The Lore and Lure of Roulette

"Vingt-neuf; noir, impair et passe!" Lost again. Easy now, don't show it. Don't get "wheel panic." Keep cool like a pre-War Russian grand duke. There goes your bet. The croupier skillfully rakes in the losing stakes without disturbing the winning ones.

Across the table a cascade of chips lands right in front of that greedy old woman. You notice everything as in a dream: the sudden whispers, the electrifying atmosphere, the players' tense faces, their trembling hands, the wheel now spinning in the other direction.

"Messieurs, faites vos jeux."

It's always "Messieurs," though there are mostly women around the table. A tradition going back to the good old days, when ladies were "not supposed to be associated with gambling." French law permits the husband to keep his wife from entering a gambling casino, but few take advantage of it. "Women around a gaming table shorten our life expectancy," a fellow croupier once told me.

Wait, don't bet yet. Real devil-may-care players always stake a few seconds after the croupier's "Rien ne va plus." Let them place their chips first.

"Deux cents, à cheval." "Carré sept, sept cents." "Troisième douzaine, par cinq louis." An old systémier who still bets "louis d'or," though the 20-franc gold piece has been out of currency for over 40 years. He also calls the wheel le cylindre, and he wouldn't touch a chip that fell to the floor. Bad luck.

A voluptuous redhead with an ecstatic perfume (Mitsouko?) has stepped behind my chair. Poor girl. An unattached lady should have a sixth sense of attaching herself to a man with a winning streak. There was one, a long time ago, who would drink nothing but the best brut champagne, served in a hollowed-out pineapple. Always a fresh pineapple and another bottle.

"Rien ne va. . ." Now, quick! Two louis on 29 (my birthday).

". . . ne va plus," says the croupier, watching the greedy old woman out of the corner of his eye. She tries to play la poussette (French for "pushcart"), staking her chips between manque (1 to 18) and impair (odd), nudging them toward the appropriate side just as manque or impair come out.

Now the supreme thrill--the long, long moment of breathless suspense while the croupier rolls the ivory ball against the direction of the wheel's rotation. In Monte Carlo, it must circle from seven to nine times before----"

Dix-sept; noir, impair et manque."

There goes my bet on 29. The voluptuous redhead fades away. Never mind; the thrill is more exciting than the game itself. I'm not a passionate gambler, but when I'm in the vicinity, I always come to Monte Carlo for a whiff of the very special atmosphere.

Yes, I know--many things have changed in "Monte" and elsewhere. Democracy and égalité have invaded the feudal casino halls. The people around my favorite table--number seven--in the gold-and-stucco Renaissance hall (Salle Schmidt, known as "the kitchen" among the croupiers) are no longer Russian grand dukes, British lords, femmes fatales, ex-kings and superspies. Probably they are tourists from Geneva, Ohio, or Geneva, Switzerland. But the excitement is still there--the wonderful eternity when the ball can't make up its mind into which ivory-and-rosewood slot to drop.

This excitement--and people's congenital optimism--will always keep the casinos going. There's one born every moment who thinks he can beat the percentage in favor of the house--2.70 in roulette in Monte Carlo. So what? There may be a tiny physical irregularity in the wheel's construction--scratches, an almost imperceptible unevenness, an asymmetry due to wear. With luck, you may play a winning game.

I am strictly a roulette player, fascinated by the rotating wheel, the lure of lucky numbers, the mysteries of systems with such wonderful names as "Neapolitan martingale" or coup à trois. Many gamblers prefer baccarat or chemin de fer; they like to play against somebody, against the bank. They say it's more audacious, more flamboyant. They savor the breathless silence when somebody exclaims "Banco!" or "La Grande!"

But all real gambling stories begin or end with roulette, the game of games in Monte Carlo, the most glamorous casino of all. Despite wear and tear, Monte has everything--history, tradition, scenery, climate, chic and sex. It has often been declared dying--like capitalism, grand opera and true love. Well, all of them are gloriously alive. The richest gamblers--today the Greeks, Italians and South Americans--still go to Monte Carlo. The best stories still come from there.

