Pandemonium Revisited

From 9 to 5, the English are still a penny-wise nation of shopkeepers. In their leisure time, more and more, they turn into pound-foolish gamblers. Spurred by the liberal new Betting and Gaming Act, which makes it easier than ever to have a "flutter," Britons by last week were in the midst of the biggest gambling boom in their history. In 1961, they have gambled away some $3 billion, 62% of their 1961 budget for defense. Dance halls and movie theaters (including many in the J. Arthur Rank chain, hard hit by TV) have been transformed into bigtime bingo parlors. "Fruit machines," as one-armed bandits are known in England, have blossomed even in its sacrosanct drinking clubs. Bookies, permitted to operate from betting offices for the first time since 1853, report that business is up from ten to 25%. But for well-heeled Englishmen, the law's most welcome provision is its restoration of chemin de fer* to the British scene.

Banned in 1845 after a series of suicides and scandals stemming from huge losses, "chemmy" is now the main attraction in 50 casinos that have sprouted in London during the past half year, and police predict twice that number within a few months. Trumpeted the Daily Mail: MONTE CARLO MAKE WAY FOR LONDON.

Rejected Crown. The biggest and most elegant new casino is named Crockford's, and in tradition and atmosphere it does not recall "Monte" so much as the pre-Victorian London of rip-roaring Regency bloods. In its heyday, Crockford's was the acknowledged heaven of gambling hells. Benjamin Disraeli, who had to wait six years before being elected to membership in 1840, likened its original building in St. James's to "Versailles in the days of the Grand Monarch.'' It was a favorite haunt of politicians, and the Duke of Wellington instinctively repaired to Crockford's when he tried to form a new Cabinet in 1834. The future Napoleon III was holed up there when an emissary came to offer him the crown of Greece (he turned it down).

Over free food and wine, the aristocracy matched wits and wagers, betting on everything from the Derby to the seduction of a duchess. Crocky's, as it was called, was also known affectionately as The New Pandemonium and. less fondly, as the Fishmonger's, after the original profession of its founder. William Crockford, who made a fortune of some $6,000,000--or what one historian described as "the whole of the ready money of the then existing generation." The club was closed by the 1845 law prohibiting chemmy and almost all other forms of card playing for stakes. After almost a century of chemmyless absence from the London scene. Crockford's reopened near its old location as a staid, serious bridge club, numbered among its members U.S. Ace Charles Goren and Britain's Iain (Bridge fs an Easy Game) Macleod, new chairman of the Conservative Party, who resigned from the club in a huff last fortnight when Crockford's launched its new gambling casino.

Filing-Cabinet Frenchies. After passage of the new gaming act. Crockford's was bought by an Old Harrovian entrepreneur, blond, beefy Tim Holland. 35, who brags of learning bridge when he was nine. He transformed the club's venerable second floor with $80,000 worth of silk damask wall coverings and 18th century candelabra, imported eight French croupiers and French-made plastic chips representing $1,500,000 (highest chip: $2,800) for four chemmy and eight poker tables. In return for a cut of the take. Businessman Holland persuaded foxy old Isidor Abbecassis. Le Touquet's casino czar, to preside over his remodeled Pandemonium. Since by English law the house has no legal redress when a gambler's check bounces, Abbecassis was hired mainly for his intimate knowledge of Britain's better-heeled bettors. "These Frenchies." says Holland, "have card-indexed steel filing cabinets in their heads." "These English." says one of his croupiers, "are crazy. They bet pounds as if they were francs."

One earl dropped $280,000, calmly borrowed another $280,000 and recouped $5,600. When a blonde baroness in a skintight red dress left the chemmy table one morning last week after dropping $5,600, she yawned: "Lovely evening, really." Lured by cut-rate Lucullan food (price of dinner: $2.50) and free breakfast with champagne, more than 1,200 top-drawer Britons have joined the club, which Tim Holland modestly calls a "gold mine." Last week, after his casino had been running only ten days. Crocky's new master had already earned the Biblical encomium pinned on Fishmonger Crockford in the 19th century: "He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he. hath sent empty away."

* A variant of baccarat, chemin de jer (literal meaning: railroad) is limited to two players, who alternate as banker. Each gets dealt two cards and may draw a third, with the aim of getting a count of nine or as close to it as possible. Tens and picture cards count zero.

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