Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

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Текущая страница: 51 (всего у книги 190 страниц)

Let’s see – flowers, bath essence from Floris, air the sheets ...

Just ten hours after leaving Los Angeles they roared over La Guardia and turned out at sea for the long run in.

It was eight o’clock on Sunday morning and there were few people about at the airport, but an official stopped them as they were walking in off the tarmac and led them to a side entrance where there were two young men waiting, one from Pinkertons and one from the State Department. While they chatted about the flight, their luggage was brought round and they were taken to a side door and out to where a smart maroon Pontiac was waiting, its engine purring and the blinds in the rear pulled down.

And then there were some empty hours in the apartment belonging to the Pinkerton man until, at around four in the afternoon, but with a quarter of an hour between them, they were climbing up the covered gangway into the great safe, black British belly of the Queen Elizabeth and were at last in their cabins on M deck with their doors locked against the world.

But, as first Tiffany Case and then James Bond went into the mouth of the gangway, a dockhand from Anastasia’s Longshoreman’s Union had walked swiftly to a phone booth in the customs shed.

And three hours later two American businessmen were dropped at the dockside by a black sedan and were just in time to get through Immigration and Customs and up the gangway before the loudspeakers began calling for all visitors to leave the ship please.

And one of the businessmen was youngish, with a pretty face and a glimpse of prematurely white hair under the Stetson with the waterproof cover, and the name on the brief-case he was carrying was B. Kitteridge.

And the other was a big, fattish man with a nervous glare in the small eyes behind the bi-focals, and he was sweating profusely and constantly wiping his face round with a big handkerchief.

And the name on the label of his grip was W. Winter, and below the name, in red ink, was written: ‘MY BLOOD GROUP IS F’.

22 | LOVE AND SAUCE BÉARNAISE

Punctually at eight, the great reverberating efflatus of the Queen Elizabeth’s siren made the glass tremble in the skyscrapers and the tugs fussed the big ship out into midstream and nosed her round and, at a cautious five knots, she moved slowly down-river on the slack tide.

There would be a pause to drop the pilot at the Ambrose Light and then the quadruple screws would whip the sea into cream and the Elizabeth would give a shudder of release and lance off on the long flat arc up from the 45th to the 50th parallel and the dot on it that was Southampton.

Sitting in his cabin, listening to the quiet creak of the woodwork and watching his pencil on the dressing-table roll slowly between his hair-brush and the edge of his passport, Bond remembered the days when her course had been different, when she had zig-zagged deep into the South Atlantic as she played her game of hide-and-seek with the U-boat wolfpacks, en route for the flames of Europe. It was still an adventure, but now the Queen, in her cocoon of protective radio impulses – her radar, her Loran, her echo-sounder – moved with the precautions of an oriental potentate among his bodyguards and outriders, and, so far as Bond was concerned, boredom and indigestion would be the only hazards of the voyage.

He picked up the telephone and asked for Miss Case. When she heard his voice she gave a theatrical groan. ‘The sailor hates the sea,’ she said. ‘I’m feeling sick already and we’re still in the river.’

‘Just as well,’ said Bond. ‘Stay in your cabin and live on dramamine and champagne. I’ll be no good for two or three days. I’m going to get the doctor and the masseur from the Turkish bath and try and stick the bits together again. And anyway it won’t do any harm to stay out of sight for most of the voyage. It’s just conceivable they picked us up in New York.’

‘Well, if you promise to call me up every day,’ said Tiffany, ‘and promise to take me to this Veranda Grill place as soon as I feel I can swallow a little caviar. Okay?’

Bond laughed. ‘If you absolutely insist,’ he said. ‘And now listen, in exchange, I want you to try and remember anything you can about A B C and the London end of this business. That telephone number. And anything else. I’ll tell you what it’s all about and why I’m interested as soon as I can, but in the meantime you’ve just got to trust me. Is it a deal?’

