by Ian Fleming
Bond made a show of studying his cards with the minuteness of someone who is nearly very drunk. ‘I’ve got a promising lot too,’ he said thickly. ‘If my partner fits and the cards lie right I might make a lot of tricks myself. What are you suggesting?’
‘Sounds as if we’re pretty evenly matched,’ lied Drax. ‘What do you say to a hundred a trick on the side? From what you say it shouldn’t be too painful.’
Bond looked thoughtful and rather fuddled. He took another careful look at his hand, running through the cards one by one. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re on. And frankly you’ve made me gamble. You’ve obviously got a big hand, so I must shut you out and chance it.’
Bond looked blearily across at M. ‘Pay your losses on this one, partner,’ he said. ‘Here we go. Er – seven clubs.’
In the dead silence that followed, Basildon, who had seen Drax’s hand, was so startled that he dropped his whisky and soda on the floor. He looked dazedly down at the broken glass and let it lie.
Drax said, ‘What?’ in a startled voice and hastily ran through his cards again for reassurance.
‘Did you say grand slam in clubs?’ he asked, looking curiously at his obviously drunken opponent. ‘Well, it’s your funeral. What do you say, Max?’
‘No bid,’ said Meyer, feeling in the air the electricity of just that crisis he had hoped to avoid. Why the hell hadn’t he gone home before this last rubber? He groaned inwardly.
‘No bid,’ said M. apparently unperturbed.
‘Double.’ The word came viciously out of Drax’s mouth. He put down his hand and looked cruelly, scornfully at this tipsy oaf who had at last, inexplicably, fallen into his hands.
‘That mean you double the side-bets too?’ asked Bond.
‘Yes,’ said Drax greedily. ‘Yes. That’s what I meant.’
‘All right,’ said Bond. He paused. He looked at Drax and not at his hand. ‘Redouble. The contract and the side-bets. £400 a trick on the side.’
It was at that moment that the first hint of a dreadful, incredible doubt entered Drax’s mind. But again he looked at his hand, and again he was reassured. At the very worst he couldn’t fail to make two tricks.
A muttered ‘No bid’ from Meyer. A rather strangled ‘No bid’ from M. An impatient shake of the head from Drax.
Basildon stood, his face very pale, looking intently across the table at Bond.
Then he walked slowly round the table, scrutinizing all the hands. What he saw was this:
And suddenly Basildon understood. It was a laydown Grand Slam for Bond against any defence. Whatever Meyer led, Bond must get in with a trump in his own hand or on the table. Then, in between clearing trumps, finessing of course against Drax, he would play two rounds of diamonds, trumping them in dummy and catching Drax’s ace and king in the process. After five plays he would be left with the remaining trumps and six winning diamonds. Drax’s aces and kings would be totally valueless.
It was sheer murder.
Basildon, almost in a trance, continued round the table and stood between M. and Meyer so that he could watch Drax’s face, and Bond’s. His own face was impassive, but his hands, which he had stuffed into his trouser pockets so that they would not betray him, were sweating. He waited, almost fearfully, for the terrible punishment that Drax was about to receive – thirteen separate lashes whose scars no card-player would ever lose.
‘Come along, come along,’ said Drax impatiently. ‘Lead something. Max. Can’t be here all night.’
You poor fool, thought Basildon. In ten minutes you’ll wish that Meyer had died in his chair before he could pull out that first card.
In fact, Meyer looked as if at any moment he might have a stroke. He was deathly pale, and the perspiration was dropping off his chin on to his shirt front. For all he knew, his first card might be a disaster.
At last, reasoning that Bond might be void in his own long suits, spades and hearts, he led the knave of diamonds.
It made no difference what he led, but when M.’s hand went down showing chicane in diamonds, Drax snarled across at his partner. ‘Haven’t you got anything else, you dam’ fool? Want to hand it to him on a plate? Whose side are you on, anyway?’
Meyer cringed into his clothes. ‘Best I could do, Hugger,’ he said miserably, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
But by this time Drax had got his own worries.
