Chapter 23: Season 7 - How the Cards Fall

Madeleine was dressed in a red scarlet dress that clung to her body like a drunk to a lamppost, her breasts teetering to almost full disclosure from the ultra-low V neck. Her blonde hair was piled up on her head like a heap of spun gold and her glossy lips matched the colour of her dress. Eyelashes, loaded with mascara, shaded her agate blue eyes. There was a leather carry-on bag at her feet which she indicated I pick up.

“My overnight things and the briefcase containing some of the stolen banknotes are in there,” she said, before entering the room. I hefted the leather Vuitton bag and followed her as she went out onto the balcony and gazed at the view. “It’s a pity I won’t be here long enough to appreciate that gorgeous vista.” She spun on the ten centimetres high heels of the scarlet Salvatore Ferragamo shoes she wore, left the balcony and went into the smaller bedroom. “Dump my case on the bed. I need to freshen up,” she ordered and then disappeared into the washroom. I went back into the sitting room. Five minutes later she reappeared from the bedroom.

“Right, Simon. Off we go,” she said, and tucked her arm in mine and we left the suite. Pierre Dubois followed us down the corridor to a door with the nameplate -- The Guinevere Room. “This is us; let’s get to work,” Madeleine said, and then delivered a smacking kiss on my mouth, mashing her lips against mine. “I’m marking you with my lipstick; don’t you dare rub it off!” She nodded for Pierre to open the door and we made our entrance, Madeleine hanging on my arm like a Louis Vuitton handbag on a Kardashian and me with a lipstick smeared face.

The Guinevere Room was a suite sized space with easy chairs, tables, and a bar at the far end of the room, although pride of place was an octagonal green baize covered card table where I assumed the game would take place. A dapper looking fellow in a tuxedo came over and shook my hand.

“It is a pleasure to welcome you to the Grail Hotel, M’sieu Mattisagonay, you and your beautiful companion.” He bowed and kissed the back of Madeleine’s hand. He introduced himself as the deputy manager of the hotel and then introduced me to the other guests, or at least to those guests who would be playing cards. I shook hands, smiled, and made the usual responses when meeting new people, although I had to spend more time when meeting Basia Bouchiba as he and Simon Matissagonay were acquainted. He greeted me without any suspicion or reservations as to who I was so that was one hurdle cleared. Bouchiba was a middle aged, overweight, Algerian with sleeked back dark hair and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. He had a slim moustache decorating his upper lip and a busty blonde decorating his lap. He didn’t bother introducing me to her although his eyes stuck out on stalks when seeing ‘Cindy’.

At exactly 7pm the door opened and the Chevalier, alias the dealer, strode into the room. He went over to the green baized covered table and called for attention. “I am the dealer at this game and there are some house rules for the game. Number one: each player must have at least 25,000 euros, in notes, at hand before being allowed to play. Number two: the minimum bet for the first round will be 100 euros, and the minimum will increase after each round. Number three: no IOUs are accepted. If you can’t pay you can’t play. Number four: the game is seven-card stud. It will need the assent of all players if the game is to be changed anytime during the evening. Finally, the decks of cards to be used have been supplied by the hotel and are still in their original wrappings. I invite any and all players to come and check that none of the decks has yet been opened.” A couple of men went over to the table and examined the decks. They both nodded when asked by the dealer if they were satisfied none of the decks had been tampered with.

“Right gentlemen. Let us begin,” the Chevalier said, and the six players took their seats around the card table, placing their wads of euro notes on the side. The Chevalier began dealing down-cards to each player. From then on the evening progressed as had been choreographed and practiced in Paris.

After an hour the first round came to an end. There had been one main loser and the other five had shared the winnings more or less equally. The loser stood up from the table and gave a 200 euro note to the dealer. He bowed, “thank you gentlemen for giving me a master class in how to lose at cards. I have only 3000 euros of my original stake and as I know on the next round the minimum bet will increase to 500 euros I will take what little money I have remaining and leave. A sadder, poorer, but none the wiser man.” We applauded his sang froid and he left with his rather bedraggled looking bimbo, a brunette well past her sell by date.

From then on a player fell out at the end of each round until only three of us remained; Basia Bouchiba, me, and a fellow who I recognised as a junior minister in the government responsible for allocating funds for railway infrastructure -- obviously a very rich man. His ‘blonde bimbo’ was actually a very attractive Asian girl, Vietnamese or Thai, exquisite and inscrutable.

We had been playing for several hours when a refreshments break was made. Waiters brought in an array of finger food, and expensive, gold-finger food at that. I nibbled on a canapé or two and sipped some champagne that was reputedly a Dom Pérignon but could have been cold tea as far as I was concerned; I was still utterly concentrated on my game play. I had made a couple of wrong decisions, but generally I was keeping to the game plan set out by the Chevalier. ‘Cindy’ kept me supplied with drinks that she ensured were minimum alcoholic, and my special cigarettes. She also whispered encouraging words in my ear, maintaining my confidence and strengthening my resolve to play my cards right. Occasionally I caught the Chevalier’s eye as he dealt the cards and I could see he was pleased at the way I was playing. I had lost a large pot the game before the last one but had managed to recoup most of the loss. I estimated I had 20,000 euros of my original stake.

The game resumed after the catering break and the politician, Alphonse Deman, began playing as if the stack of euros at his elbow wasn’t his, and given his position in government it probably wasn’t. He made incomprehensible bets based on nothing more than fantasy, and possibly the number of glasses of Dom Pérignon he had consumed. Basia Bouchiba and I wiped him out. He stalked out of the room angry-eyed, and if it had not been for Pierre and Ali, Basia Bouchiba’s muscle man, he would have vented his fury on us. The inscrutable Asian girl swayed out after him.

“She will get a beating when they get back to Deman’s apartment,” ‘Cindy’ whispered to me. “Alphonse Deman is a bully and a sadist. One day Busarakham will stick a knife in him and she will probably get away with it; she might even receive a medal!”

The game restarted, the minimum bet was now 2000 euros. I started well. I had at least 40,000 euros in my stack and could afford to bet heavily on hands I thought were winners but each time my hand was slightly inferior to Bouchiba’s.

“The cards are falling right for me tonight,” he crowed as he scooped up another huge pot. I won the next hand but only a fifth of what I lost on the previous hand. At the end of the round I was back down to 20,000 euros and the next round I knew the minimum bet would 3000 euros. This was the time to bring in the stolen money and it was now I realised how cunningly the Chevalier had ensured Bouchiba’s cards were slightly better than the hand I held. I recalled the words of an old song by Phil Harris, a favourite US comedian /singer of my father.