“Gordon Selfridge was once a multi-millionaire and a prince of commerce but he ended up a pensioner, deprived of all power and riches and broken in spirit and, I heard, in mind.
On the way down I remember sometimes seeing him at the gaming tables at Le Touquet, playing chemin-de-fer. He used habitually to sit at the “big” table, proudly, like an old battleship escorted by sleek destroyers personified by a Dolly Sister on one side of him and, on the other side, another Dolly Sister, two colourful actresses celebrated in their day. One of them usually wore a pink silk wig, and the other a wig of pale blue or green, and a small crowd would gather round to watch them and their patron lose money. Whenever the ladies ran short of funds, which happened frequently, he would produce fat bundles of mille franc notes for them from hidden places about his person to keep things going. Even a battleship will sink, however, if it becomes too full of holes, and that I fear is roughly what happened. But at least he seemed to enjoy being sunk.
The Casino at Le Touquet in the early 1930s was usually half full of visitors from England, largely I suppose because it was just across the Channel. It was not absolutely exclusive, by which I mean you saw there not only the nobility and the notability but also people of utterly unknown provenance. The only essential requirements were that you wore evening clothes in the evening, had plenty of money and a passport, and did not get too intoxicated – though the very rich seemed sometimes to get away with that.
For example, one night at the “big” table, sitting opposite Gordon Selfridge and the Dolly Sisters, was (judging by his melodious accent) a north-country gentleman who simply could not lose. Nothing was known about him except that he was staying at the Hermitage Hotel, which he was glad to tell everyone was the biggest, best, and most expensive in Le Touquet. What made it particularly painful to those who kept on losing to him on this occasion was that, to put it mildly, he was drunkish and unable to see clearly what cards he held. For instance he was dealt an 8 together with a royal card, a natural winning hand; but he foolishly called for a card and drew an ace, so making his hand a super natural, so to speak. “Faux triage,” cried one of the excited Dolly Sisters. “Faux triage? Faux triage or Hermitage, the brass is mine,” croaked the man from the North as he scooped in his Selfridge-size winnings.
I used to play sometimes at the “smaller” (cheaper) tables and one night a half-seas-over young man, of pukka British voice and appearance, was quite unable to lose; drinking and winning seemed to go together. As the counters piled up in front of him, with some spilling on to the floor, a very superior gentleman nearby muttered, rather loudly, “Disgusting. He’s drunk.” The accused rose unsteadily to his feet and declared with awesome dignity, “I’m not drunk. I’m an Englishman.” Such little incidents were entertaining and they linger in my memory.
Then came the war and the Germans occupied Le Touquet. Next came the Allies and very nearly flattened it. But when enough of it had been reconstructed, and we happened to be near, we went once more to the Casino. I produced my passport. “Not necessary,” they said, taking my 25 year old card from their card-index which had been hidden from the predators of 1940.
These digressions have gone far enough. Let us return to my case-book.
The Hon, Sir George Bellew, KCB, KCVO, KStJ,FSA.
(To be continued)