David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘For the moment, I regret to say, I have nothing to suggest. Chance follows its own logic, however irrational it may seem to the uninitiated. Chance’s logic says the table must return to normal.’

‘There is one other question,’ said the croupier. ‘I have been watching this young man very carefully. I think he has a figure in his mind for his winnings. I suspect he may be quite close to it. He may, of course, keep on gambling after he has passed it and throw it all away. Gamblers on a run tend to think they are immortal. Should we increase the size of the maximum stake? It is the most likely way to recoup the money, is it not, Professor?’

‘Seventy-eight per cent probability, I should say,’ the Professor replied. ‘Probably Assuming he comes, that is. I cannot put a figure on that though I should say it is over sixty-three per cent.’

‘He’ll come,’ said the manager firmly. ‘I feel it in my bones. Ninety-nine per cent probability. And when he comes, the table, gentlemen, will carry double the size of the maximum stake. On reflection, don’t double it. Make it two hundred and fifty thousand francs, two thousand five hundred pounds. The largest stakes ever seen in this casino, maybe in the whole of France. Come, Englishman, come, we shall be ready for you. Mesdames et messieurs, je vous en prie. Faites vos jeux. ’

The hotel had cleaned Orlando’s clothes. As he made his way to the casino shortly after eleven o’clock he wondered if that would bring him bad luck. The sea was very calm, a crescent moon shining on the water. Carriages were bringing the night’s gamblers to the tables. Orlando changed all his money at the caisse. He considered playing with only half of his winnings until he reflected that his system depended on a long run of play. He slid quietly into his normal place at the table, to the left of the croupier. Two of the other players were known by sight. They had followed him on his last two visits to the roulette wheel, copying his bets, although with smaller stakes. One was a little old lady with white hair who Orlando privately referred to as Grandma. The other was dressed in military uniform. He had a very long face with a deep scar running down his cheek and a black eye patch over his left eye. He was Pirate. On the other side of the table was an erect old gentleman, accompanied by a remarkably pretty girl. Orlando suspected that the casino employed a cluster of female beauties to make friends with the male customers and ensure that they spent the maximum amount on the cards or at the wheel. She became Grandad’s Little Friend. The final player was an officious-looking middle-aged man, permanently checking his watch, as if time gave clues to the final destination of the roulette ball. He became Bank Manager. Behind him his artistic friend whispered into his ear as he sat down. ‘Good evening, my friend. You still have the sketchbook, I see. Degas tonight, did you say?’

Behind an enormous mirror across the Salon Vert from Orlando’s position the manager of the casino and the Professor of Mathematics were seated at a little table, opera glasses in their hands. The mirror was two-way. The casino men had a perfect view.

‘Well,’ said the manager to the Professor. ‘Are you confident?’

‘I think so,’ he said. ‘But we shouldn’t expect it to become apparent immediately.’

The manager worried about the lack of a percentage. He worried if he had been right to raise the stakes to this incredibly high level. He took a deep pull on his cigar and settled down to wait.

Orlando did not place any bets for twenty minutes. He watched the play. Pirate had lit a foul-smelling cigar, the smoke rising in planes towards the ceiling. He opened his sketchbook and did a rapid drawing of Grandad’s Little Friend. She turned into a Degas ballerina, very scantily clad. Orlando stared in astonishment at the ceiling. He hadn’t looked closely at it before. Up there, gazing happily at the gamblers below were three naked women, who might have been the Three Graces. All were smoking cigars.

Bank Manager had been placing a series of small bets, mostly on the odd numbers. His pile of chips was diminishing rapidly. At seven minutes to twelve Orlando made his first move. He placed his largest chip, a bright pink one, on red. He was betting two and a half thousand pounds. Grandma and Pirate followed suit. The croupier spun the wheel and flipped the ball around the bowl. Rien ne va plus , no more bets. The wheel slowed down, the ball hovered agonizingly between the black 33 and the red 16. Orlando held his breath. Pirate, he noticed, had closed his one good eye. Grandma was clutching at a crucifix round her neck.

‘ Seize ,’ said the croupier impassively. ‘ Rouge. ’

Orlando now had a fortune of just over twenty thousand pounds, the minimum he thought necessary to marry his Imogen. Damn it, they might become poor after a while. He resolved to press on.

‘ Merde! ’ said the manager in his hidden box. ‘ Merde! ’

‘Do not upset yourself,’ said the Professor. ‘The night is yet young.’

From outside came the faint rumble of the last train to Nice. The moon had gone in and the sea front was dark, some rich men’s yachts bobbing rhythmically up and down in the harbour.

Orlando was unruffled. He backed red for the next four spins of the wheel. Each time it was black. Grandma looked at him sadly as if she thought his magic powers had deserted him. Pirate had pulled out after three losses. A crowd had gathered round the table to watch the handsome young Englishman lose a fortune.

‘I believe he has ten thousand pounds left,’ said the manager to the Professor. ‘What will he do?’

‘Continue,’ said the Professor, who had grown rather fond of Orlando. ‘I am eighty-five per cent certain he will continue. I fear he may go on even when he has lost all his money.’

The great clock in the main hall of the casino struck one. Three times in succession the noir triumphed over the rouge. Orlando was down to his last two and a half thousand pounds. He couldn’t work out what had happened. The tendency to red seemed to have been replaced by a tendency to a malignant black.

He placed his last chip on the red. ‘ Faites vos jeux,’ said the croupier, preparing to spin the wheel. Grandma suddenly decided to re-enter the fray. But this time she was betting against Orlando. She put her money on black. ‘ Rien ne va plus , no more bets,’ said the croupier, as the ball slowed down. It settled noisily in its compartment.

‘ Vingt-quatre. Noir ,’ said the voice of doom.

‘Congratulations, Professor,’ said the manager, clapping him on the back. ‘Some champagne for you, perhaps? A cognac?’

‘No, thank you,’ said the Professor. ‘Are you going to give the young man any credit at the caisse? I do hope not.’

‘We have to live, Professor,’ said the manager cheerfully. ‘I told them to let him have another ten thousand English pounds. No more.’

Orlando waited. He took out his sketchbook and turned Pirate into an El Greco face, the eyepatch replaced. He did another Degas impersonation of Little Friend. He walked slowly through the crowd to the cashier’s. The crowd dissolved before him as if Moses was repeating the parting of the Red Sea in the casino at Monte Carlo. He is the young milord, they whispered to one another. He has lost everything. He is a professional gambler. He has come from America to break the bank. He will win again. Never have I seen such skill at the table. Such nerve.

The cashier advanced him ten thousand pounds without a question. The manager’s compliments, monsieur. Bonne chance, monsieur.

The croupier was sweating slightly as Orlando returned. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. The smoke was very thick. The crowd around the table had increased. From the ceiling the Three Graces with their cigars looked down. Their faces said they had seen it all before. The manager and the Professor leant forward in their seats. The smoke was obscuring the view.