High-roller sunk by a storm
A passenger on an ocean liner takes a punt he is confident cannot fail. But success depends on what happens before daybreak, in our new tale with a twist from the master of the unexpected
Lincoln convertible. He would pick it up on the way from the ship and drive it home just for the pleasure of seeing ethel’s face when she came out the front door and looked at it.
Wouldn’t that be something, to see ethel’s face when he glided up to the door in a brand-new palegreen Lincoln convertible!
‘Hello, ethel honey,’ he would say, speaking very casual. ‘ i just thought i’d get you a little present. i saw it in the window as i went by, so i thought of you and how you were always wanting one. You like it, honey? You like the colour?’
And then he would watch her face.
The auctioneer was standing up behind his table now. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted. ‘ The captain has estimated the day’s run, ending midday tomorrow, at 515 miles. As usual we will take the ten numbers on either side of it to make up the range. That makes it 505 to 525.
‘And, of course, for those who think the true figure will be still farther away, there’ll be “low field” and “high field” sold separately as well. now, we’ll draw the first number out of the hat . . . here we are . . . 512?’
The room became quiet. The people sat still in their chairs, all eyes watching the auctioneer. There was a certain tension in the air, and as the bids got higher, the tension grew.
This wasn’t a game or a joke; you could be sure of that by the way one man would look across at another who had raised his bid — smiling perhaps, but only the lips smiling, the eyes bright and absolutely cold. number 512 was knocked down for £110. The next three or four numbers fetched roughly the same amount.
The ship was rolling heavily, and each time she went over, the wooden panelling on the walls creaked as if it were going to split.
The passengers held on to the arms of their chairs, concentrating upon the auction. ‘Low field!’ the auctioneer called out. ‘The next number is low field.’
Mr Botibol sat up very straight and tense. He would wait, he had decided, until the others had finished bidding, then he would jump in and make the last bid. He had figured that there must be at least $500 in his account at the bank at home, probably nearer six.
That was about £200 — over £200. This ticket wouldn’t fetch more than that.
‘As you all know,’ the auctioneer was saying, ‘low field covers every number below the smallest number in the range, in this case every number below 505. so, if you think this ship is going to cover less than 505 miles in the 24 hours ending at noon tomorrow, you better get in and buy this number. so what am i bid?’
it went clear up to £130. others besides Mr Botibol seemed to have noticed that the weather was rough, £ 140, £ 150 . . . There it stopped. The auctioneer raised his hammer. ‘going at £150 . . .’ ‘sixty!’ Mr Botibol called, and every face in the room turned and looked at him. ‘seventy!’ ‘eighty!’ Mr Botibol called. ‘ninety!’ ‘ Two hundred!’ Mr Botibol called. He wasn’t stopping now — for anyone. There was a pause. ‘Any advance on £200?’ sit still, he told himself. sit absolutely still and don’t look up. Hold your breath. no one’s going to bid you up so long as you hold your breath.
‘going for £200 . . .’ The auctioneer had a pink bald head and there were little beads of sweat sparkling on top of it.
‘going . . .’ Mr Botibol held his breath. ‘going . . . gone!’ The man banged the hammer on the table. Mr Botibol wrote out a cheque and handed it to the auctioneer’s assistant, then he settled back in his chair to wait for the finish.
He did not want to go to bed before he knew how much there was in the pool.
They added it up after the last number had been sold and it came to £2,100- odd pounds. That was around $6,000. ninety per cent to go to the winner, ten per cent to seamen’s charities. ninety per cent of 6,000 was 5,400. Well — that was
enough. He could buy the Lincoln Convertible and there would be something left over, too.
With this gratifying thought, he went off, happy and excited, to his cabin.
When Mr Botibol awoke the next morning he lay quite still for several minutes with his eyes shut, listening for the sound of the gale, waiting for the roll of the ship. There was no sound of any gale and the ship was not rolling.
He jumped up and peered out of the porthole. The sea — Oh Jesus God — was smooth as glass, the great ship was moving through it fast, obviously making up for time lost during the night. Mr Botibol turned away and sat slowly down on the edge of his bunk.
A fine electricity of fear was beginning to prickle under the skin of his stomach.
He hadn’t a hope now. One of the higher numbers was certain to win it after this.
‘Oh my God,’ he said aloud. ‘What shall I do?’ What, for example, would Ethel say? It was simply not possible to tell her that he had spent almost all of their two years’ savings on a ticket in the ship’s pool. Nor was it possible to keep the matter secret.
To do that he would have to tell her to stop drawing cheques. And what about the monthly instalments on the television set and the Encyclopaedia Britannica?
Already he could see the anger and contempt in the woman’s eyes, the blue becoming grey and the eyes themselves narrowing as they always did when there was anger in them.
‘Oh my God. What shall I do?’