Errors of Judgment(21)
‘Oh, nothing. Just something I did which I now regret.’
They both lapsed into silence.
Ten minutes later they reached the casino, which was tucked away at the end of Curzon Street. Its entrance was unostentatious, a black door set between pillars, with the letter ‘A’ emblazoned on the canopy above. They were buzzed in, and escorted by Mr Depaul’s assistant down a plushly decorated hallway. The gaming room was at the far end, behind double doors. The assistant opened the doors and ushered Anthony and Rachel in. Although the room was large, it possessed a strange, luxuriant intimacy. An expanse of burgundy-and-gold patterned carpet was dotted with mahogany-lipped gaming tables and gilt-legged chairs. Chandeliers shimmered below the hand-painted ceiling, lamps glowed in alcoves, and at the end was a raised bar. It was expensively and opulently furnished, like a huge Edwardian drawing room, fragrant with the faint scent of cigars and brandies, redolent of serious money. Anthony found it unexpectedly exciting.
Mr Depaul crossed the floor to meet them, his feet soundless on the deep-piled carpet. He was a dark-haired, dapper Frenchman, with bright eyes and an enthusiastic manner. He was one of the most popular and well-respected casino managers in London, possessing an excellent understanding of the proclivities and vagaries of his punters, particularly the high rollers, and capable of switching from playful to serious as the situation demanded. His relationship with those who visited the casino regularly was friendly and warm, but, as he explained to Anthony and Rachel, his ultimate loyalty lay with the casino.
‘One could not help liking Mr Al-Sarraj,’ said Mr Depaul, as he ushered Anthony and Rachel into his office. ‘He was one of our best clients. He was what casinos call a whale – someone who thinks nothing of spending millions in a night. The staff loved him because he gave such enormous tips – as much as five thousand pounds if he was in the right mood. But in the end, when the chips are down,’ Mr Depaul smiled at his own little joke, ‘the club must get what it is owed. Please, take a seat.’ Mr Depaul sat down at his desk. ‘We were sorry to lose Mr Al-Sarraj as a client. He was good for business. Winning or losing, he was always the life and soul of the casino. He liked to rub shoulders with rich, influential people – Adnan Khashoggi one night, Tom Cruise the next, the Sultan of Brunei another. He liked to play big. Two million wasn’t so much to the Lion King. I have seen him lose a quarter of that sum at the roulette wheel in one half-hour session. But for some reason, in this game, on that night,’ Mr Depaul stabbed the desktop with his finger, ‘he said the game had not been fair, and he would not honour the cheque. Now we have to claim back our money.’ Mr Depaul buzzed through to his PA. ‘Adam, some coffee, please.’ He smiled at Rachel and Anthony. ‘OK, to business.’
Mr Depaul spent some time explaining the operation of the club’s credit facilities, then the three of them went through documents and discussed the details of the case. It was half past six by the time they finished. Rachel was putting the papers back in her briefcase, when Anthony suddenly remarked, ‘You know, it puzzles me that the casino is pursuing this claim.’
Mr Depaul arched his brows enquiringly. ‘Why? We gave Mr Al-Sarraj every opportunity to repay the money from his winnings.’
‘Yes, but you already said that two million was nothing to Al-Sarraj. Surely it was nothing to the club, compared to the amount Astleigh’s stood to earn from him in the future if the debt had simply been written off and he’d been allowed to continue gambling?’
Mr Depaul shook his head. ‘In the months before we brought our claim against him, the scale of his betting had declined to a mere ten thousand or so a night.’ Mr Depaul gave a shrug. ‘Who knows? Perhaps he ran out of money. Regardless of that, the reason the house always wins, Mr Cross, is that the house always recovers its debts.’
‘I think your claim should succeed. And if it’s any comfort, I don’t believe his counterclaim has much chance of success.’
‘That’s good to know.’ Mr Depaul rose from his desk, glancing at his watch. ‘We open in half an hour. Perhaps you would like to take a little look round the club before you leave?’
‘I’d like that,’ replied Anthony. He glanced at Rachel. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry?’
‘I have to go to pick up Oliver. But you stay. I’m sure it’ll be fascinating.’
Mr Depaul took Anthony to the gaming room.
‘I’ve never been in a casino before,’ remarked Anthony.
‘Really?’ Mr Depaul made a discreet gesture to a passing member of staff. ‘Young, sophisticated people like yourself are the kind of clients we have in here every night. Come and see what you are missing.’