Роберт Фиш - The Wager

“Yes?”

The stranger smiled. His teeth, Kek noted, were a tribute to the art of the laboratory, but the smile was slightly wolfish and died somewhere between the thin curved lips and the small, hooded eyes; these remained unwavering and hard. There was something both faintly familiar and faintly repulsive about the short barrel-shaped body and the swarthy pockmarked face, but still, Kek was sure they had never met. The hair was jet-black and obviously dyed, worn in a military brush-cut. A man obviously used to authority, Kek decided, but he could not place him. One thing: he was not a member of the Quinleven Club, and guest cards for unaccompanied guests were exceedingly hard to come by. Therefore a person of some importance; although one would have thought a person of some importance would have been more selective in his choice of tailors.

The man watched Kek’s expressionless face almost with enjoyment, quite as if he were following the mental evaluation step by step, and at least agreeing with the important parts.

“I should like to buy you a drink,” he said.

Kek smiled pleasantly. It was early; Anita was at Max’s home with a half-dozen other women interested in Rose’s bizarre cooking, and besides he had quite purposefully not had a drink immediately before or during his blackjack game. Where important things were at stake, such as money, Kek Huuygens preferred to keep a clear head.

“Thank you,” he said genially. “I think I would like one.”

He moved toward one of the barstools, but before he could swing it about, the man had touched him lightly on the arm and had turned away, moving toward an isolated table in one corner. Kek followed, his previous easy smile erased and replaced with a faint frown. The two other cardplayers had abandoned their game and had walked over to take seats not too far from them. The two, it appeared to Kek, seemed to be inordinately interested in their fingernails. The short stocky man saw the direction of Huuygens’ glance and smiled.

“Friends of mine,” he said briefly, and seated himself, waving for the waiter.

Kek sat down opposite the man, his interest increasing. A person who not only managed an unaccompanied guest card for himself at the Quinleven, but for two obvious bodyguard-gunmen as well, was someone of extreme importance, indeed. And why would anyone of such obvious importance be so interested in watching a card game and then buying a drink for someone of such little importance as himself? If time would tell, Kek was prepared to spend it.

He lounged back comfortably. Across the room, Max — having lost to himself by beating the house — had given up on solitaire and was moving in the direction of the cloakroom. He waved to Kek and disappeared down the hall. Kek and his companion remained silent until the waiter had taken their orders; then the stocky man reached into his pocket, bringing out a packet of Gauloises, offering one of them to Kek. Kek shook his head, watched the other light up, and waited.

The man inhaled deeply and spewed smoke from his nostrils, something Kek had not seen done for years. He placed the burnt match in the ashtray, nodding his head all the while in marionette fashion, as if wondering where to begin the conversation. Kek did nothing to help, but continued to watch the man politely. The man shifted the match to bring it to the geometric center of the ashtray and looked up, speaking at last. It was evident from his tone that he was not dealing with the matter in mind directly, but was taking an oblique approach.

“You know,” he said in a conversational tone of voice, “I thought for a moment there, during the game, that you were not paying attention. It was a great disappointment to me, I can tell you that! But I should have known better.” He smiled. “I suppose the drink I’m buying is perhaps in the form of an apology.”

Kek allowed his eyebrows to rise fractionally, indicating surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

The man might not have heard him.

“And you handled the matter of the wager itself beautifully,” the man went on, a touch of admiration entering the husky voice. “You—” He paused as their drinks were served. He scrawled initials across the check, waited until the waiter had left, and then raised his glass in a small gesture of a toast. “ A votre santé .”

“Thank you,” Kek said politely. “And to yours.” He was quite sure that the only health the man across from him would ever be interested in would be his own; there was something distasteful about the other, some hidden meanness just beneath the surface — but the cognac, at least, was excellent, which was no surprise at the Quinleven. Kek sipped and placed his glass back on the table. “You thought for a moment I was not paying attention to what?” he asked with cordial curiosity.

The bright, hard smile came back, demonstrating again the pristine whiteness of the porcelain caps. A small, corded hand was raised, asking for the other’s indulgence.

“Please, M’sieu Huuygens,” the man said. Kek decided the huskiness in his voice came from too much smoking, or possibly from shouting orders; in fact the man seemed to be holding down the volume with effort. “Let us not insult each other’s intelligence. You know precisely what I am talking about. If you had not known the last five cards remaining to be dealt in that blackjack deck were two sevens and three eights, I should have been gravely disappointed.”

Kek stared in feigned astonishment. “They were?” His face relaxed. “But of course they were, now you mention it. I remember them being played.”

For an instant a fierce anger burned in the other’s eyes, but he forced it under control. “I’m sure you do,” he said at last. There was an edge to his voice, despite his control; it was evident he was not used to people dissembling with him; or worse, being sardonic. “And you stayed with a seven and an eight — fifteen — facing an exposed eight. And you bet two hundred times your usual bet. Am I correct?”

Kek merely waited, watching the man with no expression on his face.

“Yes,” the man went on. “I am correct. True, it was most fortunate that the card combination was one where you could not fail to win if you did not draw a card, but regardless of what the face value of the cards might have been, the advantage of remembering the final cards is bound to be overwhelming when the time comes for them to be played.”

“I’m sure you are telling me this for a reason—” Kek began, but the man overrode him, going on quite as if his guest had not spoken. There was an actual enthusiasm in his tone; for once he was not dissembling.

“It takes a most dedicated man to train himself to remember all the cards that have been played. Most dedicated! I once knew a man,” he went on in a reminiscent tone of voice, “who could remember all the cards played in a game of six-deck chemin-de-fer — they didn’t play eight-deck in those days, nor in our casino — but unfortunately he went mad. After that, of course, he was useless, and I was forced to—” The husky voice stopped abruptly; when it continued, it was back in the present. “I, myself, can just manage one deck, but that is my extreme limit, and I cannot even do that if I am playing. Only if I am watching. I’m sure you are much better.” The black eyes suddenly fixed themselves on Kek’s face, probing. “How many decks can you remember?”

Kek shrugged, “I’m afraid—”

“I asked you a question.” The voice was low, but harsh, almost threatening. The two men at the nearby table looked up, their interest temporarily removed from their fingernails. The smaller man waved his hand at them; they subsided. He forced an apologetic smile to his thin lips. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that was rather rude of me. But I would be interested in your giving me an answer.”