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Bond left the Bentley outside Brooks’s and walked round the corner into Park Street.

The Adam frontage of Blades, recessed a yard or so back from its neighbours, was elegant in the soft dusk. The dark red curtains had been drawn across the ground floor bow-windows on either side of the entrance and a uniformed servant showed for a moment as he drew them across the three windows of the floor above. In the centre of the three, Bond could see the heads and shoulders of two men bent over a game, probably backgammon he thought, and he caught a glimpse of the spangled fire of one of the three great chandeliers that illuminate the famous gambling room.

Bond pushed through the swing doors and walked up to the old-fashioned porter’s lodge ruled over by Brevett, the guardian of Blades and the counsellor and family friend of half the members.

“Evening, Brevett. Is the Admiral in?”

“Good evening, sir,” said Brevett, who knew Bond as an occasional guest at the club. “The Admiral’s waiting for you in the card room. Page, take Commander Bond up to the Admiral. Lively now!”

As Bond followed the uniformed page boy across the worn black and white marble floor of the hall and up the wide staircase with its fine mahogany balustrade, he remembered the story of how, at one election, nine blackballs had been found in the box when there were only eight members of the committee present. Brevett, who had handed the box from member to member, was said to have confessed to the Chairman that he was so afraid the candidate would be elected that he had put in a blackball himself. No one had objected. The committee would rather have lost its chairman than the porter whose family had held the same post at Blades for a hundred years.

The page pushed open one wing of the tall doors at the top of the stairs and held it for Bond to go through. The long room was not crowded and Bond saw M. sitting by himself playing patience in the alcove formed by the left hand of the three bow windows. He dismissed the page and walked across the heavy carpet, noticing the rich background smell of cigar-smoke, the quiet voices that came from the three tables of bridge, and the sharp rattle of dice across an unseen backgammon board.

“There you are,” said M. as Bond came up. He waved to the chair that faced him across the card table. “Just let me finish this. I haven’t cracked this man Canfield for months. Drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Bond. He sat down and lit a cigarette and watched with amusement the concentration M. was putting into his game.

‘Admiral Sir M— M—: something at the Ministry of Defence.’ M. looked like any member of any of the clubs in St James’s Street. Dark grey suit, stiff white collar, the favourite dark blue bow-tie with spots, rather loosely tied, the thin black cord of the rimless eyeglass that M. seemed only to use to read menus, the keen sailor’s face, with the clear, sharp sailor’s eyes. It was difficult to believe that an hour before he had been playing with a thousand live chessmen against the enemies of England; that there might be, this evening, fresh blood on his hands, or a successful burglary, or the hideous knowledge of a disgusting blackmail case.

And what could the casual observer think of him, ‘Commander James Bond, gmg, rnvsr’, also ‘something at the Ministry of Defence’, the rather saturnine young man in his middle thirties sitting opposite the Admiral? Something a bit cold and dangerous in that face. Looks pretty fit. May have been attached to Templer in Malaya. Or Nairobi. Mau Mau work. Tough-looking customer. Doesn’t look the sort of chap one usually sees in Blades.

Bond knew that there was something alien and un-English about himself. He knew that he was a difficult man to cover up. Particularly in England. He shrugged his shoulders. Abroad was what mattered. He would never have a job to do in England. Outside the jurisdiction of the Service. Anyway, he didn’t need a cover this evening. This was recreation.

M. snorted and threw his cards down. Bond automatically gathered in the pack and as automatically gave it the Scarne shuffle, marrying the two halves with the quick downward riffle that never brings the cards off the table. He squared off the pack and pushed it away.

M. beckoned to a passing waiter. “Piquet cards, please, Tanner,” he said.

The waiter went away and came back a moment later with the two thin packs. He stripped off the wrapping and placed them, with two markers, on the table. He stood waiting.

“Bring me a whisky and soda,” said M. “Sure you won’t have anything?”

Bond looked at his watch. It was half-past six. “Could I have a dry Martini?” he said. “Made with Vodka. Large slice of lemon peel.”

“Rot-gut,” commented M. briefly as the waiter went away. “Now I’ll just take a pound or two off you and then we’ll go and have a look at the bridge. Our friend hasn’t turned up yet.”

For half an hour they played the game at which the expert player can nearly always win even with the cards running slightly against him. At the end of the game Bond laughed and counted out three pound-notes.

“One of these days I’m going to take some trouble and really learn piquet,” he said. “I’ve never won against you yet.”

“It’s all memory and knowing the odds,” said M. with satisfaction. He finished his whisky and soda. “Let’s go over and see what’s going on at the bridge. Our man’s playing at Basildon’s table. Came in about ten minutes ago. If you notice anything, just give me a nod and we’ll go downstairs and talk about it.”

He stood up and Bond followed suit.

The far end of the room had begun to fill up and half a dozen tables of bridge were going. At the round poker table under the centre chandelier three players were counting out chips into five stacks, waiting for two more players to come in. The kidney-shaped baccarat table was still shrouded and would probably remain so until after dinner, when it would be used for chemin-de-fer.

Bond followed M. out of their alcove, relishing the scene down the long room, the oases of green, the tinkle of glasses as the waiters moved amongst the tables, the hum of talk punctuated by sudden exclamations and warm laughter, the haze of blue smoke rising up through the dark red lampshades that hung over the centre of each table. His pulses quickened with the smell of it all and his nostrils flared slightly as the two men came down the long room and joined the company.

M., with Bond beside him, wandered casually from table to table, exchanging greetings with the players until they reached the last table beneath the fine Lawrence of Beau Brummel over the wide Adam fireplace.

