Loser Takes Al

“You said it was Philippe.”

“Philippe who?” she asked triumphantly.

“Dupont,” I said.

“It isn’t. It’s Chantier.”

“Ah well, I mixed him up with Dupont.”

“Who’s Dupont?”

“Perhaps they look alike.”

“I said who’s Dupont.”

“I’ve no idea,” I said. “But it’s awfully late.”

“You’re unbearable.” She slapped her pillow as though it were my face. There was a pause of several minutes and then she said bitterly, “You haven’t even asked whether I slept with him.”

“I’m sorry. Did you?”

“No. But he asked me to spend the night with him.”

“On the stacked chairs?”

“I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night.”

She was beginning to get me in the mood she wanted. I could stop myself no longer. I said, “Who the hell is this Philippe Chantier?”

“The hungry young man, of course.”

“Are you going to dine on coffee and rolls?”

“I’m paying for the dinner. He’s very proud, but I insisted. He’s taking me somewhere very cheap and quiet and simple—a sort of students’ place.”

“That’s lucky,” I said, “because I’m dining out too. Someone I met tonight at the Casino.”

“Who?”

“A Madame Dupont.”

“There’s no such name.”

“I couldn’t tell you the right one. I’m careful of a woman’s honour.”

“Who is she?”

“She was winning a lot tonight at baccarat and we got into conversation. Her husband died recently, she was very fond of him, and she’s sort of drowning her sorrows. I expect she’ll soon find comfort, because she’s young and beautiful and intelligent and rich.”

“Where are you having dinner?”

“Well, I don’t want to bring her here—there might be talk. And she’s too well known at the Salle Privée. She suggested driving to Cannes where nobody would know us.”

“Well, don’t bother to come back early. I shall be late.”

“Exactly what I was going to say to you, dear.” It was that sort of night. As I lay awake—and was aware of her wakefulness a few feet away—I thought it’s the Gom’s doing, he’s even ruining our marriage now. I said, “Dear, if you’ll give up your dinner, I’ll give up mine.”

She said, “I don’t even believe in yours. You invented it.”

“I swear to you—word of honour—that I’m giving a woman dinner tomorrow night.”

She said, “I can’t let Philippe down.” I thought gloomily: now I’ve got to do it, and where the hell can I find a woman?

TWO

We were very polite to each other at breakfast and at lunch. Cary even came into the Casino with me in the early evening, but I think her sole motive was to spot my woman. As it happened a young woman of great beauty was sitting at one of the tables, and Cary obviously drew the incorrect conclusion. She tried to see whether we exchanged glances and at last she could restrain her curiosity no longer. She said to me, “Aren’t you going to speak to her?”

“Who?”

“That girl.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, and tried to convey in my tone of voice that I was still guarding the honour of another. Cary said furiously. “I must be off. I can’t keep Philippe waiting. He’s so sensitive.”

My system was working: I was losing exactly what I had anticipated losing, but all the exhilaration had gone out of my calculations. I thought: suppose this isn’t what they call a lovers’ quarrel; suppose she’s really interested in this man; suppose this is the end. What do I do? What’s left for me? Fifteen thousand pounds was an inadequate answer.

I was not the only one who was losing regularly. Mr Bowles sat in his wheeled chair, directing his nurse who put the tokens on the cloth for him, leaning over his shoulder, pushing with her private rake. He too had a system, but I suspected that his system was not working out. He sent her back twice to the desk for more money, and the second time I saw that his pocket-book was empty except for a few thousand-franc notes. He rapped out his directions and she laid out his remaining tokens—a hundred and fifty thousand francs’ worth of them—the ball rolled and he lost the lot. Wheeling from the table he caught sight of me. “You,” he said, “what’s your name?”

“Bertram.”

“I’ve cashed too little. Don’t want to go back to the hotel. Lend me five million.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You know who I am. You know what I’m worth.”

“The hotel…” I began.

“They can’t let me have that amount till the banks open. I want it tonight. You’ve been winning plenty. I’ve watched you. I’ll pay you back before the evening’s out.”

“People have been known to lose.”

“I can’t hear what you say,” he said, shifting his earpiece.

“I’m sorry, Mr Other,” I said.

“My name’s not Other. You know me. I’m A.N. Bowles.”

“We call you A.N. Other in the office. Why don’t you go to the bank here and cash a cheque? There’s someone always on duty.”

“I haven’t got a French account, young man. Haven’t you heard of currency regulations?”

“They don’t seem to be troubling either of us much,” I said.

“You’d better come and have a cup of coffee and discuss the matter.”

“I’m busy just now.”

“Young man,” the Other said, “I’m your employer.”

“I don’t recognize anybody but the Gom.”

“Who on earth is the Gom?”

“Mr Dreuther.”