After Aubrey had gone in to dinner, Conrad ordered another whisky and sat quietly in the lounge, drinking and smoking, for almost an hour. Finally, he pushed his glass away decisively, said goodnight to Luke, and left the Club. He stood for a moment, allowing the brisk October breeze to chill his face, before turning to his left along Pall Mall, then right on to St James’s, and then left on to Piccadilly. Just before Green Park he crossed the street and made his way along Berkeley Street the short distance to Berkeley Square. Albert was in place outside number 44, ready to open the door for him, with his usual cheery words of welcome.
Conrad felt some remorse about breaking his word to Aubrey. Aubrey was a good friend, and he was doing his charming, naïve best to help. But he couldn’t allow the remorse to get in the way of what he had to do. It wasn’t as though Aubrey’s plan was exactly foolproof; on the contrary, the path he had suggested was a minefield and even one false step would prove fatal. Aubrey was asking him to take a colossal risk, and Aubrey wasn’t the one facing the exposure. The headlines in the press weren’t hard to imagine. They had been dancing before his eyes for weeks now. High Court Judge to be charged with Forgery. Top Judge stole to satisfy Mistress. Judge borrowed from Loan Shark to finance Gambling Addiction. They would have a field day, but not just for a day, for months on end. ‘Skeleton in the cupboard’ didn’t begin to describe it. He would be removed as a judge, prosecuted, and imprisoned – and that was before Deborah decided what to do with him. Well, at least he would have earned his place in history, but somehow that wasn’t of much comfort.
Of course there was one obvious way out. But what if he still had a chance to turn things around? What if he could still beat the odds?
After so long, the odds of winning at chemin de fer were no mystery to him. The probability of accumulating nine points with two cards, given a full pack of cards, was a simple question of arithmetic. In all the time he had been winning and losing, that probability had not changed; it had remained a constant. The only thing that had changed was his luck. It had been bad for a long time now, but that must mean that it was due to change. That was how luck worked. It was good or bad for a while, then it changed. You had to ride it like an unruly horse, until it bent to your will. You just had to hold your nerve long enough.
And with his experience, of course, Conrad would not make the mistake of pushing it too far. He would not press on recklessly in search of sudden wealth. All he needed was enough to pay everything off. He owed a lot, but it was nothing a good night couldn’t take care of. He had seen it happen. He had seen men walk away from the Clermont with twice that much after a single night’s play. Once he had what he needed, he would stop. He would walk away from the Clermont, and from Greta. He would once again become what the world believed him to be. If he started with £2,000 and there were some high stakes men at the table, a few hands would see him safe.
What was the worst that could happen? He would have to raid the trust fund one last time, to make sure he could pay Daniel Cleary. The next payment was due now, and from tomorrow it couldn’t be avoided. But Aubrey didn’t have to know that, and it couldn’t make the situation much worse. And he might walk away from his problems that very night. He might be buying Aubrey dinner the following evening to celebrate the end of the nightmare. Might? He would; of course he would. No one’s luck could be that bad. He just had to believe.
He left his hat and coat in the cloakroom, and walked briskly into the Clermont. He paused at the bar for a whisky and soda. It was still early, not even 10 o’clock. He had planned it that way. It meant that the gaming rooms might still be quiet, that there might be fewer players than he would have liked, but it gave him a sporting chance of avoiding Greta. The last thing he needed tonight was Greta standing behind him, bending over him, the warmth of her body and the scent of her perfume taking his mind off the cards as she goaded him on to ever greater risks. With any luck she would not come much before midnight, if she came at all. With any luck, by the time she arrived… there was that word again: luck. He chatted to Mario, the barman, for a few minutes as he drank, and bought another drink to take with him.
He made his way upstairs just after 10.15 and, feeling suddenly exposed, looked around him awkwardly before approaching Vicente at the cash desk to exchange his £2,000 for the chips that represented his path to freedom. The Blue Room was quiet, as he had expected. Play was not yet under way, but Jean-Pascal was preparing the table; unwrapping eight new packs of cards, positioning the shoe and his rake. He exchanged greetings with the croupier, and watched him work for a few moments before standing back to survey the room.
‘Lucky’ Lucan was sitting by himself in a corner, reading The Times. Dominick Elwes was chatting to Ian and Susie Maxwell-Scott in a corner. Susie waved and blew him a kiss. In another corner, John Aspinall was listening – probably involuntarily, Conrad thought to himself with a smile – to Kerry Packer. Conrad’s lips tightened. How that man had ever become a member… well, money talking, obviously. The cricket magnate’s brash Australian speech was jarring, and it was non-stop – the man couldn’t keep his mouth shut for a minute, not even during a game. He was a disconcerting presence at the table. Conrad was aware enough to know that it was a deliberate tactic, designed to keep his opponents off balance; but knowing that didn’t make him any less difficult to deal with. It would be a better table without him, but that choice wasn’t Conrad’s to make. He would just have to tune Packer out. At least there was no Goldsmith tonight.
With a visible effort, Aspinall detached himself from Packer and approached Conrad, putting a hand on his shoulder.
‘Evening, Conrad,’ he said affably. ‘How are things?’
‘Oh, can’t grumble, John, how about you?’
‘Oh, very fair, very fair. Overworked as usual, but there we go… are you sitting in for a hand or two this evening?’
Conrad displayed his chips. ‘All set.’
Aspinall had left his hand on Conrad’s shoulder. He squeezed gently, and steered Conrad to the door and out on to the landing by the cash desk. Vicente immediately became intensely absorbed in some papers on the far side of the desk.
‘Conrad, I hope you don’t mind my mentioning this,’ Aspinall began confidentially, ‘but are you sure you’re all right to play this evening?’
Conrad stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s just that… I can’t help noticing – just part of being in charge of things, you know, it’s the kind of thing I have to notice – but I can’t help noticing that you haven’t had much of a run of the cards recently. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I just want to make sure everything is all right. Greta came in last night, you know, after you’d gone, and she seemed to think – well, she seemed to think that perhaps things might be a bit difficult at the moment.’
He paused.
‘We love having you here, Conrad, goes without saying. I’m just asking because I’m concerned – as a friend, you know.’
Conrad repressed a flash of anger.
‘You don’t want to pay too much attention to Greta, John. She doesn’t know everything about me.’
‘No, no, of course. I don’t take her at face value. Certainly not. To be perfectly honest, Conrad, if Annabel wasn’t so keen on her, she wouldn’t necessarily be the kind of person we would expect to see at the Clermont –’
‘No, I’m sure –’
‘But she’s welcome whenever she’s with you, of course, goes without saying. It’s just that, from what one hears, she has some rather dubious connections…’
Conrad forced himself to smile.
‘Yes, I’m well aware of that, John. I keep her at arm’s length, believe me. I have to, given my job and everything.’
‘Yes, of course. I just wanted to make sure, you know…’
‘Yes. Thank you John.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘It’s just that I couldn’t bail you out again, Conrad, you see? You understand that, I’m sure. I have to think of the other members, and…’
From inside the Blue Room, they heard Jean-Pascal’s voice.
‘Gentlemen, please take your seats for chemin de fer.’
‘Of course, I understand,’ Conrad replied brusquely.
‘Good,’ Aspinall said, finally releasing his shoulder. ‘Just wanted to make sure. Well, bonne chance, Conrad.’