George Fraser - Mr American

“My goodness,” said Mrs Keppel, and seemed about to add a light remark, but a glance at the King made her change her mind. He was busily excavating his cards again, breathing heavily, and when she passed he stared anxiously across the table, passing in turn. Soveral lighted a cigarette, musing, and then the ugly face turned to smile thoughtfully at Mr Franklin. “Five hearts?” he said softly, and placed his finger-tips together. “I do believe that you want to … wring us out, Mr Franklin. Mmh? Six diamonds.” And in that moment the game changed, for Mr Franklin, and he thought: showdown.

“Dealer folds,” as Cassidy threw in his cards. “Too many for me,” from old Davis, and the greasy cards being pushed away; across the table Kid Curry with his wolf smile and eyes bright through the smoke of the oil lamp, matching him. “What about you, Mark? Had enough?” The jeering smile, disdaining him with his pair of kings, an eight, and an ace on the table; in front of Curry lay two tens and two threes – was there another ten or three in the hole? On the face of it, two pairs against his one, and Curry might have a full house – the cagey, greasy bastard with his sly smile, he’d seen him go the limit on a single pair, and men drum their fingers and throw in better hands, and Curry with his jeering laugh raking in the pot – and never failing to face his cards and show the pikers how he’d bluffed them. But then, he was Kid Curry, the Mad Dog, with the Colt in his armpit and ready to use on anyone who turned ugly; not even Cassidy, or Longbaugh, was quicker than the Kid, and everyone knew it. Deaf Charley throwing in, Jess Linley’s watery eyes sliding to his cards and away again as he too folded. “Had enough, Mark? Why don’t you quit, little boy? I got you licked!” Old Davis’s dirty face under the battered hat, his mouth working: that’s our stake, son, that’s to take us to Tonopah, don’t fool with Curry, son, it isn’t worth it; fold and call it a day. His own voice: “A hundred, and another hundred,” Davis muttering, oh Jesus, that’s it, and the smile freezing on Curry’s face, the long silence before he covered and called, and Franklin turned over his hole card, a second ace – and the snarling curses as Curry swept his own cards aside and came to his feet, and Cassidy snapping: “That’ll do, kid!” And it had done, too; Curry had taken his beating and old Davis had scooped in the pot, cackling and swearing, and Franklin had tried to keep the relief from his face as, under the table, he quietly uncocked the Remington that he had held trained on Curry’s chair, and slid it back into his boot.

Instead of Kid Curry – the Marquis de Soveral, smiling confidently, and Mr Franklin, with four to five sure losers in his hand, met the smile with a composure which he certainly did not feel. If I’d any sense I’d let you go down the river on your raft of diamonds – but would it be down the river? Suppose Soveral made it? Suppose nothing, this was the hand, as Soveral had reminded him, when he’d vowed to wring the opposition out. The King, slumped in his seat, was eyeing him morosely; Mrs Keppel was absently fingering a flawless eyebrow; the faces behind the royal chair were waiting expectantly – and it crossed his mind, who’d have believed it, here I am, with the King of England, waiting on my word, and an Ambassador calling the shot, and the flower of the mighty empire’s nobility waiting to see what the Nevada saddle-tramp is going to do about it. And it was pure five-card stud training that made him ask for another glass of hock, while the King writhed and muttered impatiently (the words “double, double, for heaven’s sake!” being distinctly audible), and only when the wine was being poured did Mr Franklin say casually: “Six hearts.” Smith jerked wine on to his sleeve, and the King stared across in stupefaction.

“D’you know what you’re doing?” he demanded. “Six … oh lord! Well, I hope you’ve got “em, that’s all! Six …” mutter, mutter, mutter.

“Double six hearts,” murmured Soveral, and “Re-double,” said Mr Franklin, in sheer bravado; he had a sketchy idea of what it would mean to go down, in points, redoubled and vulnerable, but that didn’t matter. Money was the least of it to that bearded picture of disgruntled alarm across the table, losing, and Soveral’s smoothly apologetic satisfaction, and (worst of all) Mrs Keppel’s nervous condolences – that was what he couldn’t stand. He was glooming apprehensively over his cards, as Mrs Keppel led the ace of clubs; the King spread the dummy and sat back, staring resentfully at his partner.

Ace and four hearts, king of spades, king of clubs – and one hideous rag of a diamond. They were one down, for certain; Mrs Keppel’s ace of clubs took the first trick, Soveral scooped it in, and waited for the inevitable diamond lead that would break the contract. But Mrs Keppel, possibly because she had in her own hand a profusion of diamonds to rival Kimberley and feared that Mr Franklin might be void, led a spade instead; Mr Franklin dropped his ace on it, and then – in the view of Sir Charles, who was standing apprehensively behind his chair – began to thrash his way through trump with reckless abandon. In fact, Mr Franklin, having bid himself into an impossible situation, was simply going down with colours flying; he could not get rid of his diamond loser, and there was nothing for it but to plough on to the bitter end, with occasional sips of hock along the way. The King would not be pleased. Well, it had been interesting meeting royalty, anyway.

He paused, with the last three cards in his hands – two trump and that singleton diamond leering obscenely at him in its nakedness. He knew from Soveral’s discards that Mrs Keppel had the ace and king; the problem, more akin to poker than to bridge, was to make her discard them both, and short of wrenching them from her hands he could see no way of doing it.

“Three to get,” muttered the King, presumably in case Mr Franklin had not noticed. His majesty had roused slightly from his gloomy apathy, and was regarding the table as a rabbit watches a snake: there were nine tricks in front of the American – perhaps the age of miracles had not passed. His majesty’s asthmatic wheezing rustled through the room as Mr Franklin led a heart, and Mrs Keppel dropped her diamond king. Perspiring freely, Mr Franklin led his last heart and smiled hopefully at Mrs Keppel, who frowned pathetically and said: “Oh, dear.”

She fingered her cards and bit her lip. “Oh, it is so difficult … I never know what to play. And I always get it wrong, you know.” The green eyes met Mr Franklin’s, and his tiny flickering hope died; they were smiling quizzically – she knew perfectly well he had a diamond, it seemed to him. She toyed with her cards, hesitating – and played the ace of diamonds. The King choked, Soveral sighed, Mr Franklin gathered in the trick, played his nine of diamonds, and Mrs Keppel emitted a most realistic squeal of dismay as she faced her queen of clubs. There was an instant’s sensation as Soveral’s last card went down – a spade – and the King was roaring with delight, coughing and slapping the table: “Well done, Franklin! Oh, well done indeed! Game and rubber! What, Soveral? Pegged out to dry, hey? Oh, Alice, you foolish girl! The Yankee sharper bluffed you into the wrong discard, didn’t he? Oh, my!”

That’s what you think, reflected Mr Franklin, as Mrs Keppel feigned pretty confusion and exclaimed: “Oh, I am such a goose! I always get it wrong – if only I would count the cards, but I always forget! Oh, marquis, what must you think?”

What the marquis thought was fairly obvious, at least to Mr Franklin, but of course he gallantly brushed her penitence aside, and said seriously that it must have been an extremely difficult decision; he was not sure that she had not, in theory, been right. Mr Franklin wondered if there was irony in the words, but if there was, the King did not catch it; he called for whisky nightcaps, clapped Mr Franklin on the shoulder and said they must play together again, and twitted Mrs Keppel unmercifully as he led her to the centre of the laughing group at the fireplace. Mr Franklin offered his arm to Peggy.