Bond 03 - Moonraker

by Ian Fleming

  ‘I’ll tell you when there’s none left,’ said Bond. He suddenly decided to be ruthless. ‘I’m told that Five and Five is your limit. Let’s play for that.’

  Almost before the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. £50 a hundred! £500 side-bets! Four bad rubbers would be double his income for a year. If something went wrong he’d look pretty stupid. Have to borrow from M. And M. wasn’t a particularly rich man. Suddenly he saw that this ridiculous game might end in a very nasty mess. He felt the prickle of sweat on his forehead. That damned benzedrine. And, for him of all people to allow himself to be needled by a blustering loud-mouthed bastard like Drax. And he wasn’t even on a job. The whole evening was a bit of a social pantomime that meant less than nothing to him. Even M. had only been dragged into it by chance. And all of a sudden he’d let himself be swept up into a duel with this multi-millionaire, into a gamble for literally all Bond possessed, for the simple reason that the man had got filthy manners and he’d wanted to teach him a lesson. And supposing the lesson didn’t come off? Bond cursed himself for an impulse that earlier in the day would have seemed unthinkable. Champagne and benzedrine! Never again.

  Drax was looking at him in sarcastic disbelief. He turned to M. who was still unconcernedly shuffling the cards. ‘I suppose your guest is good for his commitments,’ he said. Unforgivably.

  Bond saw the blood rush up M.’s neck and into his face. M. paused for an instant in his shuffling. When he continued Bond noticed that his hands were quite calm. M. looked up and took the cheroot very deliberately out from between his teeth. His voice was perfectly controlled. ‘If you mean “Am I good for my guest’s commitments”,’ he said coldly, ‘the answer is yes.’

  He cut the cards to Drax with his left hand and with his right knocked the ash off his cheroot into the copper ashtray in the corner of the table. Bond heard the faint hiss as the burning ash hit the water.

  Drax squinted sideways at M. He picked up the cards. ‘Of course, of course,’ he said hastily. ‘I didn’t mean … ’ He left the sentence unfinished and turned to Bond. ‘Right, then,’ he said, looking rather curiously at Bond. ‘Five and Five it is. Meyer,’ he turned to his partner, ‘how much would you like to take? There’s Six and Six to cut up.’

  ‘One and One’s enough for me, Hugger,’ said Meyer apologetically. ‘Unless you’d like me to take some more.’ He looked anxiously at his partner.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Drax. ‘I like a high game. Never get enough on, generally. Now then,’ he started to deal. ‘Off we go.’

  And suddenly Bond didn’t care about the high stakes. Suddenly all he wanted to do was to give this hairy ape the lesson of his life, give him a shock which would make him remember this evening for ever, remember Bond, remember M., remember the last time he would cheat at Blades, remember the time of day, the weather outside, what he had had for dinner.

  For all its importance, Bond had forgotten the Moonraker. This was a private affair between two men.

  As he watched the casual downward glance at the cigarette-case between the two hands and felt the cool memory ticking up the card values as they passed over its surface, Bond cleared his mind of all regrets, absolved himself of all blame for what was about to happen, and focused his attention on the game. He settled himself more comfortably into his chair and rested his hands on the padded leather arms. Then he took the thin cheroot from between his teeth, laid it on the burnished copper surround of the ashtray beside him and reached for his coffee. It was very black and strong. He emptied the cup and picked up the balloon glass with its fat measure of pale brandy. As he sipped it and then drank again, more deeply, he looked over the rim at M. M. met his eye and smiled briefly.

  ‘Hope you like it,’ he said. ‘Comes from one of the Rothschild estates at Cognac. About a hundred years ago one of the family bequeathed us a barrel of it every year in perpetuity. During the war they hid a barrel for us every year and then sent us over the whole lot in 1945. Ever since then we’ve been drinking doubles. And,’ he gathered up his cards, ‘now we shall have to concentrate.’

  Bond picked up his hand. It was average. A bare two-and-a-half quick tricks, the suits evenly distributed. He reached for his cheroot and gave it a final draw, then killed it in the ashtray.

  ‘Three clubs,’ said Drax.

  No bid from Bond.

  Four clubs from Meyer.

  No bid from M.

