cb.damnationgame-第46节

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ht；　there　was　a　disparity　between　his　dress　and　his　face　that　signaled　a　man　playing　a　role。　The　thought　pleased　him。　From　now　on　he　would　play　Martin　Strauss；　man　of　the　world；　with　all　the　bravura　he　could　muster。　Being　himself　had　not　got　him　very　far。　Perhaps　a　fiction　would　improve　his　rate　of　advancement。
　　He　idled　down　Charing　Cross　Road　and　into　the　tangle　of　traffic　and　pedestrians　at　Trafalgar　Square。　There'd　been　a　fight　on　the　steps　on　St。　Martin's…in…the…Field；　two　men　were　exchanging　curses　and　accusations　while　their　wives　looked　on。
　　Off　the　square；　at　the　back　of　the　Mall；　the　traffic　quietened。　It　took　him　several　minutes　to　orient　himself。　He　knew　where　he　was　going；　and　had　thought　he　knew　how　to　get　there；　but　now　he　wasn't　so　certain。　It　was　a　long　time　since　he'd　been　in　the　area；　and　when　he　eventually　hit　the　small　mews　that　contained　the　Academy…Bill　Toy's　club…it　was　more　by　chance　than　design。
　　His　heart　beat　a　little　faster　as　he　sauntered　up　the　steps。　Ahead　lay　a　major　piece　of　playacting；　which；　if　it　failed；　would　ruin　the　evening。　He　paused　a　moment　to　light　a　cigar；　then　entered。
　　In　his　time　he'd　frequented　a　number　of　high…class　casinos；　this　one　had　the　same　slightly　passé　grandeur　as　others　he'd　been　in；　dark…wood　paneling；　damson　carpeting；　portraits　of　forgotten　luminaries　on　the　walls。　Hand　in　trouser　pocket；　jacket　unbuttoned　to　reveal　the　gloss　of　the　lining；　he　crossed　the　mosaic　foyer　to　the　desk。　Security　would　be　tight：　the　moneyed　expected　safety。　He　wasn't　a　member；　nor　could　expect　to　bee　one　on　the　spot：　not　without　sponsors　and　references。　The　only　way　he'd　get　a　good　night's　gaming　was　by　bluffing　his　way　through。
　　The　English　rose　at　the　desk　smiled　promisingly。　〃Good　evening；　sir。〃　〃How　are　you　tonight？〃　Her　smile　didn't　falter　for　a　moment；　even　though　she　couldn't　possibly　know　who　he　was。
　　〃Well。　And　you？〃　〃Lovely　night。　Is　Bill　here　yet？〃　〃I'm　sorry；　sir？〃　〃Mr。　Toy。　Has　he　arrived　yet？〃　〃Mr。　Toy。〃　She　consulted　the　guest　book；　running　a　lacquered　finger　down　the　list　of　tonight's　gamblers。　〃I　don't　think　he's…〃　〃He　won't　have　signed　in；〃　Marty　said。　〃He's　a　member；　for　God's　sake。〃　The　slight　irritation　in　his　voice　took　the　girl　off…balance。
　　〃Oh　。　。　。　I　see。　I　don't　think　I　know　him。〃　〃Well；　no　matter。　I'll　just　go　straight　up。　Tell　him　I'm　at　the　tables；　will　you？〃　〃Wait；　sir。　I　haven't…〃　She　reached　out；　as　if　to　tug　at　his　sleeve；　but　thought　better　of　it。　He　flashed　her　a　disarming　smile　as　he　started　up　the　stairs。
　　〃Who　shall　I　say？〃　〃Mr。　Strauss；〃　he　said；　affecting　a　tiny　barb　of　exasperation。
　　〃Yes。　Of　course。〃　Artificial　recognition　flooded　her　face。　〃I'm　sorry；　Mr。　Strauss。　It's　just　that…〃　〃No　problem；〃　he　replied；　benignly；　as　he　left　her　below；　staring　up　at　him。
