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“And if that fails?”
The owner told his manager exactly what he should do if fixing the wheel wasn’t enough.
There was a knock on the door, and the head of security returned, accompanied by one of the few members of staff who wasn’t wearing a dinner jacket that evening. In fact, if you had passed Philippe Duval in the street, you might have thought the short, balding middle-aged man was a schoolmaster, or perhaps an accountant. But he had other talents that were far more valuable to the casino. Mr. Duval could lip-read in five different languages.
“Which one?” he asked, as he stared down at the screen.
“The young guy,” said the manager, once again zooming in on him. “What can you tell me about him?”
Duval watched carefully, but it was some time before he offered an opinion, during which the young man had lost another thousand francs on 13. “He’s French,” Duval eventually said, “a Parisian, and the lady standing behind him is his wife, Maxine, unless they’re both married to someone else.”
“Tell me what they’re saying,” said Marcel.
Duval leaned forward and watched carefully.
“Him, ‘My luck’s got to change soon.’
“Her, ‘I’d rather you stopped, Jacques. Let’s go back to the hotel while we’ve still got enough money to pay the bill.’
“Him, ‘It’s not the hotel bill I’m worried about, as you well know, Maxine. It’s that loan shark who’ll be waiting for me the moment I show my face in Paris.’”
The young man placed another thousand francs on 13. The ball landed on 26.
“Him, ‘Next time.’”
“Is Tony on tonight?” the manager asked.
“Yes, boss,” replied the head of security. “Table nine.”
“Switch him with the guy on table three, and tell him to make sure the ball lands in 13.”
“He’s still only got a one in five chance,” said the head of security.
“That’s better than thirty-seven to one,” said the manager. “Get on with it.”
“On my way, boss,” said the head of security. He hurried out of the room and headed down to the casino floor, but not before the young man had lost another thousand francs.
“Pull the camera back,” said the manager. The manager zoomed out. “I want to take a closer look at that man leaning against the pillar in the far corner.” The camera moved onto a middle-aged man who was also staring intently at the table. “He’s that journalist from Le Figaro.”
“Are you sure?” the manager barked.
“Look at the photo next to his byline on the front page,” he said, tapping the newspaper on the desk.
“François Colbert,” said the manager. “I could kill him.”
“I think that’s what he has in mind for you,” said Duval, as the camera returned to the roulette table, where two of the croupiers were swapping stations.
“Make it land in 13, Tony,” said the manager as the new croupier began to spin the wheel. While everyone’s eyes were on the ball, the croupier’s right hand slipped under the table.
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sp; Jacques placed another thousand francs on 13, as the croupier sent the little white ball on its way. The young man, the manager, the head of security, and Duval all followed the progress of the ball, which ended up in 27, one slot to the left of 13.
“He’ll get it right next time,” said the manager.
“He’d better,” said Duval, “because the mark’s only got two chips left.”
The young man put them both on 13. Once again, the croupier sent the ball spinning, and once again his index finger felt for the hidden lever under the table, as six people with a vested interest watched to see where the ball would land. 36.