  Hm, thought Bond. He’s not quite got the cards for a game call this time. Shut-out call – knows that his partner has got a bare raise. M. may have got a perfectly good bid. We may have all the hearts between us, for instance. But M. never gets a bid. Presumably they’ll make four clubs.

  They did, with the help of one finesse through Bond. M. turned out not to have had hearts, but a long string of diamonds, missing only the king, which was in Meyer’s hand and would have been caught. Drax didn’t have nearly enough length for a three call. Meyer had the rest of the clubs.

  Anyway, thought Bond as he dealt the next hand, we were lucky to escape without a game call.

  Their good luck continued. Bond opened a No Trump, was put up to three by M., and they made it with an over trick. On Meyer’s deal they went one down in five diamonds, but on the next hand M. opened four spades and Bond’s three small trumps and an outside king, queen were all M. needed for the contract.

  First rubber to M. and Bond. Drax looked annoyed. He had lost £900 on the rubber and the cards seemed to be running against them.

  ‘Shall we go straight on?’ he asked. ‘No point in cutting.’

  M. smiled across at Bond. The same thought was in both their minds. So Drax wanted to keep the deal. Bond shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘No objection,’ said M. ‘These seats seem to be doing their best for us.’

  ‘Up to now,’ said Drax, looking more cheerful.

  And with reason. On the next hand he and Meyer bid and made a small slam in spades that required two hair-raising finesses, both of which Drax, after a good deal of pantomime and hemming and hawing, negotiated smoothly, each time commenting loudly on his good fortune.

  ‘Hugger, you’re wonderful,’ said Meyer fulsomely. ‘How the devil do you do it?’

  Bond thought it time to sow a tiny seed. ‘Memory,’ he said.

  Drax looked at him, sharply. ‘What do you mean, memory?’ he said. ‘What’s that got to do with taking a finesse?’

  ‘I was going to add “and card sense”,’ said Bond smoothly. ‘They’re the two qualities that make great card-players.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Drax slowly. ‘Yes, I see.’ He cut the cards to Bond and as Bond dealt he felt the other man’s eyes examining him carefully.

  The game proceeded at an even pace. The cards refused to get hot and no one seemed inclined to take chances. M. doubled Meyer in an incautious four-spade bid and got him two down vulnerable, but on the next hand Drax went out with a lay-down three No Trumps. Bond’s win on the first rubber was wiped out and a bit more besides.

  ‘Anyone care for a drink?’ asked M. as he cut the cards to Drax for the third rubber. ‘James. A little more champagne. The second bottle always tastes better.’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ said Bond.

  The waiter came. The others ordered whiskies and sodas.

  Drax turned to Bond. ‘This game needs livening up,’ he said. ‘A hundred we win this hand.’ He had completed the deal and the cards lay in neat piles in the centre of the table.

  Bond looked at him. The damaged eye glared at him redly. The other was cold and hard and scornful. There were beads of sweat on either side of the large, beaky nose.

  Bond wondered if he was having a fly thrown over him to see if he was suspicious of the deal. He decided to leave the man in doubt. It was a hundred down the drain, but it would give him an excuse for increasing the stakes later.

  ‘On your deal?’ he said with a smile. ‘Well,’ he weighed imaginary chances. ‘Yes. All right.’ An idea seemed to come to him. ‘And th
e same on the next hand. If you like,’ he added.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Drax impatiently. ‘If you want to throw good money after bad.’

  ‘You seem very certain about this hand,’ said Bond indifferently, picking up his cards. They were a poor lot and he had no answer to Drax’s opening No Trump except to double it. The bluff had no effect on Drax’s partner. Meyer said, ‘Two No Trumps,’ and Bond was relieved when M., with no long suit, said, ‘No bid.’ Drax left it in two No Trumps and made the contract.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said with relish, and wrote carefully on his score. ‘Now let’s see if you can get it back.’

  Much to his annoyance, Bond couldn’t. The cards still ran for Meyer and Drax and they made three hearts and the game.

  Drax was pleased with himself. He took a long swallow at his whisky and soda and wiped down his face with his bandana handkerchief.

  ‘God is with the big battalions,’ he said jovially. ‘Got to have the cards as well as play them. Coming back for more or had enough?’

