by Peter Murphy
He left his hat and coat in the cloakroom, and walked briskly into the Clermont. He paused at the bar for a whisky and soda. It was still early, not even 10 o’clock. He had planned it that way. It meant that the gaming rooms might still be quiet, that there might be fewer players than he would have liked, but it gave him a sporting chance of avoiding Greta. The last thing he needed tonight was Greta standing behind him, bending over him, the warmth of her body and the scent of her perfume taking his mind off the cards as she goaded him on to ever greater risks. With any luck she would not come much before midnight, if she came at all. With any luck, by the time she arrived… there was that word again: luck. He chatted to Mario, the barman, for a few minutes as he drank, and bought another drink to take with him.
He made his way upstairs just after 10.15 and, feeling suddenly exposed, looked around him awkwardly before approaching Vicente at the cash desk to exchange his £2,000 for the chips that represented his path to freedom. The Blue Room was quiet, as he had expected. Play was not yet under way, but Jean-Pascal was preparing the table; unwrapping eight new packs of cards, positioning the shoe and his rake. He exchanged greetings with the croupier, and watched him work for a few moments before standing back to survey the room.
‘Lucky’ Lucan was sitting by himself in a corner, reading The Times. Dominick Elwes was chatting to Ian and Susie Maxwell-Scott in a corner. Susie waved and blew him a kiss. In another corner, John Aspinall was listening – probably involuntarily, Conrad thought to himself with a smile – to Kerry Packer. Conrad’s lips tightened. How that man had ever become a member… well, money talking, obviously. The cricket magnate’s brash Australian speech was jarring, and it was non-stop – the man couldn’t keep his mouth shut for a minute, not even during a game. He was a disconcerting presence at the table. Conrad was aware enough to know that it was a deliberate tactic, designed to keep his opponents off balance; but knowing that didn’t make him any less difficult to deal with. It would be a better table without him, but that choice wasn’t Conrad’s to make. He would just have to tune Packer out. At least there was no Goldsmith tonight.
With a visible effort, Aspinall detached himself from Packer and approached Conrad, putting a hand on his shoulder.
‘Evening, Conrad,’ he said affably. ‘How are things?’
‘Oh, can’t grumble, John, how about you?’
‘Oh, very fair, very fair. Overworked as usual, but there we go… are you sitting in for a hand or two this evening?’
Conrad displayed his chips. ‘All set.’
Aspinall had left his hand on Conrad’s shoulder. He squeezed gently, and steered Conrad to the door and out on to the landing by the cash desk. Vicente immediately became intensely absorbed in some papers on the far side of the desk.
‘Conrad, I hope you don’t mind my mentioning this,’ Aspinall began confidentially, ‘but are you sure you’re all right to play this evening?’
Conrad stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s just that… I can’t help noticing – just part of being in charge of things, you know, it’s the kind of thing I have to notice – but I can’t help noticing that you haven’t had much of a run of the cards recently. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I just want to make sure everything is all right. Greta came in last night, you know, after you’d gone, and she seemed to think – well, she seemed to think that perhaps things might be a bit difficult at the moment.’
He paused.
‘We love having you here, Conrad, goes without saying. I’m just asking because I’m concerned – as a friend, you know.’
Conrad repressed a flash of anger.
‘You don’t want to pay too much attention to Greta, John. She doesn’t know everything about me.’
‘No, no, of course. I don’t take her at face value. Certainly not. To be perfectly honest, Conrad, if Annabel wasn’t so keen on her, she wouldn’t necessarily be the kind of person we would expect to see at the Clermont –’
‘No, I’m sure –’
‘But she’s welcome whenever she’s with you, of course, goes without saying. It’s just that, from what one hears, she has some rather dubious connections…’
Conrad forced himself to smile.
‘Yes, I’m well aware of that, John. I keep her at arm’s length, believe me. I have to, given my job and everything.’
