Mr. American

  'All right, your majesty, we've gone easy on them long enough, I reckon. This is the hand where we wring 'em out and peg 'em up to dry! Spread 'em around and let's go!'

  He heard Peggy gasp, saw the stunned disbelief on the faces round the table, and Mrs Keppel holding her breath at such vulgar familiarity. The King stared, and then his eyes puckered up and 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behind his chair, and Mr Franklin was aware that Peggy's hand had momentarily touched his shoulder, and was now being withdrawn.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 realised 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 changed 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, watching 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 curse 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 hears.' 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 roya
lty, 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.

  `Thank goodness you won at last,' she said. 'I shudder to think what he'd have been like at breakfast if you hadn't. Daddy said he was sure you must go down.' She studied him sidelong. 'Do you do everything as well as you play bridge?'

  'I hope not,' said Mr Franklin, and as Soveral joined them, he added: `Mrs Keppel was the one who played well, I thought,' and Peggy wondered why Soveral laughed. By the fire the King was being noisily jovial at Mrs Keppel's expense as he sat back, contented, whisky glass in hand, cigar going nicely, and the beautiful Alice, sitting gracefully on the rug by the royal knee, laughed gaily at what she called her own feather-brain; her expression did not change when she met Mr Franklin's eye, and he wondered, with a momentary revulsion, if it was always like this in the royal circle - the petty deceits and subterfuges to keep the monarch amused, to order events for his satisfaction. Was the King himself deceived, or did he, too, join in the pretence? Perhaps it was the warmth of the room, the smoky atmosphere, the long game, the over-indulgence in hock, but Mr Franklin felt vaguely uncomfortable, even ashamed - not for himself, really, but' for being a part of it all. It was so trifling, and yet - he listened to Mrs Keppel's tinkling laugh at one of the King's sallies, and realised that once again he, too, was smiling mechanically and making approving noises. Soveral, score-card in hand, was announcing smoothly that the last rubber had comfortably levelled up his majesty's score over the night, and Mr Franklin received a handful of sovereigns from the marquis and polite applause led by Mrs Keppel, tapping her palm on her wrist and smiling up at him. He bowed and pocketed the coins, reflecting that she probably considered it money well spent, and the game well lost, if it ensured his majesty a happy repose.

  8

  Finally, it was over; the King, yawning but affable, withdrew, a collective inward sigh was heaved, Sir Charles Clayton was smiling a tired smile of pure relief, and the party drifted out into the hall, the dinner guests to go to their cars, and one or two, like Mr Franklin, to be shown their rooms for the night. He, having arrived late, had not yet had one assigned to him, and Peggy summoned her brother from the other end of the house, whence came a sound of distant revelry; the younger set, it seemed, kept hours just as late as their elders, but probably a good deal more happily.

  'You ought to have the chamber of honour,' said Arthur, as he led Mr Franklin upstairs. `Peg says you saved the day. Good scout.' And he patted the American affectionately on the shoulder. `But this is the best we can do, I'm afraid - ' he led the way along a narrow corridor which seemed to lead to the very end of the gloomy upper floor. Mr Franklin noticed that the doors they passed had visiting cards pinned to them; his own, when they reached it, had a sheet of paper marked `Mr Franklin'.

  `If you need anything, pull the bell, but don't be surprised if it comes out of the wall,' said Arthur cheerfully. `We're rather in need of repair, I'm afraid. Someone'll bring your shaving water in the morning. Good night, old chap.'

  Repair was about right, thought Mr Franklin, as he prepared to undress; the, room was decidedly shabby - much shabbier than he'd have expected from the comfort of the rooms downstairs. Probably the Claytons hadn't had so many guests in living memory, and of course all the attention would be lavished on royalty's apartments. But he remembered the hired cutlery and crockery and wondered again, idly, if old Clayton was perhaps pretty well stretched. None of his business, of course, but they seemed nice folk - Peggy was an uncommonly attractive girl, not just for her seraphic beauty, but for the spirit that lay underneath; she looked like an English rose, but there were some pretty sharp thorns on that shapely stem, or he was much mistaken.

  What a strange day it had been - how long since he set off to West Walsham? Eighteen hours? And then the ridiculous fox business, and his frantic preparations with Thornhill, and the dinner, and that astonishing game which he still didn't know how to play properly - and he'd met and talked to the King of England, and shared that intimacy of bridge partnership - that was the odd, unbelievable part, that for a time he had occupied the King's thoughts, and been the object of his attention: he, Mark Franklin, nobody from nowhere. And yet he was just as much somebody as the King was, after all - just not so many people knew him. And he'd sniffed the air of a court, and in its way it was just like the history his father had taught him -about the Caesars, and the Italian tyrants, and Henry VIII, who slapped people in jail because their faces didn't fit, or clipped their heads and ears off. Would he have bid six hearts with Henry VIII sitting over the way? There was a thought, now. He turned down the lamp, rolled into the creaking bed, and felt his head throb and spin as soon as it hit the pillow. He knew he wouldn't sleep easily.

  From far off, below him, he could hear the distant murmur of voices, and music, and muffled laughter; Arthur's friends were still whooping it up down there. No doubt they were at a safe distance from royalty; it was quite a soothing murmur, anyway, and Mr Franklin must have dozed off, for suddenly he was conscious that the voices were sharp and clear and much closer- in the corridor outside his room, feet clattering, and laughter, and the squeal of feminine laughter. 'Where's Rhoda? Oh, Jeremy, you utter idiot - well, you'll just have to go back for it!' 'Which is my room, then?' 'I dunno, can't you read, Daphne?' 'I say, Connie, old thing, give us a ciggy."Oh, lor', look at my dress?" 'What is it - custard?' Squeals of laughter, young men's babbling, idiot catchphrases: 'Oh, a divvy party!' 'Oh, Jeremy, how too horridino! Take it away!' Squeak, giggle, clatter, at the tops of their shrill voices, doors slamming - Mr Franklin groaned softly and wondered how long it would be
before they shut up. After a few moments it subsided, with only occasional cries and laughter muffled by the walls; then whispers and stifled giggling, furtive rustling as later arrivals hurried along the passage; Mr Franklin dozed again, uneasily ...

  His door opened and closed, feet swiftly crossed the room, and in one instinctive moment he was out of bed before he was even awake, crouched and ready, his hand automatically snaking under his pillow. A lamp was turned up brilliantly, dazzling him, a female voice cooed playfully: 'All right, Frankie, here's little coochy-woochy come to get you!' and Mr Franklin had a horrifying vision of a plump, dark-haired young lady throwing aside her frilly dressing-gown and sprawling naked on the bed he had just left. 'Where are . . .' she began, surveying the empty bed, and then her eyes met his, a yard away, and she squealed aloud, putting her knuckles to her mouth. 'Oh, my God! You're not Frank! Oh! Oh, my God!'