　　It　took　him　only　a　few　minutes　to　acquaint　himself　with　the　layout　of　the　rooms。　Roulette；　poker；　blackjack；　all　and　more　were　available。　The　atmosphere　was　serious：　frivolity　was　not　wele　where　money　could　be　won　or　lost　on　such　a　scale。　If　the　men　and　few　women　who　haunted　these　hushed　enclaves　were　here　to　enjoy　themselves　they　showed　no　sign　of　it。　This　was　work；　hard；　serious　work。　There　were　some　quiet　exchanges　on　the　stairs　and　in　the　corridors…and　of　course　calls　from　the　tables；　otherwise　the　interior　was　almost　reverentially　subdued。
　　He　sauntered　from　room　to　room；　standing　on　the　fringe　of　one　game　then　another；　familiarizing　himself　with　the　etiquette　of　the　place。　Nobody　gave　him　more　than　a　glance；　he　fitted　into　this　obsessive's　paradise　too　well。
　　Anticipation　of　the　moment　when　he　eventually　sat　down　to　join　a　game　exhilarated　him；　he　indulged　it　a　while　longer。　He　had　all　night　to　enjoy；　after　all；　and　he　knew　only　too　well　that　the　money　in　his　pocket　would　disappear　in　minutes　if　he　wasn't　careful。　He　went　into　the　bar；　ordered　a　whisky　and　water；　and　scanned　his　fellow　drinkers。　They　were　all　here　for　the　same　reason：　to　pit　their　wits　against　chance。　Most　drank　alone；　psyching　themselves　up　for　the　games　ahead。　Later；　when　fortunes　had　been　won；　there　might　be　dancing　on　the　tables；　an　impromptu　striptease　from　a　drunken　mistress。　But　it　was　early　yet。
　　The　waiter　appeared。　A　young　man；　twenty　at　most；　with　a　mustache　that　looked　drawn　on；　he'd　already　achieved　that　mixture　of　obsequiousness　and　superiority　that　marked　his　profession。
　　〃I'm　sorry；　sir…〃　he　said。
　　Marty's　stomach　lurched。　Was　somebody　going　to　call　his　bluff？
　　〃Yes？〃　〃Scotch　or　bourbon；　sir？〃　〃Oh。　Er　。　。　。　Scotch。〃　〃Very　well；　sir。〃　〃Bring　it　to　the　table。〃　〃Where　will　you　be；　sir？〃　〃Roulette。〃　The　waiter　withdrew。　Marty　went　to　the　cashier　and　bought　eight　hundred　pounds　of　chips；　then　went　into　the　roulette　room。
　　He'd　never　been　much　of　a　card…player。　It　required　techniques　that　he'd　always　been　too　bored　to　learn；　and　much　as　he　admired　the　skill　of　great　players；　that　very　skill　blurred　the　essential　confrontation。　A　good　cardplayer　used　luck；　a　great　one　rode　it。　But　roulette；　though　it　too　had　its　systems　and　its　techniques；　was　a　purer　game。　Nothing　had　the　glamor　of　the　spinning　wheel：　its　numbers　blurring；　the　ball　rattling　as　it　lodged　and　jumped　again。
　　He　sat　down　at　the　table　between　a　highly　perfumed　Arab　who　spoke　only　French；　and　an　American。　Neither　said　a　word　to　him：　there　were　no　weles　or　farewells　here。　All　the　niceties　of　human　intercourse　were　sacrificed　to　the　matter　at　hand。
　　It　was　an　odd　disease。　Its　symptoms　were　like　infatuation…palpitations；　sleeplessness。　Its　only　certain　cure；　death。　On　one　or　two　occasions　he'd　caught　sight　of　himself　in　a　casino　bar　mirror　or　in　the　glass　of　the　cashier's　booth；　and　met　a　hunted；　hungry　look。　But　nothing…not　self…disgust；　not　the　disparagement　of　friends…nothing　had　ever　quite　rooted　out　the　appetite。
　　The　waiter　brought　the　drink　to　his　elbow；　its　ice　clinking。　Marty　tipped　him　heavily。
　　There　was　a　spin　of　the　wheel；　though　Marty　had　joined　the　table　too　late　to　place　money。　All　eyes　were　fixed　on　the　circling　numbers　。　。　。
　　
