The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  “I know what you mean,” said M. “But you may be being a bit hard on the man. After all, it’s a big step from the Liverpool docks, or wherever he came from, to where he is now. And he’s one of those people who was born with naturally hairy heels. Nothing to do with snobbery. I expect his mates in Liverpool found him just as loud-mouthed as Blades does. As for his cheating, there’s probably a crooked streak in him somewhere. I dare say he took plenty of short cuts on his way up. Somebody said that to become very rich you have to be helped by a combination of remarkable circumstances and an unbroken run of luck. It certainly isn’t only the qualities of people that make them rich. At least that’s my experience. At the beginning, getting together the first ten thousand, or the first hundred thousand, things have got to go damn right. And in that commodity business after the war, with all the regulations and restrictions, I expect it was often a case of being able to drop a thousand pounds in the right pocket. Officials. The ones who understand nothing but addition, division — and silence. The useful ones.”

  M. paused while the next course came. With it arrived the champagne in a silver ice-bucket, and the small wicker-basket containing M.’s half-bottle of claret.

  The wine-steward waited until they had delivered a favourable judgment on the wines and then moved away. As he did so a page came up to their table. “Commander Bond?” he asked.

  Bond took the envelope that was handed to him and slit it open. He took out a thin paper packet and carefully opened it under the level of the table. It contained a white powder. He took a silver fruit knife off the table and dipped the tip of the blade into the packet so that about half its contents were transferred to the knife. He reached for his glass of champagne and tipped the powder into it.

  “Now what?” said M. with a trace of impatience.

  There was no hint of apology in Bond’s face. It wasn’t M. who was going to have to do the work that evening. Bond knew what he was doing. Whenever he had a job of work to do he would take infinite pains beforehand and leave as little as possible to chance. Then if something went wrong it was the unforeseeable. For that he accepted no responsibility.

  “Benzedrine,” he said. “I rang up my secretary before dinner and asked her to wangle some out of the surgery at Headquarters. It’s what I shall need if I’m going to keep my wits about me tonight. It’s apt to make one a bit over-confident, but that’ll be a help too.” He stirred the champagne with a scrap of toast so that the white powder whirled among the bubbles. Then he drank the mixture down with one long swallow. “It doesn’t taste,” said Bond, “and the champagne is quite excellent.”

  M. smiled at him indulgently. “It’s your funeral,” he said.— “Now we’d better get on with our dinner. How were the cutlets?”

  “Superb,” said Bond. “I could cut them with a fork. The best English cooking is the best in the world — particularly at this time of the year. By the way, what stakes will we be playing for this evening? I don’t mind very much. We ought to end up the winners. But I’d like to know how much it will cost Drax.”

  “Drax likes to play for what he calls ‘One and One,’” said M., helping himself from the strawberries that had just been put on the table. “Modest sounding stake, if you don’t know what it stands for. In fact it’s one tenner a hundred and one hundred pounds on the rubber.”

  “Oh,” said Bond respectfully. “I see.”

  “But he’s perfectly happy to play for Two and Two or even Three and Three. Mounts up at those figures. The average rubber of bridge at Blades is about ten points. That’s £200 at One and One. And the bridge here makes for big rubbers. There are no conventions so there’s plenty of gambling and bluffing. Sometimes it’s more like poker. They’re a mixed lot of players. Some of them are the best in England, but others are terribly wild. Don’t seem to mind how much they lose. General Bealey, just behind us.” M. made a gesture with his head, “doesn’t know the reds from the blacks. Nearly always a few hundred down at the end of the week. Doesn’t seem to care. Bad heart. No dependants. Stacks of money from jute. But Duff Sutherland, the scruffy-looking chap next to the chairman, is an absolute killer. Makes a regular ten thousand a year out of the club. Nice chap. Wonderful card manners. Used to play chess for England.”

  M. was interrupted by the arrival of his marrow bone. It was placed upright in a spotless lace napkin on the silver plate. An ornate silver marrow-scoop was laid beside it.

  After the asparagus, Bond had little appetite for the thin slivers of pineapple. He tipped the last of the ice-cold champagne into his glass. He felt wonderful. The effects of the benzedrine and champagne had more than offset the splendour of the food. For the first time he took his mind away from the dinner and his conversation with M. and glanced round the room.

