3
MICKY MIRANDA HAD BEGUN to cheat at cards while he was at Windfield School, to supplement the inadequate allowance he received from home. The methods he invented for himself had been crude, but good enough to fool schoolboys. Then, on the long transatlantic voyage home which he had taken between school and university, he had tried to fleece a fellow passenger who turned out to be a professional cardsharp. The older man had been amused, and had taken Micky under his wing, teaching him all the basic principles of the craft.
Cheating was most dangerous when the stakes were high. If people were playing for pennies it never occurred to them that someone would cheat. Suspicion mounted with the size of the bets.
If he were caught tonight it would not just mean the failure of his scheme to ruin Tonio. Cheating at cards was the worst crime a gentleman could commit in England. He would be asked to resign from his clubs, his friends would be “not at home” any time he called at their houses, and no one would speak to him in the street. The rare stories he had heard about Englishmen cheating always ended with the culprit’s leaving the country to make a fresh start in some untamed territory such as Malaya or Hudson Bay. Micky’s fate would be to go back to Cordova, endure the taunts of his older brother, and spend the rest of his life raising cattle. The thought made him feel ill.
But the rewards tonight were as dramatic as the risks.
He was not doing this just to please Augusta. That was important enough: she was his passport into the society of London’s wealthy and powerful people. But he also wanted Tonio’s job.
Papa had said Micky would have to earn his keep in London—there would be no more money from home. Tonio’s job was ideal. It would enable Micky to live like a gentleman while doing hardly any work. And it would also be a step on the ladder to a higher position. One day Micky might become the minister. And then he would be able to hold his head high in any company. Even his brother would not be able to sneer at that.
Micky, Edward, Solly and Tonio dined early at the Cowes, the club they all favored. By ten o’clock they were in the card room. They were joined at the baccarat table by two other club gamblers who had heard of the high stakes: Captain Carter and Viscount Montagne. Montagne was a fool, but Carter was a hardheaded type, and Micky would have to be wary of him.
There was a white line drawn around the table ten or twelve inches from the edge. Each of the players had a pile of gold sovereigns in front of him, outside the white square. Once money crossed the line into the square it was staked.
Micky had spent the day pretending to drink. At lunch he had wet his lips with champagne and surreptitiously poured it out on the grass. On the train back to London he had accepted the offer of Edward’s flask several times, but had always blocked the neck with his tongue while appearing to toss off a swig. At dinner he had poured himself a small glass of claret then added to it twice without ever drinking any. Now he quietly ordered ginger beer, which looked like brandy and soda. He had to be stone-cold sober to perform the delicate sleight-of-hand operations that would enable him to ruin Tonio Silva.
He licked his lips nervously, caught himself, and tried to relax.
Of all games the cardsharp’s favorite was baccarat. It might have been invented, Micky thought, to enable the smart to steal from the rich.
In the first place, it was a game purely of chance, with no skill or strategy. The player received two cards and added up their values: a three and a four would make seven, a two and a six would make eight. If the total came to more than nine, only the last digit counted; so fifteen was five, twenty was zero, and the highest possible score was nine.
A player with a low score could draw a third card, which would be dealt faceup, so everyone could see it.
The banker dealt just three hands: one to his left, one to his right, and one to himself. Players bet on either the left or the right hand. The banker paid out to any hand higher than his own.
The second great advantage of baccarat, from the cheat’s point of view, was that it was played with a pack of at least three decks of cards. This meant the cheat could use a fourth deck and confidently deal a card out of his sleeve without worrying whether another player already had the same card in his hand.
While the others were still making themselves comfortable and lighting their cigars he asked a waiter for three new decks of cards. When the man came back he naturally handed the cards to Micky.
In order to control the game Micky had to deal, so his first challenge was to make sure he was banker. This involved two tricks: neutralizing the cut, and second-card dealing. They were both relatively simple, but he was stiff with tension, and that could make a man bungle the easiest maneuvers.
He broke the seals. The cards were always packed the same way, with the jokers on top and the ace of spades at the bottom. Micky took out the jokers and shuffled, enjoying the clean slippery feel of the new cards. It was the simplest of operations to move an ace from the bottom to the top of the pack; but then he had to let one of the other players cut the cards without moving the ace from the top.
He passed the pack to Solly, sitting on his right. As he put it down he contracted his hand a fraction, so that the top card—the ace of spades—stayed in his palm, concealed by the breadth of his hand. Solly cut. Keeping his hand palm-downward all the time to conceal the ace, Micky picked up the pack, replacing the hidden card on top as he did so. He had successfully neutralized the cut.