  Bond’s champagne had come and was standing beside him in its silver bucket. There was a glass goblet three-quarters full beside it on the side table. Bond picked it up and drained it, as if to give himself Dutch courage. Then he filled it again.

  ‘All right,’ he said thickly, ‘a hundred on the next two hands.’

  And promptly lost them both, and the rubber.

  Bond suddenly realized that he was nearly £1,500 down. He drank another glass of champagne. ‘Save trouble if we just double the stakes on this rubber,’ he said rather wildly. ‘All right with you?’

  Drax had dealt and was looking at his cards. His lips were wet with anticipation. He looked at Bond who seemed to be having difficulty lighting his cigarette. ‘Taken,’ he said quickly. ‘A hundred pounds a hundred and a thousand on the rubber.’ Then he felt he could risk a touch of sportsmanship. Bond could hardly cancel the bet now. ‘But I seem to have got some good tickets here,’ he added. ‘Are you still on?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Bond, clumsily picking up his hand. ‘I made the bet, didn’t I?’

  ‘All right, then,’ said Drax with satisfaction. ‘Three No Trumps here.’

  He made four.

  Then, to Bond’s relief, the cards turned. Bond bid and made a small slam in hearts and on the next hand M. ran out in three No Trumps.

  Bond grinned cheerfully into the sweating face. Drax was picking angrily at his nails. ‘Big battalions,’ said Bond, rubbing it in.

  Drax growled something and busied himself with the score. Bond looked across at M., who was putting a match, with evident satisfaction at the way the game had gone, to his second cheroot of the evening, an almost unheard of indulgence.

  ‘’Fraid this’ll have to be my last rubber,’ said Bond. ‘Got to get up early. Hope you’ll forgive me.’

  M. looked at his watch. ‘It’s past midnight,’ he said. ‘What about you, Meyer?’

  Meyer, who had been a silent passenger for most of the evening and who had the look of a man caught in a cage with a couple of tigers, seemed relieved at being offered a chance of making his escape. He leapt at the idea of getting back to his quiet flat in Albany and the soothing companionship of his collection of Battersea snuff-boxes.

  ‘Quite all right with me, Admiral,’ he said quickly. ‘What about you, Hugger? Nearly ready for bed?’

  Drax ignored him. He looked up from his score-sheet at Bond. He noticed the signs of intoxication. The moist forehead, the black comma of hair that hung untidily over the right eyebrow, the sheen of alcohol in the grey-blue eyes.

  ‘Pretty miserable balance so far,’ he said. ‘I make it you win a couple of hundred or so. Of course if you want to run out of the game you can. But how about some fireworks to finish up with? Treble the stakes on the last rubber? Fifteen and fifteen? Historic match. Am I on?’

  Bond looked up at him. He paused before answering. He wanted Drax to remember every detail of this last rubber, every word that had been spoken, every gesture.

  ‘Well,’ said Drax impatiently. ‘What about it?’

  Bond looked into the cold left eye in the flushed face. He spoke to it alone.

  ‘One hundred and fifty pounds a hundred, and fifteen hundred on the rubber,’ he said distinctly. ‘You’re on.’

  7 ....... THE QUICKNESS OF THE HAND

  THERE WAS a moment’s silence at the table. It was broken by the agitated voice of Meyer.

  ‘Here I say,’ he said anxiously. ‘Don’t include me in on this, Hugger.’ He knew it was a private bet with Bond, but he wanted to show Drax that he was thoroughly nervous about the whole affair. He saw himself making some ghastly mistake that would cost his partner a lot of money.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Max,’ said Drax harshly. ‘You play your hand. This is nothing to do with you. Just an enjoyable little bet with our rash friend here. Come along, come along. My deal, Admiral.’

  M. cut the cards and the game began.

  Bond lit a cigarette with hands that had suddenly become quite steady. His mind was clear. He knew exactly what he had to do, and when, and he was glad that the moment of decision had come.

  He sat back in his chair and for a moment he had the impression that there was a crowd behind him at each elbow, and that faces were peering over his shoulder, waiting to see his cards. He somehow felt that the ghosts were friendly, that they approved of the rough justice that was about to be done.

  He smiled as he caught himself sending this company of dead gamblers a message, that they should see that all went well.

