Читать книгу Groom By Arrangement - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 8

IT WAS a little past midnight, and the casino was at its busiest, the atmosphere hot and stuffy, blue with the haze of cigarette smoke. There were crowds around the roulette tables, the blackjack tables were full, and every slot machine in the hall was flashing its coloured lights and chiming its bells like some kind of alien spacecraft that had overdosed on magic mushrooms.

Natasha was dealing blackjack again, but from time to time she heard reports on the progress of the poker game being conducted in the principal card room at the back of the casino. Eight players had sat down at ten o’clock, but already two had been dealt out, and unless Señor Santos had a significant run of luck he’d be out before long, too.

‘Lester’s having a good night tonight,’ someone remarked.

‘Maybe. But I reckon the Englishman’s got his measure. They’re still psyching each other out, but he’s got the advantage—no one knows his game.’

‘Yeah, but he don’t know theirs, neither. Could get interesting.’

Natasha listened, but said nothing. The essence of poker was to control the table, to be able to out-guess your opponent, to read his tactics without giving away your own. She still wasn’t sure if she had read Hugh Garratt’s tactics correctly. Was he just a fool, about to lose his shirt, as Lester so confidently believed? Or was he very, very clever?

But those thoughts were well concealed behind her cool, professional smile as she dealt out the cards and raked in the chips. And the hours slipped past, uncounted.

At last the crowd began to thin a little. Natasha glanced at her watch and signalled the pit boss that she was going to close down the table, then racked up the chips and returned them to the cage, where the cashiers were busy with cheques and banknotes, quiet and serious as they counted with swift fingers, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.

A glance around the gaming room confirmed that everything was in order, nothing needed her attention. Finally, a curiosity she couldn’t resist drew her to the card rooms.

A low half-gallery ran along the length of the card rooms, so that spectators could watch without distracting the players or being able to interfere with play. Behind it, three curtained archways gave access to the main gaming room. Quite an audience had gathered tonight, hushed and intent as they watched the action at the table.

Hugh appeared to be quite relaxed—his jacket was on the back of his chair, his tie was loose and his shirt-collar unfastened, his cuffs rolled back over strong wrists that had been bronzed by the sun. His watch, she noticed for the first time, was a slim gold Cartier—nothing flashy, just very expensive. And he had a tumbler of whisky at his elbow, though she noticed that he was no longer bothering to even pretend to drink from it.

He seemed to sense her gaze, and glanced up, those grey shark-eyes glinting with a shared secret. He knew that she knew what no one else had yet guessed. They believed they had a pigeon for the plucking, one of those enthusiastic amateurs who was essential fodder for a good poker game, providing lots of money for everyone else to win. They were in for a surprise.

It was past two-thirty in the morning, but in here, as in the rest of the casino, time had no significance—day and night alike were excluded by the heavy dark green damask drapes which covered all the windows. But as Señor Santos tossed in his cards with an impatient gesture and rose to his feet Lord Neville glanced at his watch.

‘Well, I don’t know about you chaps, but I could do with stretching my legs,’ he remarked. ‘How about a break?’

Sheikh al-Khalid stubbed out his black cigarillo and glanced at the diamond-crusted Rolex on his wrist. ‘I, too, am in need of a little fresh air. Shall we say twenty minutes?’

There was general agreement, and, at a nod from Lester, the card room manager ceremoniously opened the case of the elaborate ormolu clock on the wall. ‘Play resumes at three,’ he announced solemnly.

Within a couple of minutes the exodus of players and spectators had left only Lester, Natasha and Hugh in the room. Lester began neatly stacking his plaques into rows—he had more than anyone else at the table. ‘You’re playing pretty well, son,’ he said to Hugh. ‘But a word of advice. If you’re showing a good pair, don’t be too eager to raise the first couple of rounds. Play ’em a bit. That way you won’t scare ’em off too soon, and you’ll get a decent pot instead of a paltry couple of big ones.’

Hugh returned him a long, level look from across the table, smiling slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he responded, polite, but with just the faintest thread of amusement in his voice. ‘A free lesson from a poker player? That’s a little unusual.’

Lester laughed, slightly unsure whether he was being mocked. But his usual arrogant self-confidence quickly reasserted itself. ‘Oh, I can afford to be generous, son,’ he expanded, grinning. ‘At the end of the day, I’m more interested in a good game of poker than the size of my winnings. Well, I think I’ll take me a breath of fresh air, too. See you later.’

The card room manager was moving discreetly around the table, emptying ashtrays and dusting down the smooth green baize. Still Hugh hadn’t moved. Natasha watched him, frowning slightly. He seemed impervious—to the smoky, airless atmosphere, to the time of night, to any bodily discomforts like hunger or the need to stretch his legs.

‘Aren’t you going to take a break?’ she queried, stiffly aloof. ‘It’s hot in here.’

He glanced up at her, that lazy smile taunting her. ‘I suppose it is.’

‘There are only another fifteen minutes before play starts again,’ she reminded him crisply. ‘If you’re late, you’ll be deemed to have been dealt out.’

He conceded a nod, that smile undisturbed, but remained in his seat.

Turning impatiently, she stalked from the room. Maybe she had been wrong about him—maybe he had realised that he really was out of his depth in this game after all, but didn’t have the guts to admit it and leave the table as Señor Santos had done. Maybe he was planning to be late back, and be dealt out by a default.

The casino was much quieter now. Three of the roulette tables had closed down, and only the more serious gamblers remained at the blackjack tables. In another couple of hours they, too, would have drifted away.

Gamblers.

Probably even her grandmother wouldn’t have understood how she felt. Of course, on a purely intellectual level she could accept that it was simply a form of adult entertainment—if people wished to spend their time and their money in that way, it was their own choice. But she hated having to have anything to do with it.

Only another two years, she reminded herself grimly. It wasn’t too long to wait.

With a brisk step she crossed to the bar to check that the staff were coping while the bar manager was on holiday, and whether they needed any more wine brought up from the cellar. Satisfied that all was well at the bar, she let herself through the discreet door concealed in the wood panelling, into the surveillance room.

A bank of video screens showed the gaming rooms from all angles. Concealed cameras could zoom in, watching for any signs of cheating. A woman sat before them, her eyes flicking from screen to screen, missing nothing as her knitting needles clicked swiftly in her fingers.

‘Everything OK?’ Natasha enquired quietly.

The woman nodded. ‘No problem, Miss Natasha. A nice, well-behaved crowd we have in tonight. Interesting game up in the back room, eh?’

She tilted her head towards two of the screens in the top row, which showed the principal card room. The table was now empty—Hugh had gone. Only the card room manager and the security guard remained, the faces that had been so impassive earlier now relaxed as they chatted between themselves. ‘Yes, Mabel,’ she confirmed pensively. ‘A very interesting game.’