In short, membership of Blades, in return for the £106 entrance fee and the £50 a year subscription, provides the standard of luxury of the Victorian age together with the opportunity to win or lose, in great comfort, anything up to £20,000 a year.

Bond, reflecting on all this, decided that he was going to enjoy his evening. He had only played at Blades a dozen times in his life, and on the last occasion he had burnt his fingers badly in a high poker game, but the prospect of some expensive bridge and of the swing of a few, to him, not unimportant hundred pounds made his muscles taut with anticipation.

And then, of course, there was the little business of Sir Hugo Drax, which might bring an additional touch of drama to the evening.

He was not even disturbed by a curious portent he encountered while he was driving along King’s Road into Sloane Square with half his mind on the traffic and the other half exploring the evening ahead.

It was a few minutes to six and there was thunder about. The sky threatened rain and it had become suddenly dark. Across the square from him, high up in the air, a bold electric sign started to flash on and off. The fading light-waves had caused the cathode tube to start the mechanism which would keep the sign flashing through the dark hours until, around six in the morning, the early light of day would again sensitize the tube and cause the circuit to close.

Startled at the great crimson words, Bond pulled in to the curb, got out of the car and crossed to the other side of the street to get a better view of the big skysign.

Ah! That was it. Some of the letters had been hidden by a neighbouring building. It was only one of those Shell advertisements. ‘SUMMER SHELL is HERE’ was what it said.

Bond smiled to himself and walked back to his car and drove on.

When he had first seen the sign, half-hidden by the building, great crimson letters across the evening sky had flashed a different message.

They had said: ‘HELL is HERE… HELL is HERE… HELL is HERE.’

CHAPTER IV

THE ‘SHINER’

BOND LEFT the Bentley outside Brooks’s and walked round the corner into Park Street.

The Adam frontage of Blades, recessed a yard or so back from its neighbours, was elegant in the soft dusk. The dark red curtains had been drawn across the ground floor bow-windows on either side of the entrance and a uniformed servant showed for a moment as he drew them across the three windows of the floor above. In the centre of the three, Bond could see the’ heads and shoulders of two men bent over a game, probably backgammon he thought, and he caught a glimpse of the spangled fire of one of the three great chandeliers that illuminate the famous gambling room.

Bond pushed through the swing doors and walked up to the old-fashioned porter’s lodge ruled over by Brevett, the guardian of Blades and the counsellor and family friend of half the members.

“Evening, Brevett. Is the Admiral in?”

“Good evening, sir,” said Brevett, who knew Bond as an occasional guest at the club. “The Admiral’s waiting for you in the card room. Page, take Commander Bond up to the Admiral. Lively now!”

As Bond followed the uniformed page boy across the worn black and white marble floor of the hall and up the wide staircase with its fine mahogany balustrade, he remembered the story of how, at one election, nine blackballs had been found in the box when there were only eight members of the committee present. Brevett, who had handed the box from member to member, was said to have confessed to the Chairman that he was so afraid the candidate would be elected that he had put in a blackball himself. No one had objected. The committee would rather have lost its chairman than the porter whose family had held the same post at Blades for a hundred years.

The page pushed open one wing of the tall doors at the top of the stairs and held it for Bond to go through. The long room was not crowded and Bond saw M. sitting by himself playing patience in the alcove formed by the left hand of the three bow windows. He dismissed the page and walked across the heavy carpet, noticing the rich background smell of cigar-smoke, the quiet voices that came from the three tables of bridge, and the sharp rattle of dice across an unseen backgammon board.

“There you are,” said M. as Bond came up. He waved to the chair that faced him across the card table. “Just let me finish this. I haven’t cracked this man Ganfield for months. Drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Bond. He sat down and lit a cigarette and watched with amusement the concentration M. was putting into his game.

‘Admiral Sir M-M-: something at the Ministry of Defence.’ M. looked like any member of any of the clubs in St James’s Street. Dark grey suit, stiff white collar, the favourite dark blue bow-tie with spots, rather loosely tied, the thin black cord of the rimless eyeglass that M. seemed only to use to read menus, the keen sailor’s face, with the clear, sharp sailor’s eyes. It was difficult to believe that an hour before he had been playing with a thousand live chessmen against the enemies of England; that there might be, this evening, fresh blood on his hands, or a successful burglary, or the hideous knowledge of a disgusting blackmail case.

And what could the casual observer think of him, ‘Commander James Bond, GMG, RNVSR’, also’something at the Ministry of Defence’, the rather saturnine young man in his middle thirties sitting opposite the Admiral? Something a bit cold and dangerous in that face. Looks pretty fit. May have been attached to Templer in Malaya. Or Nairobi. Mau Mau work. Tough-looking customer. Doesn’t look the sort of chap one usually sees in Blades.

