by Ian Fleming
And the other spectators. This crowd of jabbering idiots. Couldn’t someone see what was happening? The chef de partie, the croupier, the huissier?
‘Cinq.’
The croupier was tidying up the pile of notes. The chef de partie bowed smilingly towards Bond. Directly the stake was in order he would announce: ‘Le jeux est fait,’ and the gun would fire whether the gunman had reached ten or not.
‘Six.’
Bond decided. It was a chance. He carefully moved his hands to the edge of the table, gripped it, edged his buttocks right back, feeling the sharp gun-sight grind into his coccyx.
‘Sept.’
The chef de partie turned to Le Chiffre with his eyebrows lifted, waiting for the banker’s nod that he was ready to play.
Suddenly Bond heaved backwards with all his strength. His momentum tipped the cross-bar of the chair-back down so quickly that it cracked across the malacca tube and wrenched it from the gunman’s hand before he could pull the trigger.
Bond went head-over-heels on to the ground amongst the spectators’ feet, his legs in the air. The back of the chair splintered with a sharp crack. There were cries of dismay. The spectators cringed away and then, reassured, clustered back. Hands helped him to his feet and brushed him down. The huissier bustled up with the chef de partie. At all costs a scandal must be avoided.
Bond held on to the brass rail. He looked confused and embarrassed. He brushed his hands across his forehead.
‘A momentary faintness,’ he said. ‘It is nothing – the excitement, the heat.’
There were expressions of sympathy. Naturally, with this tremendous game. Would monsieur prefer to withdraw, to lie down, to go home? Should a doctor be fetched?
Bond shook his head. He was perfectly all right now. His excuses to the table. To the banker also.
A new chair was brought and he sat down. He looked across at Le Chiffre. Through his relief at being alive, he felt a moment of triumph at what he saw – some fear in the fat, pale face.
There was a buzz of speculation round the table. Bond’s neighbours on both sides of him bent forward and spoke solicitously about the heat and the lateness of the hour and the smoke and the lack of air.
Bond replied politely. He turned to examine the crowd behind him. There was no trace of the gunman, but the huissier was looking for someone to claim the malacca stick. It seemed undamaged. But it no longer carried a rubber tip. Bond beckoned to him.
‘If you will give it to that gentleman over there,’ he indicated Felix Leiter, ‘he will return it. It belongs to an acquaintance of his.’
The huissier bowed.
Bond grimly reflected that a short examination would reveal to Leiter why he had made such an embarrassing public display of himself.
He turned back to the table and tapped the green cloth in front of him to show that he was ready.
13 ....... ‘A WHISPER OF LOVE, A WHISPER OF HATE’
‘LA PARTIE continue,’ announced the chef impressively. ‘Un banco de trente-deux millions.’
The spectators craned forward. Le Chiffre hit the shoe with a flat-handed slap that made it rattle. As an afterthought he took out his benzedrine inhaler and sucked the vapour up his nose.
‘Filthy brute,’ said Mrs Du Pont on Bond’s left.
Bond’s mind was clear again. By a miracle he had survived a devastating wound. He could feel his armpits still wet with the fear of it. But the success of his gambit with the chair had wiped out all memories of the dreadful valley of defeat through which he had just passed.
He had made a fool of himself. The game had been interrupted for at least ten minutes, a delay unheard of in a respectable casino, but now the cards were waiting for him in the shoe. They must not fail him. He felt his heart lift at the prospect of what was to come.
It was two o’clock in the morning. Apart from the thick crowd round the big game, play was still going on at three of the chemin-de-fer games and at the same number of roulette tables.
In the silence round his own table, Bond suddenly heard a distant croupier intone: ‘Neuf. Le rouge gagne, impair et manque.’
Was this an omen for him or for Le Chiffre?
The two cards slithered towards him across the green sea.
Like an octopus under a rock, Le Chiffre watched him from the other side of the table.
Bond reached out a steady right hand and drew the cards towards him. Would it be the lift of the heart which a nine brings, or an eight brings?