‘Yes, of course. I just wanted to make sure, you know…’
‘Yes. Thank you John.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘It’s just that I couldn’t bail you out again, Conrad, you see? You understand that, I’m sure. I have to think of the other members, and…’
From inside the Blue Room, they heard Jean-Pascal’s voice.
‘Gentlemen, please take your seats for chemin de fer.’
‘Of course, I understand,’ Conrad replied brusquely.
‘Good,’ Aspinall said, finally releasing his shoulder. ‘Just wanted to make sure. Well, bonne chance, Conrad.’
58
Kerry Packer had taken the seat to Jean-Pascal’s right, whether by virtue of a cut of the cards, or simply by choosing it, Conrad didn’t know; it had happened before he came back into the room. Lucan had taken the seat to Packer’s right, and to his right sat Ian Maxwell-Scott, with Susie hovering, drink in hand, behind him. Conrad took the seat to Ian’s right and placed his chips in front of him. Dominick Elwes finished a confidential conversation with John Aspinall at the door of the Blue Room, and sat down on Conrad’s right. Two men Conrad didn’t know, who had apparently hurried upstairs from the bar when the start of play had been announced, joined to complete the table.
‘The game is chemin de fer,’ Jean-Pascal announced. ‘The minimum stake is £100. Mr Packer has the bank.’
The ritual of shuffling and cutting the pack was carried out quickly.
‘The bank wagers £500,’ Packer called, his Australian accent a strange foil to Jean-Pascal’s Parisian French. The croupier reached out with his rake and pushed Packer’s chips on to the Banque.
Conrad took a deep breath. He was not ready to cover Packer’s bet in its entirety. He ventured £100. Lucan and Elwes quickly bet £200 each, and the bank was covered.
‘Rien ne vas plus,’ Jean-Pascal said briskly.
The cards were dealt, Lucan representing the players. Packer turned over his cards, a four and a three. Lucan turned over the players’ cards: a ten and a six.
‘The bank wins, seven to six’, Jean-Pascal announced.
Packer gave the table a huge smile.
‘It’s with me tonight, I can feel it. The bank wagers £1,000.’
Conrad felt the familiar churning in his stomach. This was the moment to test his luck. Packer was playing aggressively, setting out to intimidate the table. He felt instinctively that a response was called for. This had nothing to do with probability, he knew, but it might have a lot to do with the way the players bet as the game wore on. He glanced at Lucan and Maxwell-Scott. Neither seemed in a hurry to intervene.
‘Banco,’ he called out, as casually as he could. He felt, rather than saw, other players looking at him.
‘Easy there, big spender,’ a female voice behind him whispered softly. He turned. Susie was giving him a broad grin. ‘The night is young.’
He saw her glance at her husband, who grinned back at her mischievously.
The bank’s cards were a queen and a king. Packer cursed silently. The players had a three and an ace.
‘The players win, four to zero,’ Jean-Pascal confirmed. Suddenly Conrad was up £900. ‘Lord Lucan has the bank.’
‘The bank wagers £500,’ Lucan said quietly.
Ian Maxwell-Scott looked as if he would intervene, but Susie was standing with a hand on his shoulder behind him, as if saying ‘not yet’. He remained silent.
‘Banco,’ Conrad called.
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‘Rien ne va plus,’ Jean-Pascal said.
Lucan flipped his cards over quickly: a two and a five.
With a smile, Conrad turned his over: an eight and a king.
‘The players win, La Petite to seven. Mr Maxwell-Scott has the bank.’
‘Up £1,400,’ Conrad said to himself.
Susie bent her head over and kissed Ian on the forehead.
‘The bank wagers £1,500.’
Jean-Pascal, sensing a shift in the mood of the table, glanced to his right. There was something troubling him, something in the atmosphere, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. John Aspinall was watching from across the room. He showed no sign of concern, so the croupier relaxed. He had seen the scale of wagers escalate quickly before. He had imagined it. There was nothing to worry about. He dismissed the thought from his mind.