  It was a sparkling scene. There were perhaps fifty men in the room, the majority in dinner jackets, all at ease with themselves and their surroundings, all stimulated by the peerless food and drink, all animated by a common interest — the prospect of high gambling, the grand slam, the ace pot, the key-throw in a 64 game at backgammon. There might be cheats or possible cheats amongst them, men who beat their wives, men with perverse instincts, greedy men, cowardly men, lying men; but the elegance of the room invested each one with a kind of aristocracy.

  At the far end, above the cold table, laden with lobsters, pies, joints and delicacies in aspic, Romney’s unfinished full-length portrait of Mrs Fitzherbert gazed provocatively across at Fragonard’s Jeu de Cartes, the broad conversation-piece which half-filled the opposite wall above the Adam fireplace. Along the lateral walls, in the centre of each gilt-edged panel, was one of the rare engravings of the Hell-Fire Club in which each figure is shown making a minute gesture of scatological or magical significance. Above, marrying the walls into the ceiling, ran a frieze in plaster relief of carved urns and swags interrupted at intervals by the capitals of the fluted pilasters which framed the windows and the tall double doors, the latter delicately carved with a design showing the Tudor Rose interwoven with a ribbon effect.

  The central chandelier, a cascade of crystal ropes terminating in a broad basket of strung quartz, sparkled warmly above the white damask tablecloths and George IV silver. Below, in the centre of each table, branched candlesticks distributed the golden light of three candles, each surmounted by a red silk shade, so that the faces of the diners shone with a convivial warmth which glossed over the occasional chill of an eye or cruel twist of a mouth.

  Even as Bond drank in the warm elegance of the scene, some of the groups began to break up. There was a drift towards the door accompanied by an exchange of challenges, side-bets, and exhortations to hurry up and get down to business. Sir Hugo Drax, his hairy red face shining with cheerful anticipation, came towards them with Meyer in his wake.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said jovially as he reached their table. “Are the lambs ready for the slaughter and the geese for the plucking?” He grinned and in wolfish pantomime drew a finger across his throat. “We’ll go ahead and lay out the axe and the basket. Made your wills?”

  “Be with you in a moment,” said M. edgily. “You go along and stack the cards.”

  Drax laughed. “We shan’t need any artificial aids,” he said. “Don’t be long.” He turned and made for the door. Meyer enveloped them in an uncertain smile and followed him.

  M. grunted. “We’ll have coffee and brandy in the card room,” he said to Bond. “Can’t smoke here. Now then. Any final plans?”

  “I’ll have to fatten him up for the kill, so please don’t worry if I seem to be getting high,” said Bond. “We’ll just have to play our normal game till the time comes. When it’s his deal, we’ll have to be careful. Of course, he can’t alter the cards and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t deal us good hands, but he’s bound to bring off some pretty remarkable coups. Do you mind if I sit on his left?”

  “No,” said M. “Anything else?”

  Bond reflected for a moment. “Only one thing, sir,” he said. �
��When the time comes, I shall take a white handkerchief out of my coat pocket. That will mean that you are about to be dealt a Yarborough. Would you please leave the bidding of that hand to me?”

  Chapter VI

  Cards With a Stranger

  Drax and Meyer were waiting for them. They were leaning back in their chairs, smoking Cabinet Havanas.

  On the small tables beside them there was coffee and large balloons of brandy. As M. and Bond came up, Drax was tearing the paper cover off a new pack of cards. The other pack was fanned out across the green baize in front of him.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Drax. He leant forward and cut a card. They all followed suit. Drax won the cut and elected to stay where he was and take the red cards.

  Bond sat down on Drax’s left.

  M. beckoned to a passing waiter. “Coffee and the club brandy,” he said. He took out a thin black cheroot and offered one to Bond who accepted it. Then he picked up the red cards and started to shuffle them.

  “Stakes?” asked Drax, looking at M. “One and One? Or more? I’ll be glad to accommodate you up to Five and Five.”

  “One and One’ll be enough for me,” said M. “James?”

  Drax cut in, “I suppose your guest knows what he’s in for?” he asked sharply.

  Bond answered for M. “Yes,” he said briefly. He smiled at Drax. “And I feel rather generous tonight. What would you like to take off me?”

  “Every penny you’ve got,” said Drax cheerfully. “How much can you afford?”

  “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. “Th
ey’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 the same on the next hand. If you like,” he added.