Bond trumped on the table, catching Drax’s king of diamonds, and promptly led a club. Drax put up his nine. Bond took it with his ten and led a diamond, trumping it on the table. Drax’s ace fell. Another club from the table, catching Drax’s knave.
Then the ace of clubs.
As Drax surrendered his king, for the first time he saw what might be happening. His eyes squinted anxiously at Bond, waiting fearfully for the next card. Had Bond got the diamonds? Hadn’t Meyer got them guarded? After all, he had opened with them. Drax waited, his cards slippery with sweat.
Morphy, the great chess player, had a terrible habit. He would never raise his eyes from the game until he knew his opponent could not escape defeat. Then he would slowly lift his great head and gaze curiously at the man across the board. His opponent would feel the gaze and would slowly, humbly raise his eyes to meet Morphy’s. At that moment he would know that it was no good continuing the game. The eyes of Morphy said so. There was nothing left but surrender.
Now, like Morphy, Bond lifted his head and looked straight into Drax’s eyes. Then he slowly drew out the queen of diamonds and placed it on the table. Without waiting for Meyer to play he followed it, deliberately, with the 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, and the two winning clubs.
Then he spoke. ‘That’s all, Drax,’ he said quietly, and sat slowly back in his chair.
Drax’s first reaction was to lurch forward and tear Meyer’s cards out of his hand. He faced them on the table, scrabbling feverishly among them for a possible winner.
Then he flung them back across the baize.
His face was dead white, but his eyes blazed redly at Bond. Suddenly he raised one clenched fist and crashed it on the table among the pile of impotent aces and kings and queens in front of him.
Very low, he spat the words at Bond. ‘You’re a che … ’
‘That’s enough, Drax.’ Basildon’s voice came across the table like a whiplash. ‘None of that talk here. I’ve been watching the whole game. Settle up. If you’ve got any complaints, put them in writing to the Committee.’
Drax got slowly to his feet. He stood away from his chair and ran a hand through his wet red hair. The colour came slowly back into his face and with it an expression of cunning. He glanced down at Bond and there was in his good eye a contemptuous triumph which Bond found curiously disturbing.
He turned to the table. ‘Good night, gentlemen,’ he said, looking at each of them with the same oddly scornful expression. ‘I owe about £15,000. I will accept Meyer’s addition.’
He leant forward and picked up his cigarette-case and lighter.
Then he looked again at Bond and spoke very quietly, the red moustache lifting slowly from the splayed upper teeth.
‘I should spend the money quickly, Commander Bond,’ he said.
Then he turned away from the table and walked swiftly out of the room.
PART TWO
* * *
TUESDAY,
WEDNESDAY
8 ....... THE RED TELEPHONE
ALTHOUGH HE had not got to bed until two, Bond walked into his headquarters punctually at ten the next morning. He was feeling dreadful. As well as acidity and liver as a result of drinking nearly two whole bottles of champagne, he had a touch of the melancholy and spiritual deflation that were partly the after-effects of the benzedrine and partly reaction to the drama of the night before.
When he went up in the lift towards another routine day, the bitter taste of the midnight hours was still with him.
After Meyer had scuttled thankfully off to bed, Bond had taken the two packs of cards out of the pockets of his c
oat and had put them on the table in front of Basildon and M. One was the blue pack that Drax had cut to him and that he had pocketed, substituting instead, under cover of his handkerchief, the stacked blue pack in his right-hand pocket. The other was the stacked red pack in his left-hand pocket which had not been needed.
He fanned the red pack out on the table and showed M. and Basildon that it would have produced the same freak grand slam that had defeated Drax.
‘It’s a famous Culbertson hand,’ he explained. ‘He used it to spoof his own quick-trick conventions. I had to doctor a red and a blue pack. Couldn’t know which colour I would be dealing with.’