Bond knew that there was something alien and un-English about himself. He knew that he was a difficult man to cover up. Particularly in England. He shrugged his shoulders. Abroad was what mattered. He would never have a job to do in England. Outside the jurisdiction of the Service. Anyway, he didn’t need a cover this evening. This was recreation.

M. snorted and threw his cards down. Bond automatically gathered in the pack and as automatically gave it the Scarne shuffle, marrying the two halves with the quick downward riffle that never brings the cards off the table. He squared off the pack and pushed it away.

M. beckoned to a passing waiter. “Piquet cards, please, Tanner,” he said.

The waiter went away and came back a moment later with the two thin packs. He stripped off the wrapping and placed them, with two markers, on the table. He stood waiting.

“Bring me a whisky and soda,” said M. “Sure you won’t have anything?”

Bond looked at his watch. It was half-past six. “Could I have a dry Martini?” he said. “Made with Vodka. Large slice of lemon peel.”

“Rot-gut,” commented M. briefly as the waiter went away. “Now I’ll just take a pound or two off you and then we’ll go and have a look at the bridge. Our friend hasn’t turned up yet.”

For half an hour they played the game at which the expert player can nearly always win even with the cards running slightly against him. At the end of the game Bond laughed and counted out three pound-notes.

“One of these days I’m going to take some trouble and really learn piquet,” he said. “I’ve never won against you yet.”

“It’s all memory and knowing the odds,” said M. with satisfaction. He finished his whisky and soda. “Let’s go over and see what’s going on at the bridge. Our man’s playing at Basildon’s table. Came in about ten minutes ago. If you nbtice anything, just give me a nod and we’ll go downstairs and talk about it.”

He stood up and Bond followed suit.

The far end of the room had begun to fill up and half a dozen tables of bridge were going. At the round poker table under the centre chandelier three players were counting out chips into five stacks, waiting for two more players to come in. The kidney-shaped baccarat table was still shrouded and would probably remain so until after dinner, when it would be used for chemin-de-fer.

Bond followed M. out of their alcove, relishing the scene down the long room, the oases of green, the tinkle of glasses as the waiters moved amongst the tables, the hum of talk punctuated by sudden exclamations and warm laughter, the haze of blue smoke rising up through the dark red lamp shades that hung over the centre of each table. His pulses quickened with the smell of it all and his nostrils flared slightly as the two men came down the long room and joined the company.’

M., with Bond beside him, wandered casually from table to table, exchanging greetings with the players until they reached the last table beneath the fine Lawrence of Beau Brummel over the wide Adam fireplace.

“Double, damn you,” said the loud, cheerful voice of the player with his back to Bond. Bond thoughtfully noted the head of tight reddish hair that was all he could see of the speaker, then he looked to the left at the rather studious profile of Lord Basildon. The Chairman of Blades was leaning back, looking critically down his nose at the hand of cards which he held out and away from him as if it were a rare object.

“My hand is so exquisite that I am forced to redouble, my dear Drax,” he said. He looked across at his partner. “Tommy,” he said. “Charge this to me if it goes wrong.”

“Rot,” said his partner. “Meyer? Better take Drax out.”

“Too frightened,” said the middle-aged florid man who was playing with Drax. “No bid.” He picked up his cigar from the brass ashtray and put it carefully into the middle of his mouth.

“No bid here,” said Basildon’s partner.

“And nothing here,” came Drax’s voice.

“Five clubs redoubled,” said Basildon. “Your lead, Meyer.”

Bond looked over Drax’s shoulder. Drax had the ace of spades and the ace of hearts. He promptly made them both and led another heart which Basildon took on the table with the king.

“Well,” said Basildon. “There are four trumps against me including the queen. I shall play Drax to have her.” He finessed against Drax. Meyer took the trick with the queen.

“Hell and damnation,” said Basildon. “What’s the queen doing in Meyer’s hand? Well, I’m damned. Anyway the rest are mine.” He fanned his cards down on the table. He looked defensively at his partner. “Can you beat it, Tommy? Drax doubles and Meyer has the queen.” There was not more than a natural exasperation in his voice.

Drax chuckled. “Didn’t expect my partner to have a Yar borough did you?” he said cheerfully to Basildon. “Well, that’s just the four hundred above the line. Your deal.” He cut the cards to Basildon and the game went on.

So it had been Drax’s deal the hand before. That might be important. Bond lit a cigarette and reflectively examined the back of Drax’s head.

M.’s voice cut in on Bond’s thoughts. “You remember my friend Commander Bond, Basil? Thought we’d come along and play some bridge this evening.”

Basildon smiled up at Bond. “Evening,” he said. He waved a hand round the table from the left to right. “Meyer, Dangerfield, Drax.” The three men looked up briefly and Bond nodded a greeting to the table in general. “You all know the Admiral,” added the Chairman, starting to deal.