　　It　was　an　hour　or　more　before　Marty　left　the　table；　and　then　only　to　relieve　his　bladder　before　returning　to　his　seat。　Players　came　and　went。　The　American；　indulging　the　aquiline　youth　who　acpanied　him；　had　left　the　decisions　to　his　panion；　and　lost　a　small　fortune　before　retiring。　Marty's　reserves　were　running　low。　He'd　won；　and　lost；　and　won；　then　lost　and　lost　and　lost。　The　defeats　didn't　distress　him　overmuch。　It　wasn't　his　money；　and　as　Whitehead　had　often　observed；　there　was　plenty　more　where　that　came　from。　With　enough　chips　left　for　one　more　bet　of　any　consequence；　he　withdrew　from　the　table　for　a　breather。　He'd　sometimes　found　that　he　could　change　his　luck　by　retiring　from　the　field　for　a　few　minutes　and　returning　with　new　focus。
　　As　he　got　up　from　his　seat；　his　eyes　full　of　numbers；　somebody　walked　past　the　door　of　the　roulette　room　and　glanced　in　before　moving　on　to　another　game。　Fleeting　seconds　were　enough　for　recognition。
　　When　Marty'd　last　met　that　face　it　had　been　ill…shaven　and　waxen　with　pain；　lit　by　the　floods　along　the　Sanctuary　fence。　Now　Mamoulian　was　transformed。　No　longer　the　derelict；　cornered　and　anguished。　Marty　found　himself　walking　toward　the　door　like　a　man　hypnotized。　The　waiter　was　at　his　side…〃Another　drink；　sir？〃…but　the　inquiry　went　ignored　as　Marty　stepped　out　of　the　roulette　room　and　into　the　corridor。　Contrary　feeling　ran　in　him：　he　was　half…afraid　to　confirm　his　sighting　of　the　man；　yet　curiously　excited　that　the　man　was　here。　It　was　no　coincidence；　surely。　Perhaps　Toy　was　with　him。　Perhaps　the　whole　mystery　would　unravel　here　and　now。　He　caught　sight　of　Mamoulian　walking　into　the　baccarat　room。　A　particularly　fierce　match　was　going　on　there；　and　spectators　had　drifted　in　to　watch　its　closing　stages。　The　room　was　full；　players　from　other　tables　had　deserted　their　own　games　to　enjoy　the　battle　at　hand。　Even　the　waiters　were　lingering　on　the　periphery　trying　to　catch　a　glimpse。
　　Mamoulian　threaded　his　way　through　the　crowd　to　get　a　better　view；　his　thin　gray　figure　parting　the　throng。　Having　found　himself　a　vantage　point　he　stood；　light　shining　up　from　the　baize　onto　his　pale　face。　The　wounded　hand　was　lodged　in　his　jacket　pocket；　out　of　sight；　the　wide　brow　was　clear　of　the　least　expression。　Marty　watched　him　for　upward　of　five　minutes。　Not　once　did　the　European's　eyes　flicker　from　the　game　in　front　of　him。　He　was　like　a　piece　of　porcelain：　a　glazed　fa？ade　onto　which　a　nonchalant　artisan　had　scrawled　a　few　lines。　The　eyes　pressed　into　the　clay　were　incapable；　it　seemed；　of　anything　but　that　relentless　stare。　Yet　there　was　power　in　the　man。　It　was　uncanny　to　see　how　people　kept　clear　of　him；　cramming　themselves　into　knots　rather　than　press　too　close　to　him　at　the　tableside。
　　Across　the　room；　Marty　caught　sight　of　the　pen…mustache　waiter。　He　pushed　his　way　between　the　spectators　to　where　the　young　man　stood。
　　〃A　word；〃　he　whispered。
　　〃Yes；　sir？〃　〃That　man。　In　the　gray　suit。〃　The　waiter　glanced　toward　the　table；　then　back　to　Marty　〃Mr。　Mamoulian。〃　〃Yes。　What　do　you　know　about　him？〃　The　waiter　gave　Marty　a　reproving　look。
　　〃I'm　sorry；　sir。　We're　not　at　liberty　to　discuss