“Double, damn you,” said the loud, cheerful voice of the player with his back to Bond. Bond thoughtfully noted the head of tight reddish hair that was all he could see of the speaker, then he looked to the left at the rather studious profile of Lord Basildon. The Chairman of Blades was leaning back, looking critically down his nose at the hand of cards which he held out and away from him as if it were a rare object.

“My hand is so exquisite that I am forced to redouble, my dear Drax,” he said. He looked across at his partner. “Tommy,” he said. “Charge this to me if it goes wrong.”

“Rot,” said his partner. “Meyer? Better take Drax out.”

“Too frightened,” said the middle-aged florid man who was playing with Drax. “No bid.” He picked up his cigar from the brass ashtray and put it carefully into the middle of his mouth.

“No bid here,” said Basildon’s partner.

“And nothing here,” came Drax’s voice.

“Five clubs redoubled,” said Basildon. “Your lead, Meyer.”

Bond looked over Drax’s shoulder. Drax had the ace of spades and the ace of hearts. He promptly made them both and led another heart which Basildon took on the table with the king.

“Well,” said Basildon. “There are four trumps against me including the queen. I shall play Drax to have her.” He finessed against Drax. Meyer took the trick with the queen.

“Hell and damnation,” said Basildon. “What’s the queen doing in Meyer’s hand? Well, I’m damned. Anyway the rest are mine.” He fanned his cards down on the table. He looked defensively at his partner. “Can you beat it, Tommy? Drax doubles and Meyer has the queen.” There was not more than a natural exasperation in his voice.

Drax chuckled. “Didn’t expect my partner to have a Yarborough did you?” he said cheerfully to Basildon. “Well, that’s just the four hundred above the line. Your deal.” He cut the cards to Basildon and the game went on.

So it had been Drax’s deal the hand before. That might be important. Bond lit a cigarette and reflectively examined the back of Drax’s head.

M.’s voice cut in on Bond’s thoughts. “You remember my friend Commander Bond, Basil? Thought we’d come along and play some bridge this evening.”

Basildon smiled up at Bond. “Evening,” he said. He waved a hand round the table from the left to right. “Meyer, Dangerfield, Drax.” The three men looked up briefly and Bond nodded a greeting to the table in general. “You all know the Admiral,” added the Chairman, starting to deal.

Drax half turned in his chair. “Ah, the Admiral,” he said boisterously. “Glad to have you aboard, Admiral. Drink?”

“No, thanks,” said M. with a thin smile. “Just had one.”

Drax turned and glanced up at Bond, who caught a glimpse of a tuft of reddish moustache and a rather chilly blue eye. “What about you?” asked Drax perfunctorily.

“No, thanks,” said Bond.

Drax swivelled back to the table and picked up his cards. Bond watched the big blunt hands sort them.

Then he moved round the table with a second clue to ponder.

Drax didn’t sort his cards into suits as most players do, but only into reds and blacks, ungraded, making his hand very difficult to kibitz and almost impossible for one of his neighbours, if they were so inclined to decipher.

Bond knew it for the way people hold their hands who are very careful card-players indeed.

Bond went and stood beside the chimneypiece. He took out a cigarette and lit it at the flame from a small gas-jet enclosed in a silver grille—a relic of the days before the use of matches—that protruded from the wall beside him.

From where he stood he could see the hand of Meyer, and by moving a pace to the right, of Basildon. His view of Sir Hugo Drax was uninterrupted and he inspected him carefully while appearing to interest himself only in the game.

Drax gave the impression of being a little larger than life. He was physically big—about six foot tall, Bond guessed—and his shoulders were exceptionally broad. He had a big square head and the tight reddish hair was parted in the middle. On either side of the parting the hair dipped down in a curve towards the temples with the object, Bond assumed, of hiding as much as possible of the tissue of shining puckered skin that covered most of the right half of his face. Other relics of plastic surgery could be detected in the man’s right ear, which was not a perfect match with its companion on the left, and the right eye, which had been a surgical failure. It was considerably larger than the left eye, because of a contraction of the borrowed skin used to rebuild the upper and lower eyelids, and it looked painfully bloodshot. Bond doubted if it was capable of closing completely and he guessed that Drax covered it with a patch at night.

To conceal as much as possible of the unsightly taut skin that covered half his face, Drax had grown a bushy reddish moustache and had allowed his whiskers to grow down to the level of the lobes of his ears. He also had patches of hair on his cheek-bones.

The heavy moustache served another purpose. It helped to hide a naturally prognathous upper jaw and a marked protrusion of the upper row of teeth. Bond reflected that this was probably due to sucking his thumb as a child, and it had resulted in an ugly splaying, or diastema, of what Bond had heard his dentist call ‘the centrals’. 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. “I could show him I’d spotted him and at the same time flay the hide off him at his own game. Of course Meyer’d get hurt in the process. Might lose a lot of money as Drax’s partner. Would that matter?”

“Serve him right,” said Basildon, overcome with relief and ready to grasp at any solution. “He’s been riding along on Drax’s back. Making plenty of money playing with him. You don’t think ...”

“No,” said Bond. “I’m sure he doesn’t know what’s going on. Although some of Drax’s bids must come as a bit of a shock. Well,” he turned to M., “is it all right with you, sir?”

M. reflected. He looked at Basildon. There was no doubt of his view.

He looked at Bond. “All right,” he said. “What must be, must be. Don’t like the idea, but I can see Basildon’s point. So long as you can bring it off and,” he smiled, “as long as you don’t want me to palm any cards or anything of that sort. No talent for it.”

“No,” said Bond. He put his hands in his coat pockets and touched the two silk handkerchiefs. “And I think it should work. All I need is a couple of packs of used cards, one of each colour, and ten minutes in here alone.”