He fanned the two cards under the curtain of his hand. The muscles of his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth. His whole body stiffened in a reflex of self-defence.
He had two queens, two red queens.
They looked roguishly back at him from the shadows. They were the worst. They were nothing. Zero. Baccarat.
‘A card,’ said Bond fighting to keep hopelessness out of his voice. He felt Le Chiffre’s eyes boring into his brain.
The banker slowly turned his own two cards face up.
He had a count of three – a king and a black three.
Bond softly exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke. He still had a chance. Now he was really faced with the moment of truth. Le Chiffre slapped the shoe, slipped out a card, Bond’s fate, and slowly turned it face up. It was a nine, a wonderful nine of hearts, the card known in gipsy magic as ‘a whisper of love, a whisper of hate’, the card that meant almost certain victory for Bond.
The croupier slipped it delicately across. To Le Chiffre it meant nothing. Bond might have had a one, in which case he now had ten points, or nothing, or baccarat, as it is called. Or he might have had a two, three, four, or even five. In which case, with the nine, his maximum count would be four.
Holding a three and giving nine is one of the moot situations at the game. The odds are so nearly divided between to draw or not to draw. Bond let the banker sweat it out. Since his nine could only be equalled by the banker drawing a six, he would normally have shown his count if it had been a friendly game.
Bond’s cards lay on the table before him, the two impersonal pale pink-patterned backs and the faced nine of hearts. To Le Chiffre the nine might be telling the truth or many variations of lies.
The whole secret lay in the reverse of the two pink backs where the pair of queens kissed the green cloth.
The sweat was running down either side of the banker’s beaky nose. His thick tongue came out slyly and licked a drop out of the corner of his red gash of a mouth. He looked at Bond’s cards, and then at his own, and then back at Bond’s.
Then his whole body shrugged and he slipped out a card for himself from the lisping shoe. He faced it. The table craned. It was a wonderful card, a five.
‘Huit à la banque,’ said the croupier.
As Bond sat silent, Le Chiffre suddenly grinned wolfishly. He must have won.
The croupier’s spatula reached almost apologetically across the table. There was not a man at the table who did not believe Bond was defeated.
The spatula flicked the two pink cards over on their backs. The gay red queens smiled up at the lights.
‘Et le neuf.’
A great gasp went up round the table, and then a hubbub of talk.
Bond’s eyes were on Le Chiffre. The big man fell back in his chair as if slugged above the heart. His mouth opened and shut once or twice in protest and his right hand felt at his throat. Then he rocked back. His lips were grey.
As the huge stack of plaques was shunted across the table to Bond the banker reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and threw a wad of notes on to the table.
The croupier riffled through them.
‘Un banco de dix millions,’ he announced. He slapped down their equivalent in ten plaques of a million each.
This is the kill, thought Bond. This man has reached the point of no return. This is the last of his capital. He has come to where I stood an hour ago and he is making the last gesture that I made. But if this man loses, there is no one to come to his aid, no miracle to he
lp him.
Bond sat back and lit a cigarette. On a small table beside him half a bottle of Clicquot and a glass had materialized. Without asking who the benefactor was, Bond filled the glass to the brim and drank it down in two long draughts.
Then he leant back with his arms curled forward on the table in front of him like the arms of a wrestler seeking a hold at the opening of a bout of ju-jitsu.
The players on his left remained silent.
‘Banco,’ he said, speaking straight at Le Chiffre.
Once more the two cards were borne over to him and this time the croupier slipped them into the green lagoon between the outstretched arms.
Bond curled his right hand in, glanced briefly down and flipped the cards face up into the middle of the table.
‘Le neuf,’ said the croupier.
Le Chiffre was gazing down at his own two black kings.
‘Et le baccarat,’ and the croupier eased across the table the fat tide of plaques.
Le Chiffre watched them go to join the serried millions in the shadow of Bond’s left arm, then he stood up slowly and without a word he brushed past the players to the break in the rail. He unhooked the velvet-covered chain and let it fall. The spectators opened a way for him. They looked at him curiously and rather fearfully as if he carried the smell of death on him. Then he vanished from Bond’s sight.