‘Oh, sure,’ said the girl indifferently, as if all that side of her life had lost its importance; and for ten minutes Bond questioned her minutely, but except for small details, fruitlessly, about the A B C routine.

Then he put down the receiver and rang for the steward and ordered some dinner and sat down to write the long report which he would have to transpose into code and send off that night.

The ‘Metal Mike’ took the ship quietly on into the darkness and the small township of three thousand five hundred souls settled down to the five days of its life in which there would be all the happenings natural to any other sizeable community – burglaries, fights, seductions, drunkenness, cheating; perhaps a birth or two, the chance of a suicide and, in a hundred crossings, perhaps even a murder.

As the iron town loped easily along the broad Atlantic swell and the soft night wind thrummed and moaned in the masthead, the radio aerials were already transmitting the morse of the duty operator to the listening ear of Portishead.

And what the duty operator was sending at exactly ten p.m. Eastern Standard Time was a cable addressed: A B C, CARE HOUSE OF DIAMONDS, HATTON GARDEN, LONDON, which said: PARTIES LOCATED STOP IF MATTER REQUIRES DRASTIC SOLUTION ESSENTIAL YOU STATE PRICE PAYABLE IN DOLLARS. The signature was WINTER.

An hour later, while the Queen Elizabeth’s operator was sighing at the thought of having to transmit five hundred five-letter groups addressed: THE MANAGING DIRECTOR, UNIVERSAL EXPORT, REGENTS PARK, LONDON, Portishead radio was sending a short cable addressed: WINTER FIRST CLASS PASSENGER QUEEN ELIZABETH, which said: DESIRES TIDY SPEEDY CONCLUSION OF CASE REPEAT CASE STOP WILL PAY TWENTY GRAND STOP WILL PERSONALLY HANDLE OTHER SUBJECT ON ARRIVAL LONDON CONFIRM A B C.

And the operator looked up Winter in the passenger list and put the message in an envelope and sent it down to a cabin on A deck, the deck below Bond and the girl, where two men were playing gin-rummy in their shirt-sleeves, and as the steward left the cabin he heard the fat man say cryptically to the man with white hair, ‘Whaddya know, Booful! It’s twenty Grand for a rub these days. Boy-oh-boy!’

It was not until the third day out that Bond and Tiffany made a date to meet for cocktails in the Observation Lounge and later to have dinner in the Veranda Grill. At midday the weather was dead calm, and after lunch in his cabin Bond had got a peremptory message in a round girlish hand on a sheet of the ship’s writing paper. It said, ‘Fix a rendez-me today. Fail not,’ and Bond’s hand had gone at once to the telephone.

They were thirsty for each other’s company after the three days’ separation, but Tiffany’s defences were up when she joined him at the obscure corner table he had chosen in the gleaming semi-circular cocktail bar in the bows.

‘What kind of a table’s this?’ she inquired sarcastically. ‘You ashamed of me or something? Here I put on the best those Hollywood pansies can dream up and you hide me away like I was Miss Rheingold 1914. I want to have myself some fun on this old paddleboat and you put me in a corner as if I was catching.’

‘That’s about it,’ said Bond. ‘All you want to do is put the other men’s temperatures up.’

‘What d’you expect a girl to do on the Queen Elizabeth? Fish?’

Bond laughed. He signalled to the waiter and ordered Vodka dry Martinis with lemon peel. ‘I could give you one alternative.’

‘Dear Diary,’ said the girl, ‘having wonderful time with handsome Englishman. Trouble is, he’s after my family jewels. What do I do? Yours truly puzzled.’ Then suddenly she leant over and put her hand on his. ‘Listen, you Bond person,’ she said. ‘I’m as happy as a cricket. I love being here. I love being with you. And I love this nice dark table where no one can see me holding your hand. Don’t mind my talk. I just can’t get over being so happy. Don’t mind my silly jokes, will you?’

