As Conrad walked down the stairs leading from the entrance to the Club, a taxi approached. He hailed it. He climbed into the back seat, and sat silently for several seconds.
‘Where to, guv?’ the driver asked cheerfully.
He looked at his watch. It was nearing midnight. He was on the brink of calling out his home address, when he stopped himself.
‘The Clermont Club, 44 Berkeley Square.’
‘Right you are, guv,’ the driver replied, checking his side mirror as he pulled away from the kerb.
The drive was a short one, and within a few minutes, Conrad was walking hurriedly, compulsively, upstairs, to the cash desk. Vicente greeted him politely, but Conrad noticed a hesitation in his manner. He produced all he had left –£250 in crumpled notes – and laid them on the desk. Vicente looked at the notes, but did not pick them up.
‘Could you give me one moment, Sir Conrad?’ Vicente asked. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He left the cash desk and disappeared to Conrad’s right into the Holland Room. A moment or two later, John Aspinall appeared from the same room.
‘Conrad,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘They told me you were here. How are you?’
‘I’m well, John, thank you. I’ve been at my Club. I’m not quite ready to go home, and I thought I’d call in and play a few hands.’
Aspinall nodded.
‘Actually, Conrad, there’s a bit of a problem with that.’
‘A problem? What do you mean…?’
Aspinall took him by the arm.
‘Not here. Come to my office.’
Together they climbed the short, but steep staircase behind the cash desk, which led to the top floor of the Club.
‘Only exercise I get these days,’ Aspinall smiled. ‘Still, better than nothing, I suppose.’
He opened the door to the office, and ushered Conrad inside. The place was a mess, with papers lying haphazardly on the desk, chairs, the floor and every other available space, and a glossy calendar from a Soho Chinese Restaurant hanging crookedly from a hook on the wall. A croupier Conrad did not recognise was seated at the desk. Aspinall dismissed him with a single shake of the head. He wished Conrad good evening, and left the room. Aspinall waved Conrad into a chair.
‘Throw the papers on the floor,’ he said. ‘God knows, it won’t make any difference. How anyone ever gets any work done here, I’ll never know.’
Once seated, Aspinall drew himself up and folded his arms in front of him.
‘We’re concerned, Conrad,’ he said. ‘You lost a lot of money the other night.’
Seeing that Conrad was about to reply, he held up a hand.
‘No, let me finish. I have to tell you, we’ve had doubts for some time. I’ve never asked you for a deposit, Conrad. It’s something I don’t like to do. But as you know, we don’t extend credit. The Club depends on members being good for their losses. Our reputation depends on it, as does our own solvency, for that matter. I’m afraid we’re not convinced that you would be able to cover any further losses.’
‘John, look –’
‘I’m sorry, Conrad. It wouldn’t be fair to us, or the other members. I’m afraid I’ve decided that you can’t play here again unless you make a substantial cash deposit as a reserve. Shall we say £30,000? And you wouldn’t be allowed to place wagers that would take you below that limit if you lose. If that’s not a problem, then we will always be glad to see you. But otherwise, I must draw the line. I’m sorry, Conrad.’
Conrad stared at him for some time. He nodded.
‘All right, John,’ he replied quietly. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’
Aspinall stood.
‘Look, take a taxi home on us. Vicente will give you enough.’
‘No, thank you, John,’ Conrad replied. ‘I can find my own way.’