each time it was black. Grandma looked at him sadly as if she thought his magic powers had deserted him. Pirate had pulled out after three losses. A crowd had gathered round the table to watch the handsome young Englishman lose a fortune.
‘I believe he has ten thousand pounds left,’ said the manager to the Professor. ‘What will he do?’
‘Continue,’ said the Professor, who had grown rather fond of Orlando. ‘I am eighty-five per cent certain he will continue. I fear he may go on even when he has lost all his money.’
The great clock in the main hall of the casino struck one. Three times in succession the noir triumphed over the rouge. Orlando was down to his last two and a half thousand pounds. He couldn’t work out what had happened. The tendency to red seemed to have been replaced by a tendency to a malignant black.
He placed his last chip on the red. ‘Faites vos jeux,’ said the croupier, preparing to spin the wheel. Grandma suddenly decided to re-enter the fray. But this time she was betting against Orlando. She put her money on black. ‘Rien ne va plus, no more bets,’ said the croupier, as the ball slowed down. It settled noisily in its compartment.
‘Vingt-quatre. Noir,’ said the voice of doom.
‘Congratulations, Professor,’ said the manager, clapping him on the back. ‘Some champagne for you, perhaps? A cognac?’
‘No, thank you,’ said the Professor. ‘Are you going to give the young man any credit at the caisse? I do hope not.’
‘We have to live, Professor,’ said the manager cheerfully. ‘I told them to let him have another ten thousand English pounds. No more.’
Orlando waited. He took out his sketchbook and turned Pirate into an El Greco face, the eyepatch replaced. He did another Degas impersonation of Little Friend. He walked slowly through the crowd to the cashier’s. The crowd dissolved before him as if Moses was repeating the parting of the Red Sea in the casino at Monte Carlo. He is the young milord, they whispered to one another. He has lost everything. He is a professional gambler. He has come from America to break the bank. He will win again. Never have I seen such skill at the table. Such nerve.
The cashier advanced him ten thousand pounds without a question. The manager’s compliments, monsieur. Bonne chance, monsieur.
The croupier was sweating slightly as Orlando returned. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. The smoke was very thick. The crowd around the table had increased. From the ceiling the Three Graces with their cigars looked down. Their faces said they had seen it all before. The manager and the Professor leant forward in their seats. The smoke was obscuring the view.
Rouge, said Orlando. Noir, said the croupier. Rouge, said Orlando. Noir, said the croupier. Five thousand pounds down. This incredible run of blacks could not continue. It was mathematically impossible.
Rouge, said Orlando.
Noir, said the croupier as the ball came to rest.
Seven and a half thousand pounds down. One last throw would begin the revival of his fortunes. Rouge, said Orlando. The ball clattered round the bowl. Pirate was staring intently at the wheel. ‘Courage,’ murmured his French friend behind him. The little old lady made the sign of the cross. She had placed her last chips on the red along with Orlando.
The ball was slowing now. ‘Which colour, Professor?’ whispered the manager. The Professor looked at pages and pages of equations beside him. ‘Black,’ he said sorrowfully.
There was a murmur in the crowd as the ball hovered over the wheel. The Englishman is broken. He is finished. Can he pay? It seemed to be a choice between a black 2 and a red 25. Orlando looked at his last chip, sitting on the table. Grandad’s Little Friend had her two hands on the old man’s shoulders, straining for a better view.
The last rattle. The ball settled into its compartment.
‘Deux,’ said the croupier. ‘Noir.’
Orlando waited for half an hour at the table. He noticed bitterly that the next four rotations all ended in reds. He wondered about Imogen, their dreams of happiness lost in the spin of a wheel. He wondered what he was going to say to the cashier. He wondered if he would be sent to prison, left to rot like the Count of Monte Cristo in a miserable cell deep inside the Chateau d’If. He wondered how he could tell Imogen. He knew she wouldn’t be angry, only sad that their plan had failed.
At a quarter past two he left the table. His French friend followed him. The little old lady embraced him. ‘My poor boy, ’ she said, ‘my poor boy.’ The Pirate saluted him. ‘What courage,’ he said. ‘What bravery.’ The croupier shook his hand. ‘Au revolt, monsieur. I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again.’
Orlando’s friend led him to a quiet alcove off the main reception. Three Greek philosophers seemed to be having an argument on the walls behind them.