‘Banco prime,’ Conrad pounced.
‘Rien ne va plus.’
The cards were turned over. The bank had seven. Conrad turned over a nine and a Queen. He was up £2,900. His luck had returned to him. It was working.
‘The players win, La Grande to seven,’ Jean-Pascal said. ‘Sir Conrad Rainer has the bank.’
59
The energy had become visible to Conrad again, and he watched it ebb and flow around the table. He watched it settle on the table in front of him. It was a long time since he had felt this good about a table. He had achieved the first part of his goal: he had the bank and he was already ahead. The rest was management. Packer and Lucan had been subdued since losing control of the bank, though Packer was showing signs of coming back to life. Ian Maxwell-Scott’s smile had vanished. Susie was massaging his shoulders. Now was the time to strike.
‘The bank wagers £2,500,’ he declared boldly.
Ian made a token wager of £100.
Dominick Elwes exchanged a look across the room with John Aspinall.
‘Banco prime,’ he said.
‘I accept Mr Maxwell-Scott’s bet in addition,’ Conrad said.
‘Rien ne va plus,’ Jean-Pascal intoned. He dealt.
With a steady hand, Conrad turned his cards over: an ace and a four. He closed his eyes. It was a critical moment. He could either take a third card or stand at five. The probabilities were beyond his estimation now. This was sheer intuition, watching the ebb and flow. He had seen the luck settle.
‘I stand,’ he called after some seconds.
Conrad watched Elwes carefully as he turned over his cards: a two and a jack. Two points. Elwes smiled. He was about to gamble with £2,500 of John Aspinall’s money. He relished the thought.
‘Carte.’
A third card was dealt to him, which he flipped over: a three. A total of five. The points were equal.
There were gasps and some laughter around the table as the tension broke.
‘Égalité,’ Jean-Pascal announced. ‘The wagers will stand for the next round.’
‘Win one more hand and I’m up about £8,000,’ Conrad calculated silently.
‘Unbelievable,’ Lucan said quietly.
‘The bank will wager the same amount,’ Conrad said.
The room was quiet for some time. John Aspinall had left his seat and was leaning against the wall to the left of the table, just beyond the door. Conrad sensed a mood of defiance around the table – just what he wanted. If his luck held, he had them. If not, it was over; but it had been over when he started, and there was no backing down now.
‘Banco prime,’ Elwes responded. He said it fiercely, as a challenge. If he’d had access to a gauntlet, he would have thrown it down.
‘Rien ne va plus,’ Jean-Pascal said. He dealt the cards.
Conrad turned over a nine and a King.
Dominick Elwes turned over a jack and a ten.
‘Up, give or take £8,000,’ Conrad said to himself.
‘The bank wins, La Grande to zero,’ Jean-Pascal said.
Aspinall smiled from his position leaning against the wall.
‘Nicely done, Conrad,’ he said.
Conrad ran away with the next eight hands. The fever, the intoxicating sensation of being in control, was upon him, and he had to struggle to keep a clear sight of his goal: enough money to get him out of the hole he was in. He was the best part of £20,000 up now. Well, he would have to contribute to the table charge, but even so, with that he would be able to pay back almost all of what he owed Cleary tomorrow. There was still the matter of the cheques he had stolen from the members of his chambers, but Aubrey seemed to think he could buy him some time there. There was still the matter of the trust fund; and there was the remainder of the mortgage. But as Aubrey had pointed out, those were not matters to attract public attention – at least, not unless Deborah was determined to unleash the full force of her anger against him. There was nothing he could do about it, if that was what she chose to do.
Rationally, he knew, it was time to quit: walk away from the table, collect his winnings from Vicente, walk down the staircase, out into Berkeley Square, wish Albert goodnight, go home. Go home. It was the only thing that made sense. He must have allowed his intention to show somehow, made some unconscious movement, gathering in his chips, moving his chair back – something – because he heard Dominick Elwes, in his irritating Mayfair drawl, comment about it being a bit impolite to pass now, without giving the table a chance to win back some of its money – isn’t it, old boy? He prepared a glib answer, but before he could deliver it, he felt familiar hands on his shoulders.
