Free Moonraker by Ian Fleming Page B

‘ hand.) “Care to have something extra just on this hand?”
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