Admittedly, some customers are drab, the ornate rococo elegance is slightly phony and there are slot machines between the Ionic marble columns. There are more exclusive casinos (Deauville, Cannes, San Remo) and more intimate ones (Beaulieu, Baden-Baden, Chamonix). There are gambling casinos all over Europe, near fashionable beaches and unfashionable mountains, near hot springs and cold lakes.

Gambling remains the second oldest diversion. And casino winnings are tax-free in many countries, while excess profits from business are highly taxed. A German businessman with unrecorded cash profits from his enterprise can't lose at the casino. If he's lucky, he legitimately pockets his profits. His losses are taken off as "expenses." He may take his secretary along and can have a lot of fun.

There are casinos conveniently close to the frontiers of certain countries where gambling is illegal. Rich Spaniards (some of them very rich) who deplore Franco's aversion to roulette may lose all they like in Biarritz and St.-Jean-de-Luz. Rich Swiss, stingy at home, become big plungers in Evian or Divonne. One casino--Travemünde--is within shooting distance of the Iron Curtain. The proximity of the mined death strip seems to demoralize even conservative gamblers. Every time things get worse along the high-voltage barbed-wire frontier, business gets better in Travemünde.

• • •

I've known the lure and lore of gambling from both sides of the gaming table. Thirty-nine years ago, I spent several months of my romantic, irresponsible youth as assistant to an assistant croupier in the Casino Municipal in Nice.

Compared with our elegant colleagues in Monte Carlo, we were just poor relations. The game was boule, roulette's wicked little sister, a real racket with only nine numbers. The pay-off is only seven for one, and the odds are 11-1/9 to 1 against the player. Monte Carlo croupiers were taught to spin the wheel "only with the forefinger and middle finger," to roll the ball with thumb and forefinger. I used five fingers. Monte Carlo croupiers would photograph in their minds the exact layout of all chips on the table. Some wizards carried the patterns of three tables in their heads--quite an achievement with 30 or 40 players betting at one table.

I couldn't even remember our table. I had problems with an avocat, a fellow who waits until a number comes up on which many people have staked a bet and then claims that one of the chips is his. Others would "sugar" their bets and try other nasty little tricks.

That rarely happened in Monte Carlo, where the croupiers knew the whims of their habitués, kept their sang-froid in tough moments and always made the right decision in a dispute. They would toss the chips with such precision that they fell directly on a number. They watched the players' faces and hands, were able to multiply in a split second the number of winning chips by 35 (on a single number, en plein), 17, 11 or 8--depending on whether the chips were on the line between two numbers (à cheval), on three numbers across the board (transversale pleine) or on the intersection of four numbers (en carré). They were the Heifetzes of their profession--seasoned virtuosos with the poise of senior diplomats.

Some Monte Carlo stories were retold so often that they are now accepted as facts. The trick is to keep fiction and fact apart. I got my best inside stories from my fellow croupiers.

You've heard the one about the Russian destroyer captain who allegedly lost his money and his sailors' pay, and in desperation had his ship's guns trained on the casino while he held them up for the lost money, Pure fiction. But the Duke of Westminster who gambled on such a magnificent scale that he never knew where he stood is a fact. After leaving his yacht in the harbor of Monaco, he returned the next year and found a million (gold-standard) francs' worth of chips in his dresser drawer.

For every legend there is a good true story in Monte Carlo. Did you hear the one about Sir Frederick Johnston, who lost a brass button from his blazer? It rolled under the table. The chef de partie thought it was a louis and told Sir Frederick not to bother. Did he want to bet on rouge or noir? "Toujours rouge, toujours l'amour," milord said, and wandered off, to be sought out by a huissier a little later. Seems that red had come up a few times and milord had won 25,000 louis with his brass button. A charming story, but only ben trovato. And so is the persistent report that at the English church in Monte they sing only hymns with numbers higher than 36, to prevent the congregation from rushing out of the church and into the casino to back the number of the hymn.

