Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘They’re both incorrigible – never satisfied unless they’re betting huge amounts of money on something or other, and they don’t have a lot of talent for it. But the gods of the tables seem to smile on them. They always seem to win big just when all seems lost, and they somehow keep their heads above water. I love them both dearly, but they do worry me.’

  ‘Do you worry about all your members?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Aspinall replied. ‘Well, they’re all friends. That’s the principle behind the Clermont: that you eat and drink with friends, and game with friends. Everyone knows the rules, and everyone knows their limits.

  ‘Do you know, Conrad, when I started the Clermont, it was just a small group of us. There was Ian, Dai Llewellyn, Dominick Elwes, Jimmy Goldsmith, Mark Birley, Lucky Lucan, and me. All of us friends, all used to playing together. And everyone played a part. Ian was in charge of food and drink. He’s quite an expert, by the way – that’s why the food and drink are so good here compared to other clubs. Dai was our social secretary. Dominick was our one-man membership committee – still is, come to think of it: recommending new members, making sure they’re suitable and all the rest of it. Then you’ve got Lucky and Jimmy, who know a lot of people, people with the right social background, with the right kind of resources to join a club like the Clermont. Of course, we have many more members now, but that’s how it started, with an emphasis on quality rather than quantity.’

  He looked up to the ceiling.

  ‘Did you know I used to host games at the Ritz before I started here?’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Conrad replied. ‘Was that legal?’

  ‘Not at the time,’ Aspinall laughed. ‘But no one cared. And you know why? It was because it was all among friends, and they were the kind of friends no one was going to refuse, even at the Ritz – perhaps especially at the Ritz. And that’s how it is today at the Clermont. So, Conrad, this is what I want to ask of you: be my friend. If you have a problem – with losses, with another member, whatever it is – you come to me. You don’t go to anyone else, inside the Club or outside. You come to me. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Good. And you must know your limits. Members here tend to play high, but you don’t have to try to match them. I’m sure you know what I mean. What interests you?’

  ‘Chemin de fer,’ Conrad replied immediately. ‘I’ve played most of the card games, including classical baccarat, but never chemmy.’

  Aspinall smiled. ‘Ah, well, you’ve come to the right place. Chemmy is a house speciality, and there’s a game on the go every night.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Getting on for 1 o’clock. Things should be warming up downstairs. Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ Conrad replied. As they stood to leave, he said, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, John. What was it that made you offer me membership?’

  Aspinall laughed.

  ‘Dominick told Ian he thought you were all right,’ he replied.

  20

  They walked down one floor to the heart of the Clermont Club, the first floor, which boasted the two gaming rooms, both exquisitely decorated with artwork and a rich, dark red velvet wall covering. A desk stood in front of them as they left the small staircase leading to Aspinall’s office. There was not much space on the landing separating the desk from the magnificent main staircase, which with startling suddenness curved steeply away towards the ground floor. The view down from the landing was both exhilarating and vertiginous. Conrad felt a momentary wobble as he allowed his eyes to follow the sharp fall of the stairs.

  ‘This is the cash desk,’ Aspinall said, ‘and this is Vicente, who will be in charge of giving you your chips and cashing you out.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Rainer,’ Vicente said. ‘Welcome to the Clermont Club.’

  ‘So this is your first port of call if you’re playing. Then, you have a choice. To your right is the Holland Room, and to your left is the Blue Room. Take your pick. There was more action in the Blue than the Holland earlier. Is it still busier there, Vicente?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Aspinall,’ Vicente replied. ‘There’s been a good crowd in the Blue Room all night.’

  ‘It changes from night to night,’ Aspinall said. ‘Let’s go into the Blue Room, and I’ll introduce you to whoever there is to meet, and then you’re on your own. It would be a good idea for you to make a bit of a tour of the building tonight, even if you don’t play very much, just so that people get to know you. Spend a bit of time in the Holland, and make an appearance in the Club Room downstairs.’

  ‘I will,’ Conrad promised.

  To the right of the door of the Blue Room was a large green-covered table, shaped like an imperfect figure eight, with the eight’s curves but without a coming together in the centre. Nine men were seated around the table, which was presided over by a dinner-jacketed croupier.

  ‘Right, let’s see who we have,’ Aspinall said, leading Conrad into the room by his arm. He turned left, away from the card table.

  ‘Can I have your attention for a moment, everyone? This is Conrad Rainer, a new member. He’s a QC, so you’d all better be on your best behaviour, but Dominick has pronounced him to be a thoroughly decent fellow.’

  There was some laughter.

  ‘Perfectly true,’ Dominick Elwes said, advancing and offering his hand. ‘Welcome, Conrad.’

  ‘This is Lord Lucan, “Lucky” to his friends.’

  Conrad offered his hand to the Earl of Lucan, and noted his sharp features, his jet black hair combed back and parted so precisely, and his thick black moustache. Lucan took his hand briefly with a slight nod of the head, but said nothing.

  ‘This is Lord Derby; and this objectionable fellow is the notorious Kerry Packer, who’s doing his damnedest to ruin the sacred game of cricket. Typical bloody Australian. I can’t imagine why we ever made him a member.’