“High card gets the bank?” he said, forcing himself to sound indifferent as to whether they said yes or no.
There was a murmur of assent.
Holding the pack firmly, he slid the top card back a fraction of an inch and began to deal fast, keeping the top card back and always dealing the second until he came to himself, when at last he dealt the ace. They all turned over their cards. Micky’s was the only ace, so he was banker.
He managed a casual smile. “I think I’m going to be lucky tonight,” he said.
No one commented.
He relaxed a little.
Concealing his relief, he dealt the first hand.
Tonio was playing on his left, with Edward and Viscount Montagne. On his right were Solly and Captain Carter. Micky did not want to win: that was not his purpose tonight. He just wanted Tonio to lose.
He played fair for a while, losing a little of Augusta’s money. The others relaxed and ordered another round of drinks. When the time was right, Micky lit a cigar.
In the inside pocket of his dress coat, next to his cigar case, was another deck of cards—bought at the stationer’s in St. James’s Street where the club’s playing cards came from, so that they would match.
He had arranged the extra deck in winning pairs, all giving a total of nine, the highest score: four and five, nine and ten, nine and jack, and so on. The surplus cards, all tens and court cards, he had left at home.
Returning his cigar case to his pocket, he palmed the extra deck; then, picking up the pack from the table with his other hand, he slid the new cards to the bottom of the old pack. While the others mixed their brandy and water he shuffled, carefully bringing to the top of the pack, in order, one card from the bottom, two cards at random, another from the bottom, and another two at random. Then, dealing first to his left, then to his right, then to himself, he gave himself the winning pair.
Next time around he gave Solly’s side a winning hand. For a while he continued the same way, making Tonio lose and Solly win. The money he won from Tonio’s side was thus paid out to Solly’s side, and no suspicion attached to Micky, for the pile of sovereigns in front of him remained about the same.
Tonio had started by putting on the table most of the money he had won at the races—about a hundred pounds. When it was down to about fifty, he stood up and said: “This side is unlucky—I’m going to sit by Solly.” He moved to the other side of the table.
That won’t help you, Micky thought. It was no more difficult to make the left side win and the right side lose from now on. But it made him nervous to hear Tonio talk about bad luck. He wanted Tonio to go on thinking he was lucky today, even while he was losing money.
Occasionally Tonio would vary his style by betting five or ten sovereigns on a hand instead of two or three. When this happened, Micky dealt him a winning hand. Tonio would rake in his winnings and say gleefully: “I’m lucky today, I’m sure of it!” even though his pile of coins was steadily getting smaller.
Micky was feeling more relaxed now. He studied his victim’s mental state while he smoothly manipulated the cards. It was not enough that Tonio should be cleaned out. Micky wanted him to play with money he didn’t have, to gamble oh borrowed money and be unable to repay his debts. Only then would he be thoroughly disgraced.
Micky waited with trepidation while Tonio lost more and more. Tonio was awestruck by Micky and would generally do whatever Micky suggested, but he was not a complete fool and there was still a chance he might have the sense to draw back from the brink of ruin.
When Tonio’s money was almost gone Micky made his next move. He took out his cigar case again. “These are from home, Tonio,” he said. “Try one.” To his relief, Tonio accepted. The cigars were long and would take a good half-hour to smoke. Tonio would not want to leave before finishing his cigar.
When they had lit up Micky moved in for the kill.
A couple of hands later Tonio was broke. “Well, that’s everything I won at Goodwood this afternoon,” he said despondently.
“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: “There will be a four of spades in there, I guarantee.”
Solly turned over the top card, and they all saw that it was the four of spades.
A hum of conversation broke out around the room as they all relaxed.
Micky was still terrified that someone might turn over more cards and see that there were four fours of clubs underneath.
Viscount Montagne said: “I think that settles it, and speaking for myself, Miranda, I can only apologize if any doubt has been cast upon your word.”
“Good of you to say so,” Micky said.
They all looked at Tonio. He stood up, his face working. “Damn the lot of you, then,” he said, and he walked out.
Micky swept up all the cards on the table. Now no one would ever know the truth.
His palms were wet with perspiration. He wiped them surreptitiously on his trousers. “I’m sorry about my compatriot’s behavior,” he said. “If there’s one thing I hate it’s a fellow who can’t play cards like a gentleman.”