‘Mr Blane,’ said the Frenchman, ‘my name is Arnaud, Raymond Arnaud. Before we come to the business, let me ask you one question. Can you paint as well as you can draw?’
Orlando stared at the man. Paint? Paint? What on earth was he talking about? ‘Of course I can paint,’ he said, ‘I paint better than I can draw. I was trained at the Royal Academy and in Rome. But what of it? It does not matter now. I owe this casino ten thousand pounds. I do not have ten thousand pounds.’
Raymond Arnaud put his arm across his shoulders. ‘Mr Blane, my friends and I, we have been looking for a man like you. We will pay your debt. It does not go well with those who do not pay here. In France they are more lenient. But in Monte Carlo the authorities feel they have to make examples of those who gamble and cannot pay. Otherwise their casino would sink under a mountain of unpaid debts.’
Orlando could hardly believe his ears. Escape was being offered by this improbable Frenchman. ‘What do I have to do in return?’ he said.
‘You paint,’ said the Frenchman ‘you come and work for us in the world of painting. When you have earned enough to pay off your debt, we let you go!’
Raymond Arnaud did not say that he was the French associate of a firm of London art dealers, based in Old Bond Street. He did not say that they had been looking for somebody like Orlando Blane for eighteen months.
Orlando came back from his reverie. A flock of starlings was flying past the house, heading for the lake. He walked back down the Long Gallery to his stretcher and looked at his Gainsborough. He took the illustration from the American magazine out of its folder. Just the children, his instructions said. Don’t worry about a likeness for the parents, it might seem too much of a coincidence. Just the children, not too perfect a likeness. He reached for his brushes and began to work.
Orlando had never discovered where the instructions came from, or who sent them. He presumed they came from London. All he had to do was to work every day in the Long Gallery. In the evening he played cards with his jailers.
They played for matchsticks.
10
Lord Francis Powerscourt was having trouble with a letter. He stared gloomily at the full extent of his composition so far.
1st November 1899.
Mrs Rosalind Buckley,
64 Flood Street,
Chelsea.
Dear Madam,
Powerscourt was writing to the lover of the late Christopher Montague, one-time art critic, recent inheritor of a very large sum of money. He stared out at the trees in Markham Square.
‘Please forgive this intrusion on your privacy,’ he began.
I have been asked by his family to investigate the death of the late art critic Christopher Montague. I have been given to understand that you were a friend of his. I would be most grateful if you could spare me the time for a brief conversation about Christopher. Any such conversation would, of course, be entirely confidential. I would be happy to call on you in Flood Street at a time of your own choosing. Alternatively, should business take you in the direction of Markham Square, my wife
and I would be pleased to receive you here. Yours, Powerscourt.
He read it through again. Was it too cold? Did he sound like a solicitor about to impart bad tidings? Should he have said more than he had? Should he have mentioned the possibility of further deaths? No, he would leave it as it was, he decided.
But one fact worried him more than anything else. Lady Lucy’s intelligence system had revealed that Mr Buckley was a solicitor, partner in the well-known firm of Buckley, Brigstock and Brightwell. And that Mr Buckley was at least twenty years older than his wife. And that Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley had not been seen in his office for over three weeks. He had not been seen there since the day following the murder of Christopher Montague.
Johnny Fitzgerald decided he was going to enjoy his outing to Old Bond Street. He had a large parcel under his arm. He peered enthusiastically into the windows of the galleries, paintings for sale on offer, further exhibitions due to open shortly promising a cornucopia of artistic treasures.
He entered the offices of Clarke and Sons. The reception looked like a London club, he thought, portraits of previous Clarkes, drenched in respectability and sombre colours, hanging proudly on the walls.
‘Good morning,’ Johnny said cheerfully to the young man behind the desk.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the young man. ‘How can we help you?’
‘It’s this Leonardo here,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘it belongs to my aunt. She’s thinking of selling it. I wonder if you could tell me what it’s worth?’
The young man had sprung to attention at the mention of the word Leonardo. He had only been with the firm a few weeks but even he had absorbed enough to realize that a Leonardo was the ultimate prize. He would be remembered as the man who secured the da Vinci for Clarke’s. He would become famous. Other, better paid jobs would surely follow.
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