  ‘You like the money, mate,’ Packer replied, laughing. ‘You and everybody else.’ He shook Conrad’s hand. ‘Welcome aboard, sport. I hope you’ve brought your wallet and your cheque book with you.’

  ‘And you already know these two reprobates,’ Aspinall smiled, as they approached Ian and Susie Maxwell-Scott.

  ‘Conrad, darling,’ Susie said, getting to her feet, cocktail glass in hand. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  She kissed him, and then John Aspinall, on both cheeks.

  ‘You’ve arrived just in time. Ian is just off to join the table, and he’s leaving me alone. You can keep me company for a while.’ She took Conrad’s arm and turned him away from Aspinall slightly.

  ‘He’s only just let me back in,’ she added, in a stage whisper designed to allow Aspinall to hear. ‘He had me banned for weeks. So unfair.’

  ‘She was as pissed as a newt the last time she was here,’ Aspinall said, ‘and she got loud. The members were complaining – and if she doesn’t behave herself tonight she’ll find herself out on her ear again.’

  She stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘Ian, thanks for the introduction,’ Conrad said, offering his hand.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Ian replied. ‘Make yourself at home, won’t you. And you don’t have to babysit Susie.’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ Susie insisted.

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ Conrad grinned.

  ‘Have you played chemmy before?’ she asked, as Ian took his seat at the table. Kerry Packer had also joined.

  ‘No,’ Conrad replied. ‘I’ve tried blackjack and I’ve played baccarat once or twice, but I’m interested in chemmy. I want to give it a try.’

  ‘You’d better watch for a while,’ she said, ‘just to get the hang of it, and get a feel for how much money changes hands here. It moves at a pretty fast pace. Don’t join till you’ve got a feel for it. Y
ou can lose a lot of money in a hurry.’

  She took his arm.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you a drink and observe from a safe distance.’

  She put her head around the door.

  ‘Vicente, be a love and call down to the bar and get Mr Rainer a drink, will you? He must be dying of thirst. What will it be, Conrad, a G and T?’

  ‘Whisky, with a splash.’

  ‘The Famous Grouse, with a splash,’ Susie said. ‘Put it on my husband’s account.’

  ‘Coming right up, Mrs Maxwell-Scott,’ Vicente grinned.

  21

  ‘If you’ve played baccarat,’ Susie said, ‘you’ll know the basics. The main difference with chemin de fer is that the house doesn’t act as banker. A player has the bank. The bank starts with the player on the croupier’s right; so it would have started with whoever that is on Jean-Pascal’s right – looks familiar but I can’t quite place him – and as you see, it’s already made its way down to Dai Llewellyn. A player keeps the bank as long as he’s winning, but once he loses, the bank passes to the player to his right. That’s where the name comes from. “Chemin de Fer” is French for “railway”. The bank goes round like a train.’

  ‘But if the house isn’t the banker, how does the house get its cut?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘These days there’s a standard table charge. In the old days, the house took 20 per cent of the amount wagered in each round, and Jean-Pascal would have raked if off into the Cagnotte before the cards were turned over. But that’s not legal now. John still does all right out of the game, though, believe me.’

  ‘I’m sure. Does the bank play against all the other players?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must mean that the bank stands to lose quite a bit on each hand? Can the banker give up and pass the bank to the next player?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a certain etiquette involved. You can lose a lot as the banker, but you can also win a lot, and it’s not the done thing to pass as soon as you’re ahead.’

  ‘You have to give the others a sporting chance to recover?’

  ‘Yes. Two or three hands is usually enough to keep everyone happy. But remember, the banker is either winning from, or losing to, every player who places a wager.’

  ‘But not every player receives cards – otherwise the bank would be outnumbered.’

  ‘That’s right. One player represents all the others, however many there may be, and everyone lives and dies by the two cards the representative is dealt. So it’s two cards against two.’

  They were standing close enough to the table to see, but far enough away not to interfere.

  ‘The bank wagers £300,’ Dai Llewellyn was saying.

  ‘Now the others have to decide whether to match the bank,’ Susie was whispering. ‘The player to his right – that’s Henry Vyner, I think, I’ve only met him once – has first call. If he calls “Banco prime”, the bank is covered and Jean-Pascal will announce no more bets. It’s French again of course. What he says is, “Rien ne va plus”.’

  ‘What if Vyner doesn’t cover the bank?’

  ‘Then, any other player can cover the bank. If no one does, each player can wager at his discretion up to the amount wagered by the bank; and if the bank agrees, the amount can be increased, but the bank sets the limit. You see those two squares on the table? The first one, the Banque, is where the croupier places the amount covered, and the second one, the Reliquat, is for any uncovered amount.’

  ‘Banco,’ Ian called.

  ‘There you go,’ Susie smiled. ‘Ian’s in the game. It never takes him long.’

  ‘So John was telling me.’

  She smiled, but she seemed irritated.

  ‘John can be such a killjoy. It’s our money, for God’s sake. There are times when he needs to… well, don’t get me started on that. So now, Ian represents the players. If there had been a banco prime, he would represent; if not, it’s the first player to call banco; and failing that, it’s the player who lays the highest wager.’