She was wearing a heavy cream Shantung silk shirt and a charcoal skirt in a cotton-and-wool mixture. The neutral colours showed off her café-au-lait sunburn. The small square Cartier watch with the black strap was her only jewellery and the short fingernails on the small brown hand that lay over his were unpainted. The reflected sunlight from outside shone on the pale gold heavy falling swerve of her hair, in the depths of the chatoyant grey eyes, and on the glint of white teeth between the luxurious lips that were half open with her question.

‘No,’ said Bond. ‘No, I won’t mind, Tiffany. Everything about you’s fine.’

She looked into his eyes and was satisfied. The drinks came and she withdrew her hand and observed him quizzically over the rim of her glass.

‘Now tell me a few things,’ she said. ‘First of all, what do you do and who are you working for? At the beginning, in the hotel, I thought you were a crook. But somehow as soon as you had gone out the door I knew you weren’t. Guess I should have warned A B C and we’d have avoided a lot of fuss. But I just didn’t. Come on, James. Start giving.’

‘I work for the Government,’ said Bond. ‘They want to stop this diamond smuggling.’

‘Sort of secret agent?’

‘Just a Civil Servant.’

‘Okay. So what are you going to do with me when we get to London? Lock me up?’

‘Yes. In the spare room of my flat.’

‘That’s better. Shall I become a subject of the Queen like you? I’d rather like to be a subject person.’

‘I expect we could fix that.’

‘Are you married?’ She paused. ‘Or anything?’

‘No. I occasionally have affairs.’

‘So you’re one of those old-fashioned men who like sleeping with women. Why haven’t you ever married?’

‘I expect because I think I can handle life better on my own. Most marriages don’t add two people together. They subtract one from the other.’

Tiffany Case thought this over. ‘Maybe there’s something in that,’ she said finally. ‘But it depends what you want to add up to. Something human or something inhuman. You can’t be complete by yourself.’

‘What about you?’

The girl hadn’t wanted the question. ‘Maybe I just settled for the inhuman,’ she said shortly. ‘And who in hell do you think I should have married? Shady Tree?’

‘There must have been lots of others.’

‘Well, there weren’t,’ she said angrily. ‘Maybe you think I shouldn’t have mixed with these people. Well, I guess I just got off on the wrong step.’ The flare of anger died and she looked at him defensively. ‘It does happen to people, James. It really does. And sometimes it’s really not their fault.’

James Bond put out his hand and held hers tightly. ‘I know, Tiffany,’ he said. ‘Felix told me a bit about things. That’s why I haven’t asked any questions. Just don’t think about it. It’s here and today now. Not yesterday.’ He changed the subject. ‘Now you give me some facts. For instance, why are you called Tiffany and what’s it like being a dealer at the Tiara? How the hell did you come to be so good? It was brilliant the way you handled those cards. If you can do that you can do anything.’

‘Thanks, pal,’ said the girl ironically. ‘Like what? Playing the boats? And the reason I got called Tiffany is because when I was born, dear father Case was so sore I wasn’t a boy he gave my mother a thousand bucks and a powder case from Tiffany’s and walked out. Joined the Marines. In the end he got killed at Iwo Jima. So my mother just called me Tiffany Case and set about earning a living for us both. Started with a string of call-girls and then got more ambitious. Maybe that doesn’t sound so good to you?’ She looked at him half defensively and half pleadingly.

‘Doesn’t worry me,’ said Bond dryly. ‘You weren’t one of the girls.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Then the place got busted by the gangs.’ She paused and drank the rest of her Martini. ‘And I lit out on my own. The usual jobs a girl takes. Then I found my way to Reno. They’ve got a School of Dealing there and I signed on and worked like hell at it. Took the full course. Majored in craps, roulette and blackjack. You can earn good money dealing. Two hundred a week. The men like to have girls dealing, and it gives the women confidence. They think you’ll be kind to them. Sisters under the skin kind of. The men dealers frighten them. But don’t get the idea it’s fun. It reads better than it lives.’