‘Well, it certainly went with a bang,’ said Basildon gratefully. ‘I expect he’ll put two and two together and either stay away or play straight in future. Expensive evening for him. Don’t let’s have any arguments about your winnings,’ he added. ‘You’ve done everyone – and particularly Drax – a good turn tonight. Things might have gone wrong. Then it would have been your fingers that would have got burned. Cheque will reach you on Saturday.’
They had said good-night and Bond, in a mood of anti-climax, had gone off to bed. He had taken a mild sleeping pill to try and clear his mind of the bizarre events of the evening and prepare himself for the morning and the office. Before he slept he reflected, as he had often reflected in other moments of triumph at the card table, that the gain to the winner is, in some odd way, always less than the loss to the loser.
When he closed the door behind him Loelia Ponsonby looked curiously at the dark shadows under his eyes. He noticed the glance, as she had intended.
He grinned. ‘Partly work and partly play,’ he explained. ‘In strictly masculine company,’ he added. ‘And thanks very much for the benzedrine. It really was badly needed. Hope I didn’t interfere with your evening?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, thinking of the dinner and the library book she had abandoned when Bond telephoned. She looked down at her shorthand pad. ‘The Chief of Staff telephoned half an hour ago. He said that M. would be wanting you today. He couldn’t say when. I told him that you’ve got Unarmed Combat at three and he said to cancel it. That’s all, except the dockets left over from yesterday.’
‘Thank heavens,’ said Bond. ‘I couldn’t have stood being thrown about by that dam’ Commando chap today. Any news of 008?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They say he’s all right. He’s been moved to the military hospital at Wahnerheide. Apparently it’s only shock.’
Bond knew what ‘shock’ might mean in his profession. ‘Good,’ he said without conviction. He smiled at her and went into his office and closed the door.
He walked decisively round his desk to the chair, sat down, and pulled the top file towards him. Monday was gone. This was Tuesday. A new day. Closing his mind to his headache and to thoughts about the night, he lit a cigarette and opened the brown folder with the Top Secret red star on it. It was a memorandum from the Office of the Chief Preventive Officer of the United States Customs Branch and it was headed The Inspectoscope.
He focused his eyes. ‘The Inspectoscope’, he read, ‘is an instrument using fluoroscopic principles for the detection of contraband. It is manufactured by the Sicular Inspectoscope Company of San Francisco and is widely used in American prisons for the secret detection of metal objects concealed in the clothing or on the person of criminals and prison visitors. It is also used in the detection of I.D.B. (Illicit Diamond Buying) and diamond smuggling in the diamond fields of Africa and Brazil. The instrument costs seven thousand dollars, is approximately eight feet long by seven feet high and weighs nearly three tons. It requires two trained operators. Experiments have been made with this instrument in the customs hall of the International Airport at Idlewild with the following results … ’
Bond skipped two pages containing details of a number of petty smuggling cases and studied the ‘Summary of Conclusions’ from which he deduced, with some irritation, that he would have to think of some place other than his armpit for carrying his .25 Beretta the next time he travelled abroad. He made a mental note to discuss the problem with the Technical Devices Section.
He ticked and initialled the distribution slip and automatically reached for the next folder entitled Philopon. A Japanese murder-drug.
‘Philopon’, his mind was trying to wander and he dragged it sharply back to the typewritten pages, ‘Philopon is the chief factor in the increase in crime in Japan. According to the Welfare Ministry there are now 1,500,000 addicts in the country, of whom one million are under the age of 20, and the Tokyo Metropolitan Police attribute 70 per cent of juvenile crime to the influences of the drug.
‘Addiction, as in the case of marijuana in the United States, begins with one “shot”. The effect is “stimulating” and the drug is habit-forming. It is also cheap – about ten yen (sixpence) a shot – and the addict rapidly increases his shots to the neighbourhood of one hundred a day. In these quantities the addiction becomes expensive and the victim automatically turns to crime to pay for the drug. That the crime often includes physical assault and murder is due to a peculiar property of the drug. It induces an acute persecution complex in the addict who becomes prey to the illusion that people want to kill him and that he is always being followed with harmful intent. He will turn with his feet and fists, or with a razor, on a stranger in the streets who he thinks has scrutinized him offensively. Less advanced addicts tend to avoid an old friend who has reached the one hundred shots a day dosage, and this of course merely increases his feeling of persecution.
