Free Moonraker by Ian Fleming Page A

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 cards…”
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