She paused and smiled up at him. ‘Now it’s your turn again,’ she said. ‘Buy me another drink and then tell me what sort of a woman you think would add to you.’

Bond gave his order to the steward. He lit a cigarette and turned back to her. ‘Somebody who can make Sauce Béarnaise as well as love,’ he said.

‘Holy mackerel! Just any old dumb hag who can cook and lie on her back?’

‘Oh, no. She’s got to have all the usual things that all women have.’ Bond examined her. ‘Gold hair. Grey eyes. A sinful mouth. Perfect figure. And of course she’s got to make lots of funny jokes and know how to dress and play cards and so forth. The usual things.’

‘And you’d marry this person if you found her?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bond. ‘Matter of fact I’m almost married already. To a man. Name begins with M. I’d have to divorce him before I tried marrying a woman. And I’m not sure I’d want that. She’d get me handing round canapés in an L-shaped drawing-room. And there’d be all those ghastly “Yes, you did – no I didn’t” rows that seem to go with marriage. It wouldn’t last. I’d get claustrophobia and run out on her. Get myself sent to Japan or somewhere.’

‘What about children?’

‘Like to have some,’ said Bond shortly. ‘But only when I retire. Not fair on the children otherwise. My job’s not all that secure.’ He looked into his drink and swallowed it down. ‘And what about you, Tiffany?’ he said to change the subject.

‘I guess every girl would like to come home and find a hat on the hall table,’ said Tiffany moodily. ‘Trouble is I’ve never found the right sort of thing growing under the hat. Maybe I haven’t looked hard enough or in the right places. You know how it is when you get in a groove. You get so that you’re quite glad not to look over the edges. In that way I’ve had it good with the Spangs. Always knew where the next meal was coming from. Put some money by. But a girl can’t have friends in that company. You either put up a notice saying “No Entry” or you’re apt to pick up a bad case of round heels. But I guess I’m fed up with being on my own. You know what the chorines say on Broadway? “It’s a lonesome wash without a man’s shirt in it”.’

Bond laughed. ‘Well, you’re out of the groove now,’ he said. He looked at her quizzically. ‘But what about Mister Seraffimo? Those two bedrooms on the Pullman and the champagne supper laid for two ...’

Before he could finish, her eyes blazed briefly and she stood up from the table and walked straight out of the bar.

Bond cursed himself. He put some money down on the bill and hurried after her. He caught up with her half way down the Promenade Deck. ‘Now listen, Tiffany,’ he began.

She turned brusquely round and faced him. ‘How mean can you be?’ she said and angry tears glistened on her eyelashes. ‘Why do you have to spoil everything with an abrasive remark like that? Oh, James,’ forlornly she turned to the windows, searching for a handkerchief in her bag. She dabbed her eyes. ‘You just don’t understand.’

Bond put an arm round her and held her to him. ‘My darling.’ He knew that nothing but the great step of physical love would cure these misunderstandings, but that words and time still had to be wasted. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to know for certain. That was a bad night on the train and that supper-table hurt me much more than what happened later. I had to ask you.’

She looked up at him doubtfully. ‘You mean that?’ she said searching his face. ‘You mean you liked me already?’

‘Don’t be a goose,’ said Bond impatiently. ‘Don’t you know anything about anything?’

She turned away from him and looked out of the window at the endless blue sea and at the handful of dipping gulls that were keeping company with their wonderfully prodigal ship. After a while she said: ‘You ever read Alice in Wonderland?’

‘Years ago,’ said Bond, surprised. ‘Why?’

‘There’s a line there I often think of,’ she said. ‘It says, “Oh, Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool of tears? I am very tired of swimming about here, oh Mouse.” Remember? Well, I thought you were going to tell me the way out. Instead of that you ducked me in the pool. That’s why I got upset.’ She glanced up at him. ‘But I guess you didn’t mean to hurt.’

Bond looked quietly at her mouth and then kissed her hard on the lips.