  The background noise of the famous gaming room broke in on his thoughts. He looked round. In the middle of the long room, under the central chandelier, there were several onlookers round the poker game. ‘Raise you a hundred.’ ‘And a hundred.’ ‘And a hundred.’ ‘Damn you. I’ll look’, and a shout of triumph followed by a hubbub of comment. In the distance he could hear the rattle of a croupier’s rake against the counters at the Shemmy game. Nearer at hand, at his end of the room, there were three other tables of bridge over which the smoke of cigars and cigarettes rose towards the barrelled ceiling.

  Nearly every night for more than a hundred and fifty years there had been just such a scene, he reflected, in this famous room. The same cries of victory and defeat, the same dedicated faces, the same smell of tobacco and drama. For Bond, who loved gambling, it was the most exciting spectacle in the world. He gave it a last glance to fix it all in his mind and then he turned back to his table.

  He picked up his cards and his eyes glittered. For once, on Drax’s deal, he had a cast-iron game hand; seven spades with the four top honours, the ace of hearts, and the ace, king of diamonds. He looked at Drax. Had he and Meyer got the clubs? Even so Bond could overbid. Would Drax try and force him too high and risk a double? Bond waited.

  ‘No bid,’ said Drax, unable to keep the bitterness of his private knowledge of Bond’s hand out of his voice.

  ‘Four spades,’ said Bond.

  No bid from Meyer; from M.; reluctantly from Drax.

  M. provided some help, and they made five.

  One hundred and fifty points below the line. A hundred above for honours.

  ‘Humph,’ said a voice at Bond’s elbow. He looked up. It was Basildon. His game had finished and he had strolled over to see what was happening on this separate battlefield.

  He picked up Bond’s score-sheet and looked at it.

  ‘That was a bit of a beetle-crusher,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Seems you’re holding the champions. What are the stakes?’

  Bond left the answer to Drax. He was glad of the diversion. It could not have been better timed. Drax had cut the blue cards to him. He married the two halves and put the pack just in front of him, near the edge of the table.

  ‘Fifteen and fifteen. On my left,’ said Drax.

  Bond heard Basildon draw in his breath.

  ‘Chap seemed to want to gamble, so I accommodated him. Now he goes and gets all the ca
rds … ’

  Drax grumbled on.

  Across the table, M. saw a white handkerchief materialize in Bond’s right hand. M.’s eyes narrowed. Bond seemed to wipe his face with it, M. saw him glance sharply at Drax and Meyer, then the handkerchief was back in his pocket.

  A blue pack was in Bond’s hands and he had started to deal.

  ‘That’s the hell of a stake,’ said Basildon. ‘We once had a thousand-pound side-bet on a game of bridge. But that was in the rubber boom before the ’fourteen-eighteen war. Hope nobody’s going to get hurt.’ He meant it. Very high stakes in a private game generally led to trouble. He walked round and stood between M. and Drax.

  Bond completed the deal. With a touch of anxiety he picked up his cards.

  He had nothing but five clubs to the ace, queen, ten, and eight small diamonds to the queen.

  It was all right. The trap was set.

  He almost felt Drax stiffen as the big man thumbed through his cards, and then, unbelieving, thumbed them through again. Bond knew that Drax had an incredibly good hand. Ten certain tricks, the ace, king of diamonds, the four top honours in spades, the four top honours in hearts, and the king, knave, nine of clubs.

  Bond had dealt them to him – in the Secretary’s room before dinner.

  Bond waited, wondering how Drax would react to the huge hand. He took an almost cruel interest in watching the greedy fish come to the lure.

  Drax exceeded his expectations.

  Casually he folded his hand and laid it on the table. Nonchalantly he took the flat carton out of his pocket, selected a cigarette and lit it. He didn’t look at Bond. He glanced up at Basildon.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, continuing the conversation about their stakes. ‘It’s a high game, but not the highest I’ve ever played. Once played for two thousand a rubber in Cairo. At the Mahomet Ali as a matter of fact. They’ve really got guts there. Often bet on every trick as well as on the game and rubber. Now,’ he picked up his hand and looked slyly at Bond. ‘I’ve got some good tickets here. I’ll admit it. But then you may have too, for all I know.’ (Unlikely, you old shark, thought Bond, with three of the ace-kings in your own hand.) ‘Care to have something extra just on this hand?’