James Bond Anthology (103 page)

‘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.

‘Any increase on £500?’ said the auctioneer. He now knew that he had squeezed all he would get out of the room. ‘Going once. Going twice.’ Bang! ‘Sold to the gentleman over there, and I really think he deserves a clap.’ He clapped his hands and the crowd dutifully followed suit although they would have preferred the pink girl to win.

The fat man lifted himself a few inches off his chair and then sat down again. There was no acknowledgement of the applause in his glistening face and he kept his eyes fixed on the auctioneer.

‘And now we must go through the formality of asking this gentleman which Field he prefers.’ (Laughter.) ‘Sir, do you choose the High Field or the Low Field?’ The auctioneer’s voice was ironical. The question was a waste of time.

‘Low Field.’

There was a moment of dead silence in the crowded Smoking Room. It was quickly followed by a buzz of comment. There had been no question. It was obvious that the man would take the High Field. The weather was perfect. The
Queen
must be doing at least thirty knots. Did he know something? Had he bribed someone on the bridge? Was a storm coming up? Was a bearing running hot?

The auctioneer rapped for silence. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ he said, ‘but did you say the Low Field?’

‘Yes.’

The auctioneer rapped again. ‘In that case, ladies and gentlemen, we will now proceed to auction the High Field. Madam,’ he turned with a bow towards the girl in pink. ‘Would you care to open the bidding?’

Bond turned to Tiffany. ‘That was a queer business,’ he said. ‘Extraordinary thing to do. Sea’s as calm as glass.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The only answer is that they know something.’ The matter was of no interest, anyway. ‘Someone’s told them something.’ He turned and looked carelessly at the two men and then let his eyes swing past and away from them. ‘They seem to be quite interested in us.’

Tiffany glanced past his shoulder. ‘They’re not looking at us now,’ she said. ‘I figure they’re just a couple of dopes. The white-haired guy’s looking stupid and the fat man’s sucking his thumb. They’re screwy. Doubt if they know what they’ve bought. They just got their signals crossed.’

‘Sucking his thumb?’ said Bond. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair, a vague memory nagging at him.

Perhaps if she had left him to follow the train of thought he would have remembered. Instead she put her hand over his and leant towards him so that her hair brushed against his face. ‘Forget it, James,’ she said. ‘And don’t think so hard about those stupid men.’ Her eyes were suddenly ardent and demanding. ‘I’ve had enough of this place. Take me somewhere else.’

Without saying anything more, they got up and left the table and walked out of the noisy room to the staircase. As they went down the stairs to the deck below, Bond’s arm went round the girl’s waist and her head fell against his shoulder.

They came to the door of Tiffany’s cabin, but she pulled him away and on down the long, softly creaking corridor.

‘I want it to be in your house, James,’ she said.

Bond said nothing until he had kicked the door of his cabin shut behind them and they had twisted round and stood locked together in the middle of the wonderfully private, wonderfully anonymous little room. And then he just said, softly, ‘My darling,’ and put one hand in her hair so that he could hold her mouth where he wanted it.

And after a while his other hand went to the zip fastener at the back of her dress and without moving away from him she stepped out of her dress and panted between their kisses. ‘I want it all, James. Everything you’ve ever done to a girl. Now. Quickly.’

And Bond bent down and put an arm round her thighs and picked her up and laid her gently on the floor.

24 | DEATH IS SO PERMANENT

The last thing Bond remembered before the telephone rang was Tiffany bending over him in bed and kissing him and saying, ‘You shouldn’t sleep on the heart-side, my treasure. It’s bad for the heart. It might stop beating. Turn over.’ And obediently he had turned and as the door clicked he was at once asleep again with her voice and the sigh of the Atlantic and the soft roll of the ship holding him in their arms.

And then the angry bell rang in the dark cabin and went on ringing and Bond cursed and reached for it and a voice said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, Sir. This is the wireless operator. There’s a cipher signal just come in for you and it’s got an
en clair
prefix of “Most Immediate”. Shall I call it out to you or send it down?’

‘Send it down, would you?’said Bond. ‘And thanks.’

Now what the hell? All the beauty and heat and excitement of passionate love were pushed roughly away as he turned on the lights, slipped out of bed and, shaking his head to clear it, took the two steps into the shower.

For a full minute he let the water hit him, and then he rubbed himself down and picked up his trousers and shirt from the floor and climbed into them.

There was a knock on the door and he took the cable and sat down at the desk and lit a cigarette and set grimly to work. And, as the groups gradually dissolved into words, his eyes grew narrower and the skin slowly crawled on his body.

The cable was from the Chief of Staff. It said:

FIRSTLY CLANDESTINE SEARCH OF SAYES OFFICE REVEALED SIGNAL FROM QE ADDRESSED ABC SIGNED WINTER ADVISING OF YOUR AND CASES PRESENCE ABOARD REQUESTING INSTRUCTIONS STOP REPLY ADDRESSED WINTER SIGNED ABC ORDERS ELIMINATION OF CASE COMMA PRICE TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS STOP SECONDLY WE CONSIDER RUFUS B SAYE IS ABC WHICH IS PARTLY EQUIVALENT OF HIS INITIALS IN FRENCH THUS AH DASH BAY DASH SAYE STOP THIRDLY POSSIBLY ALERTED BY SIGNS OF SEARCH SAYE FLEW PARIS YESTERDAY AND NOW REPORTED BY INTERPOL BE IN DAKAR STOP THIS TENDS CONFIRM OUR SUSPICION THAT DIAMONDS ORIGINATE SIERRA LEONE MINES THENCE SMUGGLED OVER FRONTIER INTO FRENCH GUINEA STOP WE STRONGLY SUSPECT MEMBER OF SIERRA INTERNATIONALS DENTAL SURGERY STAFF WHO BEING WATCHED STOP FOURTHLY RAF CANBERRA AWAITS YOU BOSCOMBE DOWN FOR IMMEDIATE ONWARD FLIGHT TOMORROW NIGHT TO SIERRA LEONE SIGNED COS.