No, friends, that's silly. But miracles do happen in Monte Carlo. Years ago at the elegant Summer Sporting Club, where roulette tables are on the terrace, the croupier said, "Rien ne va plus," when a 100-franc chip dropped down from heaven and fell on number eight. A second later the ball fell into the slot of number eight. A lady on the balcony who had lost all her money had found another chip in her purse, got mad and threw it over the balustrade. She won 3500 francs, came down to collect, stayed at the table and lost everything. That's a true story, and a sad one.

All casinos discourage such stories. They like to spread a pinkish mist of "broken banks" and great winners. In Monte Carlo both 22 and 32 have turned up six times in succession! Rouge once came up 23 times without a break! A distinguished British statistician named Pearson investigated roulette records from Monte Carlo as early as 1890. Today you can buy the monthly Monte Carlo Revue Scientifique, with almost 10,000 consecutive trials of one wheel. Famous mathematicians have studied the game, some with the help of computers.

Systems players swear you can win--if you have experience, patience, courage and the firm belief that you're going to win. But the only (slim) chance is to spot a tiny physical irregularity of the wheel. Toward the end of the last century, a British engineer named Jaggers had six wheels clocked for over a month and discovered that certain numbers came up more frequently, probably owing to minute defects in the cylinders. When Jaggers began to gamble, he won £14,000 on the first day. After four days, he had won £60,000.

Then the management got worried and switched the wheels. Jaggers lost two thirds of his winnings, but after a while he "recognized" the wheels and hit £90,000. Now the directeurs got panicky and summoned the manufacturer of the wheels from Paris. He replaced the immovable partitions between the numbers with movable ones. Every night the slots were secretly exchanged. Jaggers lost £40,000. Then he was smart and quit with £80,000, and never came back. Bless him.

And there was Charles Wells ("The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo"), who came in 1891, played from 11 in the morning until midnight with the concentration of the born gambler, and in three days won the equivalent of 300,000 tax-free gold dollars! He broke the bank several times, left town, lost his money, came back and ran a stake of 120 francs up to 98,000 francs. But this story has a moral. In 1893 Wells was sentenced by a London court to eight years in prison for gambling with other people's money.

• • •

Prior to the Second World War, Monte Carlo had the largest number of Rolls-Royces per capita of any country on earth. Some cars of once-optimistic plungers were later converted into taxis. The plungers have become impoverished systémiers, seedy gamblers trying to supplement their tiny income by complicated systems, subsistence players. When they've made la matérielle--just enough to pay for two modest meals at the prix fixe--they quit for the day. Many croupiers have a warm feeling toward the systems players, and both have great loyalty to the maison, as they call the casino. When Monte Carlo remained closed for three months at the beginning of the last War frustrated systémiers were seen staggering around town like movie alcoholics in search of a bottle.

Some of them play "the attack," based on dreams, astrology, hunches, bus numbers, buttons. Old-timers often played the numbers 9 and 27 after zero had appeared. Why? Because! Others stuck to the coup à deux: When red appeared after a black number, they would play red, and when black came after a red number, they would stake black. Don't ask why.

Most systems depend on the outcome of the day's first spin of the wheel. The systémiers arrive in the atrium at 9:45 A.M. They make last-minute calculations, nervous as aging singers before a premiere. When the doors are opened, they rush in, each headed for a particular seat at a particular table. They put down their diagrams and notebooks, finger their ties and wait. No one says a word.

Exactly at ten the chef de partie announces, "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!" No one moves. It's eerie. The first game is never played.

Then the ball falls into a slot, the number is announced and suddenly they all come to life. Each consults his tabulations, and all begin to bet frantically. Most play even-money chances, which give them a longer run for their money. They love the excitement of the game. They don't want to accept the mathematical (continued on page 221) Lure of Roulette fact that the longer one plays, the bigger the chance of going broke.