He hadn’t seen her come in. How could he have missed her? She must have come through the door and walked around the table right in front of him; there was no other way in. But he hadn’t seen her. He had been absorbed in the table, the ebb and flow. She kissed the back of his neck.
‘You’re not bailing out on me, are you, darling? Not when your luck is in?’
She squeezed hard, digging her nails painfully into the hollows of his shoulders.
‘You’re not going to disappoint me, are you?’
He felt every eye in the room on him. She was standing directly behind his chair, taking away the option of pushing it back, unless he wanted to risk a scene. Her face was brushing against his cheek; her perfume was filling his nostrils, overwhelming his senses. Looking across the table, he saw Aspinall looking at him inscrutably. To his right, Dominick Elwes was giving him that supercilious grin of his, the grin he had always wanted to wipe off his face. The mist descended. This was his chance. He could shut Elwes up; shut Aspinall up; shut Greta up; shut them all up, and walk away. He could solve the whole problem tonight, get it over with. Let’s get this done.
‘The bank wagers £5,000,’ he announced.
She bit him playfully on the neck and traced a line with her tongue up and under his right ear.
‘That’s my boy.’
The table did not respond immediately. Jean-Pascal looked up at Aspinall, who was hovering nervously. It wasn’t the done thing to ask a member of the Clermont Club whether he could cover his bets, but in this instance he was thinking about it. He took too long. Before he could react, Elwes had covered the bank and the cards were being dealt. With a total of four against the players’ four, he drew a third card, a jack. The players drew a five.
‘The players win, La Grande to four,’ Jean-Pascal said dispassionately. ‘Mr Elwes has the bank.’
Of course, now, he had to chase his losses; no real choice about it, not with Greta standing behind him; perhaps there was no choice, with or without Greta. He had come too far along the path to let it go now. The Clermont Club would never allow a member to leave without some money for a taxi home and a cup of coffee. So he had that much to count on. But apart from that, six hands later, Conrad’s money was gone. All of it.
60
Wednesday 6 October 1971
It wasn’t until the taxi got within striking dista
nce of the Barbican that he realised they weren’t going to Knightsbridge. That was where they always went when they left the Clermont, although at that precise moment, for all he knew then, they might have been heading for Paris or Milan. The mist was still in his eyes, making him oblivious to his surroundings. But as they approached the City, the mist was lifting, and the familiar cold touch of reality was beginning to take its place.
‘Have you got anything to drink?’ she asked. She had folded her arms in front of her, and was walking slowly into the living room on her high heels, gingerly, as if she did not entirely trust the carpet to support her weight.
He pointed to the bottle of scotch on the small mahogany table by the fireplace. She poured a glass for each of them, neat.
‘Did they clean you out?’ she asked.
He stared at her for some time. Incredibly, even now, a desire for her was stirring in him.
‘Yes.’
She looked away from him.
‘Do you have anything left to pay Danny?’
‘Not tomorrow – or today, I should say. I will have to make some arrangements.’
She frowned, agitated.
‘Arrangements again? Arrangements are not going to cut it, Conrad.’
He felt himself getting angry.
‘What else can I do? I’m not a millionaire with an endless supply of money to throw around all over the place, Greta. I never have been. I’m sorry if that disappoints you.’
It was the kind of reply that, at Knightsbridge, in the past, when they had undressed, would have led to a vigorous spanking. But not tonight. She barely reacted.
‘I’m not talking about me,’ she replied quietly. ‘I’m saying that won’t cut it with Danny. Danny isn’t interested in arrangements; he’s interested in money, and £20,000 is a lot of money.’
‘Well, he will just have to be patient won’t he?’ he said.
