Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
he began to heave and cough, laying down the pack and leaning back to guffaw while the shocked faces relaxed and joined in his mirth. When he had recovered and mopped his eyes he shot the American an odd look, half amused and half resentful, and concluded the deal, shaking his head.
“Very good, partner. Let us go, indeed. I trust I have … ah, spread them to your satisfaction.”
There were relieved faces behind his chair, and Mr Franklin was aware that Peggy’s hand had momentarily touched his shoulder, and was now being withdrawn. The King fanned his cards, muttering “Peg ’em up to dry, though!”, frowned uncertainly at Mr Franklin, and then announced: “One club.”
Soveral said “One spade” quietly, and Mr Franklin surveyed his hand – six hearts to the king, the ace of spades, a singleton diamond, and rags. By his lights, hearts were in order, so he bid two of them, and the King grunted and sat forward. Mrs Keppel, obviously wishing to pass, but uncomfortably aware that her hand was visible to the watchers behind her, smiled nervously and said “Three diamonds.”
The King shot her a quick, doubtful look, glanced at his cards, and grinned. “No use, Alice.” He leered playfully at her. “Struggling against fate, m’dear. Three hearts.”
Soveral studied the score-card, his face impassive. “It’s not a game bid, monkey – yet,” said his majesty, with a glance at Mr Franklin which was a royal command if ever there was one. Soveral smiled with his mouth and said: “Four diamonds.”
There was a strangled noise from his majesty, and an anxious glance at Mr Franklin, who promptly did his duty with a clear conscience, and said: “Four hearts.”
“Ha!” said the King, relieved. “Excellent. Very good, Alice, lead away.” His glance invited Mr Franklin to gloat with him. “Come along, Alice, come along.”
“Pass,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling sweetly, the King grunted his satisfaction, and Mr Franklin realized beyond doubt that Mrs Keppel would cheerfully have gone five diamonds in normal circumstances, but had desisted because she knew the King desperately wanted the rubber. Soveral, however, had plainly made the same deduction, for as the King passed he said without hesitation: “Five diamonds.”
There was a buzz of astonishment round the table. The King, on the point of laying down his hand as dummy, stared at Soveral in disappointment and deep suspicion. Mr Franklin felt his stomach muscles tighten a fraction. It might be a spoiling bluff – but was it? Looking at his own hand, Soveral could have five diamonds for him … on the other hand, the King had supported Mr Franklin’s hearts … dammit, the old man must have something going … but five. Mr Franklin took another sip of hock. What the hell, anyway … “Five hearts,” he announced and the King’s eyes widened in dismay.
“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