The most popular numbers in Monte Carlo are 17 and 29. The most popular systems are doubling the bet after a loss (martingale) and another form of doubling called the flat-stake system, colored by the systémier's individual computations. You bet one chip on a simple chance. After you've lost five times, you double your bets and put up two chips until you've lost five times. Then you go back to one chip again. For every time you have won a two-chip bet, you reduce the five required single-chip losses on the next round by one. Suppose you are on a two-chip sequence. In the course of losing five times, you win twice. Then when you return to betting single chips, you need lose only three times before switching back to two chips. No one ever made a fortune out of this system--but systémiers are not really interested in money. They want to prove that their system is infallible. None is.

A South American systémier once astonished the gambling community by staking en plein. Playing single numbers is considered a short cut to the famous cliff from where, according to legend, people jumped into the sea. The South American was no fool, though. He selected "sleepers," numbers that hadn't won for a long time. He preferred numbers that hadn't come up in 108 spins, and these he would play for 36 consecutive games. Afterward, he would increase the bet to two chips. Experience shows that a number rarely remains "asleep" for 255 spins, which meant that the South American might have to wait 147 spins. The first year he won a lot of money; the next year he came back and lost heavily. They all come back--the winners to win again, the losers to recoup.

Cheating is almost impossible at roulette. In the old days, dishonest croupiers would join forces with a gambler, pay him fake winnings and later split the take. Nowadays the croupiers (who wear honesty-inducing dinner jackets without side pockets) are always watched by what they call the casino's "almost secret police." They have steady jobs, pensions at 65, and their salary is doubled by the cagnotte, the collection of tips that land in a special slot, called "Number 37."

Old-timers love to reminisce about the days before the War--meaning, of course, the First World War--when fantastic gamblers came for the sake of gambling. They would risk fortunes in the Salles Privées, surrounded by refined luxury and beautiful cocottes, with the soft sound of music coming in from the restaurant and tension filling the air. The older Morgan once asked for permission to play over the maximum stake, which was 12,000 francs (then $2400), on simple chances, and was turned down. The casino knew it couldn't afford to play against Mr. Morgan.

The first three concessionaires of the Monte Carlo casino, founded in 1858, went broke. There was a M. Frossard from Lisbon, who lasted a few weeks. Then came M. Daval from Paris, who threw a terrific opening-night party--people fetched from all over the Riviera, dinner for 150, the garrison presenting arms in the square. A great success, but so costly, malheureusement, that M. Daval had no money left to carry on with. Next the Société Lefebvre, Girois et Cie took over. They offered free land near the casino to anyone willing to build a hotel there. Today you couldn't get the land if you covered it with ten-dollar bills. Soon Messrs. Lefebvre and Girois were broke, too.

In 1863, M. François Blanc, the great old man of casino gambling, came from Homburg and paid 1,700,000 francs for the physical assets and the concession (which will expire in 1975). He founded a corporation with a wonderful name, La Société Anonyme des Bains de Mer et du Cercle des Etrangers à Monaco (Monaco Sea Bathing and Foreigners Club, Inc.). Blanc had been broke, too, when Prince Charles Bonaparte played against his house. Blanc learned that the house must either have more money than any individual gambler or establish limits. He summoned his friend Charles Garnier, the designer of the Paris Opera, who owed him some money. Garnier built the casino theater, which looks like a miniature Paris Opera and often offers better performances. There were lean years after the last War, when the croupiers wore dinner jackets getting shiny at the elbows. Nowadays the casino is said to gross about $7,000,000 a year.

Some charming traditions are kept, along with the comic-opera carabinieri that guard the palace of Prince Rainier III, and with the new issues of postage stamps, often sold in large blocks directly to foreign dealers. No fresh air or sunshine must invade the casino during business hours. House employees, minors, citizens of Monaco and people in uniform are forbidden to enter. The wheel must always remain in motion. Raked-in chips must be piled into neat stacks of 20 at once.

Not kept was the tradition of the viatique, a loan that the casino would give to unfortunate systémiers who had reached the end of their rope. They got a train ticket and pocket money, and could come back only after they'd paid off the debt. The casino keeps long files on people who were deported and on people who are black-listed at all casinos in Europe for various reasons. Also gone is the tradition of ceremoniously covering the table with black cloth, en deuil, when someone has won all the money at that table. Of course, he doesn't "break the bank." They soon bring more from the safe. No casino ever went broke because the customers won too much. But a lot of gambling places had to close down for lack of customers. The casino's profit comes from the small-fry losers who have neither the money nor the patience to stick out a bad run of the wheel.

