“We ought to give you a chance to win it back,” Micky said. “Pilaster will lend you a hundred pounds, I’m sure.”
Edward looked a little startled, but it would have seemed ungenerous to refuse when he had such a big pile of winnings in front of him, and he said: “By all means.”
Solly intervened. “Perhaps you should retire, Silva, and be grateful that you’ve had a great day’s gambling at no cost.”
Micky silently cursed Solly for being a good-natured nuisance. If Tonio did the sensible thing now the whole scheme was ruined.
Tonio hesitated.
Micky held his breath.
But it was not in Tonio’s nature to gamble prudently, and as Micky had calculated, he could not resist the temptation to carry on. “All right,” he said. “I might as well play on until I finish my cigar.”
Micky let out a discreet sigh of relief.
Tonio beckoned to a waiter and ordered pen, paper and ink. Edward counted out a hundred sovereigns and Tonio scribbled an IOU. Micky knew that if Tonio lost all that he could never repay the debt.
The game went on. Micky found himself sweating a little as he held the delicate balance, ensuring that Tonio lost steadily, with the occasional big win to keep him optimistic. But this time when he was down to fifty pounds he said: “I only win when I gamble high. I’m putting the lot on this next hand.”
It was a big bet even for the Cowes Club. If Tonio lost he was finished. One or two club members saw the size of the stake and stood near the table to watch the play.
Micky dealt the cards.
He looked at Edward, on the left, who shook his head to indicate that he did not want another card.
On the right, Solly did the same.
Micky turned over his own cards. He had given himself an eight and an ace, making nine.
Edward turned over the hand on the left. Micky did not know what the cards were: he knew in advance what he himself was going to get, but he dealt the others at random. Edward had a five and a two, making seven. He and Captain Carter had lost their money.
Solly turned over his hand, the cards on which Tonio had staked his future.
He had a nine and a ten. That made nineteen, which counted as nine. This equaled the bank’s score, so there was no winner or loser, and Tonio got to keep his fifty pounds.
Micky cursed under his breath.
He wanted Tonio to leave those fifty sovereigns on the table now. He gathered up the cards quickly. With a mocking note into his voice he said: “Going to reduce your stake, Silva?”
“Certainly not,” said Tonio. “Deal the cards.”
Micky thanked his stars and dealt, giving himself another winning hand.
This time Edward tapped his cards, indicating that he wanted a third. Micky dealt him a four of clubs and turned to Solly. Solly passed.
Micky turned over his cards and showed a five and a four. Edward had a four showing, and turned over a worthless king and another four, making eight. His side had lost.
Solly turned up a two and a four, making six. The right side had also lost to the banker.
And Tonio was ruined.
He turned pale and looked ill, and muttered something that Micky recognized as a Spanish curse.
Micky suppressed a smile of triumph and raked in his winnings — then he saw something that took his breath away and stopped his heart with dread.
There were four fours of clubs on the table.
They were supposed to be playing with three decks of cards. Anyone who noticed the four identical fours would immediately know that extra cards had somehow been added to the pack.
It was a hazard of this particular method of cheating, and the chances of its happening were roughly one in a hundred thousand.
If the anomaly were seen, it would be Micky, not Tonio, who was ruined.
So far no one had spotted it. Suits had no significance in this game, so the irregularity was not glaring. Micky picked up the cards swiftly, his heart beating hard. He was just thanking his stars that he had got away with it when Edward said: “Hang on — there were four fours of clubs on the table.”
Micky cursed him for a blundering elephant. Edward was just thinking aloud. Of course he had no idea of Micky’s scheme.
“Couldn’t be,” said Viscount Montagne. “We’re playing with three decks of cards, so there are only three fours of clubs.”
“Exactly,” said Edward.
Micky puffed on his cigar. “You’re drunk, Pilaster. One of them was a four of spades.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Viscount Montagne said: “At this time of night, who can tell the difference between spades and clubs?”
Once again Micky thought he had got away with it — and once again his elation was premature.
Tonio said belligerently: “Let’s look at the cards.”
Micky’s heart seemed to stop. The cards from the last hand were placed on a pile which was shuffled and reused when the pack ran out. If the discards were turned over, the four identical fours would be seen, and Micky would be finished.
Desperately he said: “I hope you’re not questioning my word.”
This was a dramatic challenge to make in a gentlemen’s club: it was not very many years since such words would have led to a duel. People at the neighboring tables began to watch what was happening. Everyone looked at Tonio for his response.
Micky was thinking fast. He had said that one of the fours had been a four of spades, not clubs. If he could produce the four of spades from the top of the discard pile he would have proved his point — and with luck no one would look at the rest of the discards.
But first he had to find a four of spades. There were three. Some might be in the discard pile on the table, but the odds were that at least one was in the pack they had been playing with, which was in his hand.
It was his only chance.
While all eyes were on Tonio, he turned the pack so that the cards faced him. With infinitesimal movements of his thumb he exposed a corner of each card in turn. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on Tonio, but held the cards within his vision so that he could still read the letters and symbols in the corners.
Tonio said stubbornly: “Let’s look at the discards.”
The others turned to Micky. Steeling his nerve, he carried on fiddling with the pack, praying for a four of spades. In the midst of such drama no one remarked on what he was doing. The cards in contention were in the pile on the table, so it would seem to make no difference what he did with those in his hand. They would have to look quite hard to see that behind his hands he was sorting through the pack, but even if they did so they would not immediately realize he was up to no good.
But he could not stand on his dignity indefinitely. Sooner or later one of them would lose patience, abandon courtesy, and pick up the discards. To gain a few precious moments he said: “If you can’t lose like a man, perhaps you oughtn’t to play.” He felt a slight sweat break out on his forehead. He wondered whether he had missed a four of spades in his haste.
Solly said mildly: “It can’t hurt to look, can it?”
Damn Solly, always so sickeningly reasonable, Micky thought desperately.
Then at last he found a four of spades.
He palmed it.
“Oh, very well,” he said with a feigned nonchalance that was the polar opposite of what he was feeling.
Everyone became very still and quiet.
Micky put down the pack he had been furtively sorting through, keeping the four of spades in his palm. He reached out and picked up the discard pile, dropping the four on top. He placed the pile in front of Solly and said:
