LITMIR.BIZ

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CLUBS: 7, 6, 5, 3, 2

      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 suits, spades and hearts, he led the knave of diamonds.

      It made no difference what he led, but when M.'s hand went down showing chicane in diamonds, Drax snarled across at his partner. "Haven't you got anything else, you dam' fool? Want to hand it to him on a plate? Whose side are you on, anyway?"

      Meyer cringed into his clothes. "Best I could do, Hugger," he said miserably, wiping his face with his handkerchief.

      But by this time Drax had got his own worries.

      Bond trumped on the table, catching Drax's king of diamonds, and promptly led a club. Drax put up his nine. Bond took it with his ten and led a diamond, trumping it on the table. Drax's ace fell. Another club from the table, catching Drax's knave.

      Then the ace of clubs.

      As Drax surrendered his king, for the first time he saw what might be happening. His eyes squinted anxiously at Bond, waiting fearfully for the next card. Had Bond got the diamonds? Hadn't Meyer got them guarded? After all, he had opened with them. Drax waited, his cards slippery with sweat.

      Morphy, the great chess player, had a terrible habit. He would never raise his eyes from the game until he knew his opponent could not escape defeat. Then he would slowly lift his great head and gaze curiously at the man across the board. His opponent would feel the gaze and would slowly, humbly raise his eyes to meet Morphy's. At that moment he would know that it was no good continuing the game. The eyes of Morphy said so. There was nothing left but surrender.

      Now, like Morphy, Bond lifted his head and looked straight into Drax's eyes. Then he slowly drew out the queen of diamonds and placed it on the table. Without waiting for Meyer to play he followed it, deliberately, with the 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, and the two winning clubs.

      Then he spoke. "That's all, Drax," he said quietly, and sat slowly back in his chair.

      Drax's first reaction was to lurch forward and tear Meyer's cards out of his hand. He faced them on the table, scrabbling feverishly among them for a possible winner.

      Then he flung them back across the baize.

      His face was dead white, but his eyes blazed redly at Bond. Suddenly he raised one clenched fist and crashed it on the table among the pile of impotent aces and kings and queens in front of him.

      Very low, he spat the words at Bond. "You're a che..."

      "That's enough, Drax." Basildon's voice came across the table like a whiplash. "None of that talk here. I've been watching the whole game. Settle up. If you've got any complaints, put them in writing to the Committee."

      Drax got slowly to his feet. He stood away from his chair and ran a hand through his wet red hair. The colour came slowly back into his face and with it an expression of cunning. He glanced down at Bond and there was in his good eye a contemptuous triumph which Bond found curiously disturbing.

      He turned to the table. "Good night, gentlemen," he said, looking at each of them with the same oddly scornful expression. "I owe about £15,000. I will accept Meyer's addition."

      He leant forward and picked up his cigarette-case and lighter.

      Then he looked again at Bond and spoke very quietly, the red moustache lifting slowly from the splayed upper teeth.

      "I should spend the money quickly, Commander Bond," he said.

      Then he turned away from the table and walked swiftly out of the room.

      PART TWO.

       TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY

       Table of Content

       Chapter VIII. The Red Telephone

       Chapter IX. Take it from Here

       Chapter X. Special Branch Agent

       Chapter XI. Policewoman Brand

       Chapter XII. The Moonraker

       Chapter XIII. Dead Reckoning

       Chapter XIV. Itching Fingers

       Chapter XV. Rough Justice

       Chapter XVI. A Golden Day

       Chapter XVII. Wild Surmises

      Chapter VIII

       The Red Telephone

       Table of Content

      Although he had not got to bed until two, Bond walked into his headquarters punctually at ten the next morning. He was feeling dreadful. As well as acidity and liver as a result of drinking nearly two whole bottles of champagne, he had a touch of the melancholy and spiritual deflation that were partly the after-effects of the benzedrine and partly reaction to the drama of the night before.

      When he went up in the lift towards another routine day, the bitter taste of the midnight hours was still with him.

      After Meyer had scuttled thankfully off to bed, Bond had taken the two packs of cards out of the pockets of his coat and had put them on the table in front of Basildon and M. One was the blue pack that Drax had cut to him and that he had pocketed, substituting instead, under cover of his handkerchief, the stacked blue pack in his right-hand pocket. The other was the stacked red pack in his left-hand pocket which had not been needed.

      He fanned the red pack out on the table and showed M. and Basildon that it would have produced the same freak grand slam that had defeated Drax.

      "It's a famous Culbertson hand," he explained. "He used it to spoof his own quick-trick conventions. I had to doctor a red and a blue pack. Couldn't know

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