They had a drink and a cigarette in the bar to settle his nerves. Conrad’s life had changed in the space of ten minutes in a staff toilet at Annabel’s. Nothing felt the same as it had before he left the Barbican some three hours earlier. He had an image of himself as a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, testing its wings, learning to feel the caress of the wind and the touch of a flower. His body had transformed itself. His energy was running high; it made him feel light-headed, unfocused. He had the strangest desire to go outside into Berkeley Square and run into the night as fast as he could until his breath gave out. He was acutely conscious of his heartbeat, which seemed strong, but rather erratic. But he had the disquieting illusion that the Club staff, and even one or two of the members, were smiling at him in such a way as to suggest that they knew what had happened at Annabel’s a few minutes earlier; and it was so strong that he had an impulse to tell them himself rather than submit to the scrutiny of their suspicious smiles.
All in all, he felt in no condition for a serious game of cards. Greta, on the other hand, was calm and composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She was her usual charming self, and wished everyone a good evening with her most winning smile. He sat back in his chair and allowed the warmth of the whisky to soothe him.
It was after 2 o’clock in the morning now, but in the gaming rooms of the Clermont Club time was an irrelevance. In the Blue Room, Jean-Pascal was presiding over a game of chemin de fer with nine players. As they entered the room, he recognised Dominick Elwes, Dai Llewellyn, Lord Derby and Ian Maxwell-Scott. Susie was sitting with a drink on the far side of the room. When she saw him enter with Greta, she gave a look of mock horror, with both hands over her mouth, before turning up both her thumbs with a gleeful private smile. He smiled back, quite sure that he must have looked like an adolescent confiding in a friend about an unexpected conquest, half triumphant, half embarrassed. Well, Susie knows now, Conrad thought, and if Susie knows, so will everyone else before the night is out. It was a thought that rocked him for a moment, but then, once the shock had subsided, rather pleased him.
Ian waved him into the chair on his right. Two chairs to Ian’s left, Lord Derby had the bank, and to judge from his expression, and the quantity of chips in front of him, he was having a good night. To Lord Derby’s left, Dominick Elwes, who must have surrendered the bank to Lord Derby, gave no indication of having a good night. Even in his short time as a member of the Clermont, Conrad had heard the rumours that Dominick was allowed to lose as much as he wanted within reason, on the house, because his charm and wit brought people into the Club and kept them happy while they played. If so, he was giving little indication of charm or wit at the moment. Vicente had supplied Conrad with £500 worth of chips against his cheque. Greta briefly stood behind his chair and squeezed his shoulders, allowing her hair to brush against his head, before moving away to talk to Susie, who had approached the table to see how her husband was faring.
‘The bank wagers £500,’ Lord Derby announced with an air of authority.
Dai Llewellyn, sitting to Lord Derby’s right, had the right of banco prime, but he shook his head.
Conrad’s light-headedness had subsided enough for him to be aware that serious money was at stake now, and John Aspinall’s words returned to him: ‘Members here tend to play high, but you don’t have to try to match them. I’m sure you know what I mean’. Even with his lack of experience, Conrad knew that each table developed a life of its own as an evening wore on, and unless you joined early, you had to find a way of divining what that life was, and where it had led at the time you joined.
He saw at once that he had joined the table at a critical moment. Lord Derby had kept the bank for some time, and he had done some major damage. He wouldn’t be starting out with a bet of £500; there was a history to it. The Clermont minimum was £100, and usually if the bank was winning, the banker would increase his bet in increments of £100, but there were some players who were far more aggressive. Lord Derby, Conrad felt sure, was throwing out a challenge to a fight to the death to opponents he had already beaten heavily. Every instinct Conrad had told him to stay out of it until he got the feel of the table. But he could still feel the blood racing through his veins, and there was a recklessness surging through him, which took him by surprise and yet, at the same time, felt entirely natural.
He and Ian shouted banco at the same moment. Looking to his right, he saw Greta flash her green eyes and smile. Susie was giving Ian a look that he could not quite identify. The table as a whole seemed to have lost whatever confidence it had started with. Only Ian, resistant to fear as ever, was still in the game. Whatever Lord Derby had been doing during the night, it had worked; he had the others thoroughly intimidated.
‘Mr Maxwell-Scott has covered,’ Jean-Pascal said. ‘Rien ne va plus.’
Conrad nodded. He had given way to his impulses, but he was not going to feature in this hand. The croupier was right. The player closer to the bank had priority.
Jean-Pascal quickly dealt two cards to Lord Derby and two to Ian.
