And what could the casual observer think of him, ‘Commander James Bond, G.M.G., R.N.V.S.R.’, also ‘something at the Ministry of Defence’, the rather saturnine young man in his middle thirties sitting opposite the Admiral? Something a bit cold and dangerous in that face. Looks pretty fit. May have been attached to Templer in Malaya. Or Nairobi. Mau Mau work. Tough-looking customer. Doesn’t look the sort of chap one usually sees in Blades.
Bond knew that there was something alien and un-English about himself. He knew that he was a difficult man to cover up. Particularly in England. He shrugged his shoulders. Abroad was what mattered. He would never have a job to do in England. Outside the jurisdiction of the Service. Anyway, he didn’t need a cover this evening. This was recreation.
M. snorted and threw his cards down. Bond automatically gathered in the pack and as automatically gave it the Scarne shuffle, marrying the two halves with the quick downward riffle that never brings the cards off the table. He squared off the pack and pushed it away.
M. beckoned to a passing waiter. ‘Piquet cards, please, Tanner,’ he said.
The waiter went away and came back a moment later with the two thin packs. He stripped off the wrapping and placed them, with two markers, on the table. He stood waiting.
‘Bring me a whisky and soda,’ said M. ‘Sure you won’t have anything?’
Bond looked at his watch. It was half past six. ‘Could I have a dry Martini?’ he said. ‘Made with Vodka. Large slice of lemon peel.’
‘Rot-gut,’ commented M. briefly as the waiter went away. ‘Now I’ll just take a pound or two off you and then we’ll go and have a look at the bridge. Our friend hasn’t turned up yet.’
For half an hour they played the game at which the expert player can nearly always win even with the cards running slightly against him. At the end of the game Bond laughed and counted out three pound-notes.
‘One of these days I’m going to take some trouble and really learn piquet,’ he said. ‘I’ve never won against you yet.’
‘It’s all memory and knowing the odds,’ said M. with satisfaction. He finished his whisky and soda. ‘Let’s go over and see what’s going on at the bridge. Our man’s playing at Basildon’s table. Came in about ten minutes ago. If you notice anything, just give me a nod and we’ll go downstairs and talk about it.’
He stood up and Bond followed suit.
The far end of the room had begun to fill up and half a dozen tables of bridge were going. At the round poker table under the centre chandelier three players were counting out chips into five stacks, waiting for two more players to come in. The kidney-shaped baccarat table was still shrouded and would probably remain so until after dinner, when it would be used for chemin-de-fer.
Bond followed M. out of their alcove, relishing the scene down the long room, the oases of green, the tinkle of glasses as the waiters moved amongst the tables, the hum of talk punctuated by sudden exclamations and warm laughter, the haze of blue smoke rising up through the dark red lamp-shades that hung over the centre of each table. His pulses quickened with the smell of it all and his nostrils flared slightly as the two men came down the long room and joined the company.
M., with Bond beside him, wandered casually from table to table, exchanging greetings with the players until they reached the last table beneath the fine Lawrence of Beau Brummel over the wide Adam fireplace.
‘Double, damn you,’ said the loud, cheerful voice of the player with his back to Bond. Bond thoughtfully noted the head of tight reddish hair that was all he could see of the speaker, then he looked to the left at the rather studious profile of Lord Basildon. The Chairman of Blades was leaning back, looking critically down his nose at the hand of cards which he held out and away from him as if it were a rare object.
‘My hand is so exquisite that I am forced to redouble, my dear Drax,’ he said. He looked across at his partner. ‘Tommy,’ he said. ‘Charge this to me if it goes wrong.’
‘Rot,’ said his partner. ‘Meyer? Better take Drax out.’
‘Too frightened,’ said the middle-aged florid man who was playing with Drax. ‘No bid.’ He picked up his cigar from the brass ashtray and put it carefully into the middle of his mouth.
‘No bid here,’ said Basildon’s partner.
‘And nothing here,’ came Drax’s voice.
‘Five clubs redoubled,’ said Basildon. ‘Your lead, Meyer.’
Bond looked over Drax’s shoulder. Drax had the ace of spades and the ace of hearts. He promptly made them both and led another heart which Basildon took on the table with the king.
‘Well,’ said Basildon. ‘There are four trumps against me including the queen. I shall play Drax to have her.’ He finessed against Drax. Meyer took the trick with the queen.
