007 Complete Series - 21 James Bond Novels in One Volume. Ian Fleming
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The moustache helped to hide these 'ogre's teeth' and it was only when Drax uttered, as he frequently did, his short braying laugh that the splay could be seen.
The general effect of the face--the riot of red-brown hair, the powerful nose and jaw, the florid skin--was flamboyant. It put Bond in mind of a ring-master at a circus. The contrasting sharpness and coldness of the left eye supported the likeness.
A bullying, boorish, loud-mouthed vulgarian. That would have been Bond's verdict if he had not known something of Drax's abilities. As it was, it crossed his mind that much of the effect might be Drax's idea of a latter-day Regency buck--the harmless disguise of a man with a smashed face who was also a snob.
Looking for further clues, Bond noticed that Drax was sweating rather freely. Despite the occasional growl of thunder outside it was a cool evening, and yet Drax was constantly mopping his face and neck with a huge bandana handkerchief. He smoked incessantly, stubbing out the cork-tipped Virginia cigarettes after a dozen lungfuls of smoke and almost immediately lighting another from a box of fifty in his coat pocket. His big hands, their backs thickly covered with reddish hair, were always on the move, fiddling with his cards, handling the cigarette lighter that stood beside a plain flat silver cigarette-case in front of him, twisting a lock of hair on the side of his head, using the handkerchief on his face and neck. Occasionally he put a finger greedily to his mouth and worried a nail. Even at a distance Bond could see that every finger-nail was bitten down to the quick.
The hands themselves were strong and capable but the thumbs had something ungainly about them which it took Bond a moment or two to define. He finally detected that they were unnaturally long and reached level with the top joint of the index finger.
Bond concluded his inspection with Drax's clothes which were expensive and in excellent taste--a dark blue pinstripe in lightweight flannel, double-breasted with turnback cuffs, a heavy white silk shirt with a stiff collar, an unobtrusive tie with a small grey and white check, modest cuff-links, which looked like Cartier, and a plain gold Patek Philippe watch with a black leather strap.
Bond lit another cigarette and concentrated on the game, leaving his subconscious to digest the details of Drax's appearance and manner that had seemed to him significant and that might help to explain the riddle of his cheating, the nature of which had still to be discovered.
Half an hour later the cards had completed the circle.
"My deal," said Drax with authority. "Game all and we have a satisfactory inflation above the line. Now then, Max, see if you can't pick up a few aces. I'm tired of doing all the work." He dealt smoothly and slowly round the table, keeping up a running fire of rather heavy-handed banter with the company. "Long rubber," he said to M. who was sitting smoking his pipe between Drax and Basildon. "Sorry to have kept you out so long. How about a challenge after dinner? Max and I'll take on you and Commander Thingummy. What did you say his name was? Good player?"
"Bond," said M. "James Bond. Yes, I think we'd like that very much. What do you say, James?"
Bond's eyes were glued to the bent head and slowly moving hands of the dealer. Yes, that was it! Got you, you bastard. A Shiner. A simple, bloody Shiner that wouldn't have lasted five minutes in a pro's game. M. saw the glint of assurance in Bond's eyes as they met across the table.
"Fine," said Bond cheerfully. "Couldn't be better."
He made an imperceptible movement of the head. "How about showing me the Betting Book before dinner? You always say it'll amuse me."
M. nodded. "Yes. Come along. It's in the Secretary's office. Then Basildon can come down and give us a cocktail and tell us the result of this death-struggle." He got up.
"Order what you want," said Basildon with a sharp glance at M. "I'll be down directly we've polished them off."
"Around nine then," said Drax, glancing from M. to Bond. "Show him the bet about the girl in the balloon." He picked up his hand. "Looks like I shall have the Casino's money to play with," he said after a rapid glance at his cards. "Three No Trumps." He shot a triumphant glance at Basildon. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it."
Bond, following M. out of the room, missed Basildon's reply.
They walked down the stairs and along to the Secretary's office in silence. The room was in darkness. M. switched on the light and went and sat down in the swivel chair in front of the busy-looking desk. He turned the chair to face Bond who had walked over to the empty fireplace and was taking out a cigarette.
"Any luck?" he asked looking up at him.
"Yes," said Bond. "He cheats all right."
"Ah," said M. unemotionally. "How does he do it?"
"Only on the deal," said Bond. "You know that silver cigarette-case he has in front of him, with his lighter? He never takes cigarettes from it. Doesn't want to get fingermarks on the surface. It's plain silver and very highly polished. When he deals, it's almost concealed by the cards and his big hands. And he doesn't move his hands away from it. Deals four piles quite close to him. Every card is reflected in the top of the case. It's just as good as a mirror although it looks perfectly innocent lying there. As he's such a good businessman it would be normal for him to have a first-class memory. You remember I told you about 'Shiners'? Well, that's just a version of one. No wonder he brings off these miraculous finesses every once in a while. That double we watched was easy. He knew his partner had the guarded queen. With his two aces the double was a certainty. The rest of the time he just plays his average game. But knowing all the cards on every fourth deal is a terrific edge. It's not surprising he always shows a profit."
"But one doesn't notice him doing it," protested M.
"It's quite natural to look down when one's dealing," said Bond. "Everybody does. And he covers up with a lot of banter, much more than he produces when someone else is dealing. I expect he's got very good peripheral vision--the thing they mark us so highly for when we take our medical for the Service. Very wide angle of sight."
The door opened and Basildon came in. He was bristling. He shut the door behind him. "That dam' shut-out bid of Drax's," he exploded. "Tommy and I could have made four hearts if we could have got around to bidding it. Between them they had the ace of hearts, six club tricks, and the ace, king of diamonds and a bare guard in spades. Made nine tricks straight off. How he had the face to open Three No Trumps I can't imagine." He calmed down a little. "Well, Miles," he said, "has your friend got the answer?"
M. gestured to Bond, who repeated what he had told M.
Lord Basildon's face got angrier as Bond talked.
"Damn the man," he exploded when Bond had finished. "What the hell does he want to do that for? Bloody millionaire. Rolling in money. Fine scandal we're in for. I'll simply have to tell the Committee. Haven't had a cheating case since the 'fourteen-eighteen war." He paced up and down the room. The club was quickly forgotten as he remembered the significance of Drax himself. "And they say this rocket of his is going to be ready before long. Only comes up here once or twice a week for a bit of relaxation. Why, the man's a public hero! this is terrible."
Basildon's anger was chilled by the thought of his responsibility. He turned to M. for help. "Now, Miles, what am I to do? He's won thousands of pounds in this club and others have lost it. Take this evening. It doesn't matter about my losses, of course. But what about Dangerfield? I happen to know he's been having a bad time on the stock market lately. I don't see how I can avoid telling the Committee. Can't shirk it--whoever Drax is. And you know what that'll mean. There are ten on the Committee. Bound to be a leak. And then look at the scandal. They tell me the Moonraker can't exist without Drax and the papers say the whole future of the country depends on the thing. This is a damned serious business." He paused and shot a hopeful glance at M. and then at Bond. "Is there any alternative?"
Bond stubbed out his cigarette. "He could be stopped," he said quietly. "That is," he added with a thin smile, "if you don't mind paying him out in his own coin."
"Do anything you bloody well like," said Basildon emphatically. "What are you thinking of?" Hope dawned in his eyes at Bond's assurance.
"Well," said Bond.