She didn’t respond, but broke away, and her eyes were laughing again. She linked her arm high up in his and turned towards the open doors that led to the lift. ‘Take me down,’ she said. ‘I must go and rewrite my face, and anyway I want to spend a long time dressing the business for sale.’ She paused and then put her mouth close up to his ear. ‘In case it interests you, James Bond,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve never what you’d call “slept with a man” in my life.’ She tugged at his arm. ‘And now come on,’ she said brusquely. ‘And anyway it’s time you went and had a “Hot Domestic”. I suppose that’s part of the subject-language you’ll be wanting me to pick up. You subject-people surely do write up the craziest things in your bathrooms.’

Bond took her to her cabin and then went on to his and had a ‘Hot Salt’ bath followed by a ‘Cold Domestic’ shower. Then he lay on his bed and smiled to himself over some of the things she had said, and thought of her lying in her bath looking at the forest of bath-taps and thinking how crazy the English were.

There was a knock on the door and his steward came in with a small tray which he placed on the table.

‘What the hell’s that?’ said Bond.

‘Just come up from the chef, Sir,’ said the Steward and went out and closed the cabin door.

Bond slipped off the bed and went over and examined the contents of the tray. He smiled to himself. There was a quarter bottle of Bollinger, a chafing dish containing four small slivers of steak on toast canapés, and a small bowl of sauce. Beside this was a pencilled note which said ‘This Sauce Béarnaise has been created by Miss T. Case without my assistance.’ Signed ‘The Chef’.

Bond filled a glass with champagne and spread a lot of the Béarnaise on a piece of the steak and munched it carefully. Then he went to the telephone.

‘Tiffany?’

He heard the low delighted laugh at the other end.

‘Well, you can certainly make wonderful Sauce Béarnaise …’

He put the receiver back on its cradle.

23 | THE JOB COMES SECOND

It is an intoxicating moment in a love-affair when, for the first time, in a public place, in a restaurant or a theatre, the man puts his hand down and lays it on the thigh of the girl and when she slips her hand over his and presses the man’s hand against her. The two gestures say everything that can be said. All is agreed. All the pacts are signed. And there is a long minute of silence during which the blood sings.

It was eleven o’clock and there was only a scattering of people left in the corners of the Veranda Grill. There was a soft sighing from the moonlit sea outside as the great liner scythed the black meadow of the Atlantic and, in the stern, only the slightest lope in her stride indicated a long soft swell, the slow, twelve-a-minute heart-beat of a sleeping ocean, to the two people sitting close together behind the pink-shaded light.

The waiter came with the bill and their hands separated. But now there was all the time in the world and no need for reassurance from words or contact, and the girl laughed happily up into Bond’s face as the waiter drew out the table and they walked towards the door.

They got into the lift for the Promenade Deck. ‘And now what, James?’ said Tiffany. ‘I’d like some more coffee, and a Stinger made with white Crème de Menthe, while we listen to the Auction Pool. I’ve heard so much about it and we might make a fortune.’

‘All right,’ said Bond. ‘Anything you say.’ He held her arm close to him as they sauntered through the big lounge where Bingo was still being played and through the waiting ballroom where the musicians were trying out a few chords. ‘But don’t make me buy a number. It’s a pure gamble and five per cent goes to charity. Nearly as bad as Las Vegas odds. But it’s fun if there’s a good auctioneer, and they tell me there’s plenty of money on board this trip.’

The smoking-room was almost empty and they chose a small table away from the platform where the Chief Steward was laying out the auctioneer’s paraphernalia, the box for the numbered slips, the hammer, the carafe of water.

‘In the theatre this is what’s known as “dressing a thin house”,’ said Tiffany as they sat down amidst the forest of empty chairs and tables. But, as Bond gave his order to the steward, the doors leading to the cinema opened and soon there were nearly a hundred people in the Smoking Room.