Tentatively, Ian turned over his cards, and suddenly gave Conrad a smile, half relief, half delight. Two fours. The bank had a three and a king. Lord Derby’s reign as banker had ended, but Conrad had not been part of it.
‘The players win, La Petite to three,’ Jean-Pascal announced. ‘Mr Llewellyn has the bank.’
Dai Llewellyn started with the minimum £100. Ian covered at once, but lost the hand seven to zero, and Dai kept the bank.
Next, Dai ventured £250. Ian seemed momentarily subdued, and kept quiet. No one covered. Conrad bet £100, and a taciturn man to Jean-Pascal’s immediate right did the same. As the player closer to the bank, he had to represent the players. Conrad turned his cards over slowly. A five and a jack. He shook his head. He had to choose whether to stand or draw a third card. Impulsively, he called ‘Carte’. His third card was a queen, worth zero. His score remained at five. The bank had seven.
Dai was feeling bolder now, and jumped from £250 straight to £750. Conrad forced himself to think. Dai must have calculated that the lack of confidence that had gripped the table during Lord Derby’s hold on the bank would continue, and that he would have only one or two small bets to contend with. Lord Derby himself seemed to have been affected. Even Ian seemed to have had the wind taken out of his sails and showed no inclination to react. Susie had gone quiet and had returned to her seat on the other side of the room. Greta had moved closer to the table. Conrad saw her looking at him with a look that said, ‘Go for it’.
‘Banco’, he called.
He felt Dai’s sharp glance from his left. Eyebrows were raised around the table. Finally, someone was trying to take the initiative.
Conrad was dealt a seven and a king. Unless the bank had a natural, he was going to win. The bank had zero. Conrad was ahead for the first time, and Ian Maxwell-Scott had the bank.
Conrad saw Ian smile to himself. Susie was still sitting quietly as if trying to distance herself from the action. He watched Ian closely, and suddenly understood what John Aspinall had said about him. He was an intelligent, thoughtful man, but once he was in the grip of the excitement of the game and had money in his sights, thinking took a back seat and the thrill took over; once that happened, there were no limits. Conrad pondered how to react. He could be patient, stick with systematic bids of £100 or £200, and wait out the hands when the bank was covered; or he could jump right in and try for a decisive advantage. He didn’t need to look at Greta to know what she was willing him to do. He felt her presence from where he sat. He glanced at his watch. It was already nearly three. The recklessness had not left him.
‘The bank wagers £1,000,’ Ian declared. In the distance Susie had taken refuge in a fashion magazine.
‘Banco prime,’ Conrad responded, without hesitation. He saw Greta close her lips and nod her head slightly.
‘Rien ne vas plus,’ Jean-Pascal announced. He dealt the cards.
Conrad had a feeling about it the moment the cards were dealt. When he turned them over and saw the nine and the jack, he felt an immense rush. The bank had six. It didn’t matter. He had won and the bank was his.
He was on a mission now. The lack of confidence around the table would not last indefinitely. Whenever the stakes rose at a table, the energy the high stakes generated began to spread; and the stakes were rising now. Besides, it was getting late. Time might be irrelevant to some, but he was all too aware that he would have to put in an appearance in chambers later in the morning, and he had made a promise to Greta, which he was sure she would require him to fulfil. Time was short. He would strike while he had the bank.
‘The bank wagers £1,000.’
The repetition of Ian’s bet was a deliberate provocation, one he knew would produce an immediate reaction. Ian responded with ‘banco’ before anyone else could say a word. Ian did not have banco prime, but there was no challenge from his right. For the moment, it had become a personal duel, and the other players would be content to sit and watch for a while. Conrad had begun to feel the energy of the table now. It was a new experience for him, and he watched it carefully. It seemed to him that it had settled on him. He continued to watch it as the cards were dealt. He ended up with seven against Ian’s three.
Susie threw down her magazine and stood very obviously behind Ian’s chair. ‘She sees it, too,’ he told himself, ‘the energy. She sees it’s not with him.’ She made very obvious comments about how late it was and the need to get up in the morning, and Ian reluctantly took the hint, bidding good night to those assembled. Conrad smiled to himself. It was a downhill run now. It took hardly any time at all. He kept up his £1,000 starting bid, sensing that no one would cover. No one did. He won four hands in succession. A number of players had recovered sufficiently to cover him partially, and adding it all together, he was substantially ahead. Not only that, but he had respected the convention. He had kept the bank long enough to give the table a fair chance to recoup their losses. He could not be criticised for calling it a night. He passed the bank on voluntarily and left the table. It was just before 4 o’clock as he lit one of Greta’s cigarettes.