‘In this way murder becomes an act of self-defence, virtuous and justified, and it will readily be seen what a dangerous weapon it can become in the handling and direction of organized crime by a “master-mind”.
‘Philopon has been traced as the motive power behind the notorious Bar Mecca murder case and as a result of that unpleasant affair the police rounded up more than 5,000 purveyors of the drug in a matter of weeks.
‘As usual Korean nationals are being blamed … ’
Suddenly Bond rebelled. What the hell was he doing reading all this stuff? When would he conceivably require to know about a Japanese murder-drug called Philopon?
Inattentively he skimmed through the remaining pages, ticked himself off the distribution slip, and threw the docket into his out-tray.
His headache was still sitting over his right eye as if it had been nailed there. He opened one of the drawers of his desk and took out a bottle of Phensic. He considered asking his secretary for a glass of water, but he disliked being cosseted. With distaste he crunched two tablets between his teeth and swallowed down the harsh powder.
Then he lit a cigarette and got up and stood by the window. He looked across the green panorama far below him and, without seeing it, let his eyes wander aimlessly along the jagged horizon of London while his mind focused on the strange events of the night before.
And the more he thought about it, the stranger it all seemed.
Why should Drax, a millionaire, a public hero, a man with a unique position the country, why should this remarkable man cheat at cards? What could he achieve by it? What could he prove to himself? Did he think that he was so much a law unto himself, so far above the common herd and their puny canons of behaviour that he could spit in the face of public opinion?
Bond’s mind paused. Spit in their faces. That just about described his manner at Blades. The combination of superiority and scorn. As if he was dealing with human muck so far beneath contempt that there was no need to put up even a pretence of decent behaviour in its company.
Presumably Drax enjoyed gambling. Perhaps it eased the tensions in him, the tensions that showed in his harsh voice, his nail-biting, the constant sweating. But he mustn’t lose. It would be contemptible to lose to these inferior people. So, at whatever risk, he must cheat his way to victory. As for the possibility of detection, presumably he thought that he could bluster his way out of any corner. If he thought about it at all. And people with obsess
ions, reflected Bond, were blind to danger. They even courted it in a perverse way. Kleptomaniacs would try to steal more and more difficult objects. Sex maniacs would parade their importunities as if they were longing to be arrested. Pyromaniacs often made no attempt to avoid being linked with their fire-raising.
But what obsession was it that was consuming this man? What was the origin of the compulsive urge that was driving him down the steep hill into the sea?
All the signs pointed to paranoia. Delusions of grandeur and, behind that, of persecution. The contempt in his face. The bullying voice. The expression of secret triumph with which he had met defeat after a moment of bitter collapse. The triumph of the maniac who knows that whatever the facts may say he is right. Whoever may try to thwart him he can overcome. For him there is no defeat because of his secret power. He knows how to make gold. He can fly like a bird. He is almighty – the man in the padded cell who is God.
Yes, thought Bond, gazing blindly out over Regent’s Park. That is the solution. Sir Hugo Drax is a raving paranoiac. That is the power which has driven him on, by devious routes, to make his millions. That is the mainspring of the gift to England of this giant rocket that will annihilate our enemies. Thanks to the all-powerful Drax.
But who can tell how near to breaking-point this man is? Who has penetrated behind that bluster, behind all that red hair on his face, who has read the signs as more than the effect of his humble origins or of sensitivity about his war wounds?
Apparently no one. Then was he, Bond, right in his analysis? What was it based on? Was this glimpse through a shuttered window into a man’s soul sufficient evidence? Perhaps others had caught such a glimpse. Perhaps there had been other moments of supreme tension in Singapore, Hong Kong, Nigeria, Tangier, when some merchant sitting across a table from Drax had noticed the sweat and the bitten nails and the red blaze of the eyes in the face from which all the blood had suddenly been drained.