The auctioneer, a paunchy, jovial Midlands businessman with a red carnation in the buttonhole of his dinner jacket, rapped on his table for silence and announced that the Captain’s estimate of the next day’s run lay between 720 and 739 miles, that any distance shorter than 720 was the Low Field and anything longer than 739 the High Field. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see if we can’t break the record for this trip which stands at the impressive figure of £2400 in the Pool’ (applause).

A steward offered the box of folded numbers to the richest-looking woman in the room and then handed up the piece of paper she had drawn to the auctioneer.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, here we have an exceptionally good number to start with. 738. Right in the top range and since I see a lot of new faces here tonight (laughter) I think we can all agree that the sea is exceptionally calm. Ladies and gentlemen. What am I bid for 738? May I say £50? Will anybody bid me £50 for this lucky number? 20 was it you said, Sir? Well, we’ve got to start somewhere. Any increase ... 25. Thank you, madam. And 30. 40 over there, steward. And 45 from my friend Mr Rothblatt. Thank you, Charlie. Any increase on £45 for No. 738? 50. Thank you, madam, and now we’re all back where we started. (Laughter.) Any increase on £50? Nobody tempted? High number. Calm sea. £50. Will anybody say 55? Going at £50. Going once. Going twice.’ And the raised hammer fell with a bang.

‘Well, thank heavens he’s a good auctioneer,’ said Bond. ‘That was a good number and cheap if this weather goes on and nobody falls overboard. The High Field’ll cost a packet this evening. Everyone will expect us to do more than 739 miles in this weather.’

‘What do you mean by a packet?’ asked Tiffany.

‘Two hundred pounds. Perhaps more. I expect the ordinary numbers will sell for around a hundred. The first number’s always cheaper than the others. People haven’t warmed up. The only smart thing you can do at this game is buy the first number. Any of them can win, but the first costs less.’

As Bond finished speaking, the next number was knocked down for £90 to a pretty, excited girl who was obviously being staked by her companion, a grey-haired, fresh-complexioned man who looked a caricature of an Esquire sugar-daddy.

‘Go on. Buy me a number, James,’ said Tiffany. ‘You really don’t treat a girl right. Look at the way that nice man treats his girl.’

‘He’s past the age of consent,’ said Bond. ‘He must be sixty. Up to forty, girls cost nothing. After that you have to pay money, or tell a story. Of the two it’s the story that hurts most.’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘Anyway I’m not forty yet.’

‘Don’t be conceited,’ said the girl. She looked at his mouth. ‘They say that older men make much the best lovers. And yet you’re not naturally a tightwad. I bet it’s because gambling’s illegal in subject-ships or something.’

‘It’s all right outside the 3-mile limit,’ said Bond. ‘But even so the Cunard have been damn careful not to involve the Company in it. Listen to this.’ He picked up an orange card that lay on their table. ‘“Auction Sweepstake on Ship’s Daily Run”,’ he read. ‘“In view of inquiries it is considered desirable to re-state the Company’s position in connection with the above. It is not the Company’s wish that the Smoke Room Steward or other members of the ship’s personnel should play an active part in organizing sweepstakes on the daily run.”’ Bond looked up. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘Playing it pretty close to the chest. And then they go on: “The Company suggests that the passengers should elect a Committee from amongst themselves to formulate and control the details ... the Smoke Room Steward may, if requested and if his duties permit, render such assistance as the Committee require for auctioning of numbers.”

‘Pretty cagey,’ commented Bond. ‘It’s the committee that holds the baby if there’s any trouble. And listen to this. This is where the trouble comes in.’ He read on: ‘“The Company draws special attention to the provisions of the United Kingdom Finance Regulations as affecting the negotiability of sterling cheques and the limitation on the importation of sterling banknotes into the United Kingdom.”’

Bond put down the card. ‘And so forth,’ he said. He smiled at Tiffany Case. ‘So I buy you the number that’s just being auctioned and you win two thousand pounds. That’ll be a pile of dollars and pound notes and cheques. The only way of spending all that sterling, even suppose that those cheques are all good, which is doubtful, would be by smuggling it through under your suspender belt. And there we’d be, back in the same old racket, but now with me on the side of the devil.’