  Conrad’s drink arrived. He thanked the waiter, who left quietly.

  ‘Rien ne va plus,’ Jean-Pascal called.

  ‘Now we come to the cards,’ Susie said. ‘Always dealt from the shoe by the croupier, of course.’

  ‘Using several packs?’

  ‘Six to eight packs,’ she replied. ‘The house rule here is eight, or at least that’s what Jean-Pascal always uses.’

  ‘And the goal is nine points from two cards?’

  ‘Exactly. A total of nine or eight is called a “natural”. The nine is “La Grande” and the eight is “La Petite”, and any natural means that no more cards are drawn. Nine wins, and eight wins unless there’s a nine.’

  ‘What happens if it’s a tie?’

  ‘The croupier calls, “Égalité”, and rolls the wagers over to the next hand.’

  They couldn’t see the faces of the cards, but Jean-Pascal was announcing that the bank had won by La Petite to zero.

  ‘Dai’s in form tonight, apparently,’ Susie said. ‘You can score zero in any number of ways. All the picture cards are worth zero, so if you have a jack and a queen you have zero, and if you have a four and a king, you have four.’

  ‘And there are several ways of making a natural.’

  ‘Yes. Aces count as one, so to get to nine you can have ace plus eight, two plus seven, three plus six, and so on.’

  ‘When can you draw an extra card?’

  ‘That varies a bit from house to house. Here, the rule is that the players can draw on zero to four, they stand on six or seven, and they can either stand or draw on five. If the players stand, the bank is allowed to draw on zero to five but stands on six or seven. If your score goes above nine, you deduct ten, or twenty, so it always comes down to something between zero and nine.’

  Jean-Pascal had raked the used cards into the Panier, and a short break had been declared to allow the players time for a drink; the Clermont did not permit drinking at the table itself.

  ‘So, have you got the idea?’ she asked, as the players dispersed.

  ‘I think so. I’m going to watch tonight, and I’ll take a hand next time I come in.’

  ‘Very wise.’ She took his arm and walked him away from the table. ‘I haven’t even asked you how you’re doing, Conrad. How’s the practice going?’

  ‘Busy. Commercial stuff, frauds, you know. How are the children?’

  ‘Driving us mad as usual, but we can’t complain. I’m sure we drive them even more mad with the lifestyle we lead. How are things at home?’

  ‘Much the same, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Bible studies and no booze?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘How bloody for you, darling. I’m so sorry.’

  She kissed him on the cheek. Ian was approaching.

  ‘Don’t forget to make the rounds, Conrad, will you?’ She tapped him on the chest with her forefinger for emphasis. ‘And don’t forget the Club Room.’

  ‘John told me to show my face everywhere.’

  ‘Yes, but now I’m telling you. And I’m telling you not to forget the Club Room.’

  ‘Why? Are there a lot of people down there?’

  ‘Sir Jack Bristow – you know, the property magnate – was there earlier.’

  ‘Is he someone I should meet?’

  ‘Not particularly, but he was with someone you should definitely meet,’ she smiled.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. She struck me as someone who might be a bit of an antidote to the home situation, if you see what I mean.’

  Conrad raised his eyebrows and returned her smile.

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes open.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘do.’

  22

  The Club Room was almost empty. As Conrad entered, several members were mak
ing their way out, talking and laughing, one or two smoking cigars, en route to the Holland Room to start up a game. Only two or three tables were still occupied. Conrad approached a waiter and quietly asked where he might find Sir Jack Bristow. The waiter pointed discreetly to a corner table at the far end of the room. Conrad looked. He saw a short, fair-haired man in his fifties or sixties, wearing a suit – cheap-looking and a fraction too small for him, the fabric a far-too-light blue, the jacket already beginning to shine at the elbows. And then he saw her.

  She was tall, with vivid red hair and green eyes, age hard to read – he put her in her early thirties but felt that he could well be off by several years either way – not slim exactly, but with no excess weight at all and perfectly proportioned. She was wearing a stunning low-cut cocktail dress, red, with matching high red heels and an elegant gold necklace, tight to her skin. She seemed to notice him too. Although she was speaking to Bristow, her green eyes strayed in his direction, and stayed on him as he approached.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Sir Jack. Do forgive me. I’m a new member. John Aspinall has given me strict orders to introduce myself to everyone tonight before I’m allowed to leave, on pain of banishment, so here I am. My name is Conrad Rainer.’

  Reluctantly, Bristow forced himself to stand, and offered his hand.

  ‘I’m Jack Bristow. Allow me to present Greta Thiemann.’

  She offered her hand, which he took and kissed lightly. Her perfume was restrained but alluring, a fragrance he did not recognise but which recalled a scent of wild roses.

  ‘Miss Thiemann.’

  She sat back and lit a cigarette in an ivory-coloured holder.

  ‘It would be Fräulein Thiemann, if you want to be formal,’ she said, ‘but I prefer just Greta.’

  ‘Why don’t you join us?’ Bristow said, raising a hand to attract the waiter’s attention. ‘Greta gets bored listening to me talking about new buildings all night, and besides, I promised to go upstairs and lose some money in the Holland Room.’