Bond stood up. He took a hundred-mille plaque from the stacks beside him and slipped it across the table to the chef de partie. He cut short the effusive thanks and asked the croupier to have his winnings carried to the caisse. The other players were leaving their seats. With no banker, there could be no game, and by now it was half past two. He exchanged some pleasant words with his neighbours to right and left and then ducked under the rail to where Vesper and Felix Leiter were waiting for him.
Together they walked over to the caisse. Bond was invited to come into the private office of the Casino directors. On the desk lay his huge pile of chips. He added the contents of his pockets to it.
In all there was over seventy million francs.
Bond took Felix Leiter’s money in notes and took a cheque to cash on the Crédit Lyonnais for the remaining forty-odd million. He was congratulated warmly on his winnings. The directors hoped that he would be playing again that evening.
Bond gave an evasive reply. He walked over to the bar and handed Leiter’s money to him. For a few minutes they discussed the game over a bottle of champagne. Leiter took a .45 bullet out of his pocket and placed it on the table.
‘I gave the gun to Mathis,’ he said. ‘He’s taken it away. He was as puzzled as we were by the spill you took. He was standing at the back of the crowd with one of his men when it happened. The gunman got away without difficulty. You can imagine how they kicked themselves when they saw the gun. Mathis gave me this bullet to show you what you escaped. The nose has been cut with a dum-dum cross. You’d have been in a terrible mess. But they can’t tie it on to Le Chiffre. The man came in alone. They’ve got the form he filled up to get his entrance card. Of course, it’ll all be phony. He got permission to bring the stick in with him. He had a certificate for a war-wound pension. These people certainly get themselves well organized. They’ve got his prints and they’re on the Belinograph to Paris, so we may hear more about him in the morning.’ Felix Leiter tapped out another cigarette. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well. You certainly took Le Chiffre for a ride at the end, though we had some bad moments. I expect you did too.’
Bond smiled. ‘That envelope was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. I thought I was really finished. It wasn’t at all a pleasant feeling. Talk about a friend in need. One day I’ll try and return the compliment.’
He rose. ‘I’ll just go over to the hotel and put this away,’ he said, tapping his pocket. ‘I don’t like wandering around with Le Chiffre’s death warrant on me. He might get ideas. Then I’d like to celebrate a bit. What do you think?’
He turned to Vesper. She had hardly said a word since the end of the game.
‘Shall we have a glass of champagne in the night club before we go to bed? It’s called the Roi Galant. You get to it through the public rooms. It looks quite cheerful.’
‘I think I’d love to,’ said Vesper. ‘I’ll tidy up while you put your winnings away. I’ll meet you in the entrance hall.’
‘What about you, Felix?’ Bond hoped he could be alone with Vesper.
Leiter looked at him and read his mind.
‘I’d rather take a little rest before breakfast,’ he said. ‘It’s been quite a day and I expect Paris will want me to do a bit of mopping-up tomorrow. There are several loose ends you won’t have to worry about. I shall. I’ll walk over to the hotel with you. Might as well convoy the treasure ship right into port.’
They strolled over through the shadows cast by the full moon. Both had their hands on their guns. It was three o’clock in the morning, but there were several people about and the courtyard of the Casino was still lined with motor-cars.
The short walk was uneventful.
At the hotel, Leiter insisted on accompanying Bond to his room. It was as Bond had left it six hours before.
‘No reception committee,’ observed Leiter, ‘but I wouldn’t put it past them to try a last throw. Do you think I ought to stay up and keep you two company?’
‘You get your sleep,’ said Bond. ‘Don’t worry about us. They won’t be interested in me without the money and I’ve got an idea for looking after that. Thanks for all you’ve done. I hope we get on a job again one day.’
‘Suits me,’ said Leiter, ‘so long as you can draw a nine when it’s needed – and bring Vesper along with you,’ he added dryly. He went out and closed the door.
Bond turned back to the friendliness of his room.