The girl was not impressed. ‘There used to be a guy in the gangs called Abadaba,’ she said. ‘He was a crooked egg-head who knew all the answers. Worked out the track odds, fixed the percentage on the numbers racket, did all the brain work. They called him “The Wizard of Odds”. Got rubbed out quite by mistake in the Dutch Schultz killing,’ she added parenthetically. ‘I guess you’re just another Abadaba the way you talk yourself out of having to spend some money on a girl. Oh, well,’ she shrugged her shoulders resignedly, ‘will you stake your girl to another Stinger?’

Bond beckoned to the steward. When he had gone she leant over so that her hair brushed his ear and said softly, ‘I don’t really want it. You have it. I want to stay sober as Sunday tonight.’ She sat up straight. ‘And now what’s going on around here?’ she said impatiently. ‘I want to see some action.’

‘Here it comes,’ said Bond. The auctioneer raised his voice and there was a hush in the room. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said impressively. ‘We come to the 64-dollar question. Who is going to bid me £100 for the choice of High or Low Field? We all know what that means – the option to choose the High Field, which I seem to feel may be the popular choice this evening (laughter) in view of the wonderful weather outside. So who will open the bidding with £100 for the choice of High or Low Field?

‘Thank you, Sir! And 110. 120 and 130. Thank you, madam.’

‘Hundred and fifty,’ said a man’s voice not far from their table.

‘A hundred and sixty.’ This time it was a woman.

Monotonously the man’s voice called the 170.

‘Eighty,’ said someone.

‘Two hundred pounds.’

Something made Bond turn round and look at the man who had spoken.

It was a biggish man. His face had the glistening, pasty appearance of a spat-out bullseye. Small, cold dark eyes were looking towards the auctioneer’s platform through motionless bifocals. All the man’s neck seemed to be at the back of his head. Sweat matted the curly black algae of his hair and now he took off his glasses and picked up a napkin and wiped the sweat off with a circular motion that started with the left side of the face and swirled round to the back of his head where his right hand took over and completed the circuit as far as the dripping nose. ‘Two hundred and ten,’ said someone. The big man’s chin wobbled and he opened his tight-buttoned mouth and said, ‘Two hundred and twenty’ in a level American voice.

What was there about this man that struck a chord in Bond’s memory? He watched the big face, running his mind’s eye over the filing system of his brain, pulling out drawer after drawer, hunting for the clue. The face? The voice? England? America?

Bond gave up and turned his attention to the other man at the table. Again, the same urgent sense of recognition. The curiously delicate young features under the slicked-back white hair. The soft brown eyes under the long lashes. The general effect of prettiness, spoiled by the fleshy nose over the wide thin mouth, now open in a square empty smile like the grin of a letter-box.

‘Two hundred and fifty,’ said the big man mechanically.

Bond turned to Tiffany. ‘Ever see those two before?’ he said and she noticed the line of worry between his eyes.

‘Nope,’ she said definitely. ‘Never did. Look like something from Brooklyn to me. Or a couple of cloak-and-suiters from the Garment District. Why? Do they mean anything to you?’

Bond gave them another glance. ‘No,’ he said doubtfully. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

There was a burst of clapping in the room and the auctioneer beamed and rapped on the table. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said triumphantly. ‘This is really splendid. Three hundred pounds I am bid by the charming lady in the beautiful pink evening dress.’ (Heads turned and craned and Bond could see the mouths saying ‘who is she?’) ‘And now, Sir,’ he turned towards the fat man’s table. ‘May I say £325?’

‘Three hundred and fifty,’ said the fat man.

‘Four hundred,’ squealed the pink woman.

‘Five hundred.’ The voice was toneless, indifferent.

The pink girl chattered angrily at her escort. The man suddenly looked bored. He caught the auctioneer’s eye and shook his head.