Young men in Monaco who want to become croupiers are carefully investigated for family background and behavior, and must serve as apprentices at least two years for the Société, as ushers, clerks, table attendants, etc., before they can become aspirants. To be admitted to the school for croupiers, they undergo strict tests. They must be in perfect health, look well, be alert, know at least a couple of foreign languages, be able to calculate rapidly and have long, supple fingers. The aspirant must do his daily chores and go to school at night. The course lasts from six to ten months. The students must master every trick of the profession. Throwing a chip so that it rolls may be a case for instant dismissal from the school.

After the final examinations, the probationary croupier is taken to a table in "the kitchen." He suffers from stage fright and everything goes wrong. He doesn't spin the wheel properly, makes mistakes in multiplying, forgets to re-arrange the chips and thinks he failed. Most work out, though, and in time become full-fledged croupiers. Someday they may be promoted to sous-chef, supervising the seven other men at the board; or even to chef de partie, sitting in the high chair above his station.

All casinos pay great attention to their equipment, and for obvious reason. Roulette wheels and bowls are made of extrahard rosewood. Their life span is about 15 years. Every two months the wheels are given a thorough going-over. Every morning before opening time the wheels are checked with spirit levels and calipers under the eyes of an inspector to make sure that balance and alignment are perfect. The inspector verifies the diameter of the roulette ball, the croupier's rakes, the chemin-de-fer shoes.

The only difference between a gambling casino and any other business is that the customer at the casino gets nothing but a thrill for his money. To give him, in addition, something tangible, casinos offer lovely gardens and beautiful landscapes, good food and wines at fair prices, fresh flowers and lovely women, music and dancing, night clubs and bars, glamor and excitement. A man may lose his shirt, but he should at least enjoy it. A gambling casino or á bank must never look shabby; otherwise the customers lose confidence.

The owner of one of the biggest casinos in Germany, where gambling is very big business, tells me that the Germans are good customers, because they take the game seriously and refuse to lose; whereupon, naturally, they lose more than other people. Hardheaded Dutchmen are good customers, too. They make the mistake of believing that the wheel has a brain and try to outsmart it. Americans, Italians and Greeks are respected as optimistic plungers. South Americans are sometimes flamboyant gamblers in the old style, though not on as great a scale as pre-War Russians, who were the best customers of all, millionaire hunch players. Worst of all are the British, who don't lose their head, often take their winnings and leave. That's very bad--for the casino.

• • •

My favorite Monte Carlo story is about an American between the two Wars who spent a long time watching the wheels. Then he explained to a friend that he'd found the obvious solution to the gambler's eternal dilemma.

"People come here to win, so naturally they lose. Suppose I wanted to lose--then I ought to win. Don't you think so?"

The friend said it sounded logical, but where was a man who wanted to lose? The American had the answer.

"If a man does not gamble with his own money and were paid to lose, he might want to do it."

The American hired a man and gave him 2000 francs with instructions "to lose the money as quickly as possible." For his work he would be paid 200 francs. The American had 50,000 francs of working capital and decided to try his plan for about three weeks.

On the first day, the hired man threw his employer's money all over the table, and lost his 2000 francs in about 20 minutes. The second day, he was cleaned out in 12 minutes. On the third and fourth days, he lost quickly, too.

On the fifth day, he won 62,000 francs. The American, who had been watching, came to the table, took all the chips, gave a 1000-franc tip to the croupier and 1000 francs to the hired man. All in all, he had spent 10,000 francs of his initial capital of 50,000, which left him with a clear profit of 52,000 francs. He took his winnings and left, and never came back.

In Monte Carlo, they say, "The only way to make money is not to gamble." Sounds logical--but most of them come back and gamble, and lose.