After the crowded arena of the big table and the nervous strain of the three hours’ play, he was glad to be alone for a moment and be welcomed by his pyjamas on the bed and his hair-brushes on the dressing-table. He went into the bathroom and dashed cold water over his face and gargled with a sharp mouthwash. He felt the bruises on the back of his head and on his right shoulder. He reflected cheerfully how narrowly he had twice that day escaped being murdered. Would he have to sit up all that night and wait for them to come again, or was Le Chiffre even now on his way to Le Havre or Bordeaux to pick up a boat for some corner of the world where he could escape the eyes and the guns of SMERSH?
Bond shrugged his shoulders. Sufficient unto that day had been its evil. He gazed for a moment into the mirror and wondered about Vesper’s morals. He wanted her cold and arrogant body. He wanted to see tears and desire in her remote blue eyes and to take the ropes of her black hair in his hands and bend her long body back under his. Bond’s eyes narrowed and his face in the mirror looked back at him with hunger.
He turned away and took out of his pocket the cheque for forty million francs. He folded this very small. Then he opened the door and looked up and down the corridor. He left the door wide open and with his ears cocked for footsteps or the sound of the lift, he set to work with a small screwdriver.
Five minutes later he gave a last-minute survey to his handiwork, put some fresh cigarettes in his case, closed and locked the door and went off down the corridor and across the hall and out into the moonlight.
14 ....... ‘LA VIE EN ROSE?’
THE ENTRANCE to the Roi Galant was a seven-foot golden picture-frame which had once, perhaps, enclosed the vast portrait of a noble European. It was in a discreet corner of the ‘kitchen’ – the public roulette and boule room, where several tables were still busy. As Bond took Vesper’s arm and led her over the gilded step, he fought back a hankering to borrow some money from the caisse and plaster maximums over the nearest table. But he knew that this would be a brash and cheap gesture ‘pour épater la bourgeoisie’. Whether he won or lost, it would be a kick in the teeth to the luck which had been given him.
The night club was small and dark, lit only by candles in gilded
candelabra whose warm light was repeated in wall mirrors set in more gold picture-frames. The walls were covered in dark red satin and the chairs and ‘banquettes’ in matching red plush. In the far corner, a trio, consisting of a piano, an electric guitar and drums, was playing ‘La Vie en Rose’ with muted sweetness. Seduction dripped on the quietly throbbing air. It seemed to Bond that every couple must be touching with passion under the tables.
They were given a corner table near the door. Bond ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and scrambled eggs and bacon.
They sat for a time listening to the music and then Bond turned to Vesper: ‘It’s wonderful sitting here with you and knowing the job’s finished. It’s a lovely end to the day – the prize-giving.’
He expected her to smile. She said: ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ in a rather brittle voice. She seemed to be listening carefully to the music. One elbow rested on the table and her hand supported her chin, but on the back of her hand and not on the palm, and Bond noticed that her knuckles showed white as if her fist was tightly clenched.
Between the thumb and first two fingers of her right hand she held one of Bond’s cigarettes, as an artist holds a crayon, and though she smoked with composure, she tapped the cigarette occasionally into an ashtray when the cigarette had no ash.
Bond noticed these small things because he felt intensely aware of her and because he wanted to draw her into his own feeling of warmth and relaxed sensuality. But he accepted her reserve. He thought it came from a desire to protect herself from him, or else it was her reaction to his coolness to her earlier in the evening, his deliberate coolness, which he knew had been taken as a rebuff.
He was patient. He drank champagne and talked a little about the happenings of the day and about the personalities of Mathis and Leiter and about the possible consequences for Le Chiffre. He was discreet and he only talked about the aspects of the case on which she must have been briefed by London.
She answered perfunctorily. She said that, of course, they had picked out the two gunmen, but had thought nothing of it when the man with the stick had gone to stand behind Bond’s chair. They could not believe that anything would be attempted in the Casino itself. Directly Bond and Leiter had left to walk over to the hotel, she had telephoned Paris and told M.’s representative of the result of the game. She had had to speak guardedly and the agent had rung off without comment. She had been told to do this whatever the result. M. had asked for the information to be passed on to him personally at any time of the day or night.
