The Mirabelle was 676 feet long (Wolfe had rounded the number up) and eighty-five feet wide with two propellers, each weighing twenty-eight tons and turning at two revolutions per second. The geared steam turbines had been built by Vickers-Armstrongs in Barrow-in-Furness and would deliver steam at 400 lb per square inch at temperatures of 700°F. The two funnels were the creation of Thornycrofts of Southampton and had been equipped with a newly patented device to keep smoke from the upper decks. The ship had three decks open to the elements: the sports deck, the sun deck and the promenade deck. It was on the last of these that Bond was standing, with frenetic, last-minute activity continuing all around him.
Men were on their knees polishing the handrails and swabbing the decks. More men dangled over the side, cleaning portholes, tightening rivets, touching up the paintwork. An endless stream of supplies was being carried on board – furniture, linen, crates of wine, frozen food, lamps, vases – while a uniformed purser holding a clipboard shouted out instructions. ‘Midships, A deck 10. Forward, B deck 8, Forward, Baggage Room, R deck aft … and be careful with those!’ This last command was directed at a team of black workers carrying large cardboard boxes marked ‘FEUX D’ARTIFICE’, and Bond was reminded of the party Wolfe planned to throw once he arrived in New York.
There was no party atmosphere now. Instead, Bond was aware of a deadly seriousness, a sense of acolytes coming together in the brilliant cathedral that the best engineers – all of them British – had constructed. And in just three days, the turbines would hum into life, the propellers would turn and the 25,000-ton vessel would slip its moorings and head out to sea at a stately fifteen knots.
‘So, what do you think?’ Wolfe demanded. He waited, his eyes hungry for Bond’s response.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Bond said grudgingly.
‘The most beautiful ship on the seven seas!’ Wolfe exclaimed. ‘She may not be as big as the Queen Mary or as fast as the SS United States – but hell, they can keep their Blue Ribands. What we’ve got here is simply the most luxurious way a human being will ever cross the Atlantic.’
Before he knew it, Bond had Wolfe’s hand on his shoulder and the two of them were walking towards the bridge as if they were old friends.
‘We have just 200 first-class and 320 second-class cabins, although I could have fitted in twice that number if I’d really wanted. But you travel on the Mirabelle, you get more space, your own private terrace, a separate bathroom and proper beds. Why, if you book into one of our diamond suites we’ll throw in a Bechstein grand piano, a fireplace, a bar and a personal butler to look after you. You’ll also find real masterpieces hanging on the wall. We’ve got works by Cézanne, Picasso, Toulouse-Lautrec … I’ve had people searching the auction houses all over Europe to buy the right art.
‘We’ve got three restaurants and five kitchens, two of them working round the clock for snacks and cabin service. I stole our top chef from the Ledoyen in Paris. You tell me where else you’ll find three Michelin stars in the middle of the sea! Oysters, caviar, prime fillet steak, fresh lobster … every single meal is going to be memorable and the wine cellar would make you weep. There’s a café grill on the upper deck that converts into a cinema and a nightclub and we’re going to host symphony orchestras in the main dining saloon. We’ve got two swimming pools, a library, a beauty salon, dog kennels, parking for a dozen cars – there’s even a synagogue on the lower deck. Well, the Jews are the ones with all the money so we’ve got to look after them and we’ll be carrying our own floating rabbi. Everything here is the latest. Our telephone system will connect you with anywhere in the world. And you wait until you see the engine room!’
It was late afternoon but the sun was blazing down. Bond could feel it on the back of his neck. Wolfe was still holding onto his shoulder. He found it hard to focus on what the millionaire was saying and there was something about his voice – unctuous, self-satisfied – that he found almost repellent. The death of Monique de Troyes was still in his mind. To have gone from that to this in the space of just a few hours made him ashamed. He forced himself to look interested, to pretend that he was impressed. He had to remind himself he was doing his job.
‘I thought Sixtine was going to show me round,’ he said.
‘Sixtine wouldn’t be able to find her way round!’ Wolfe tightened his grip. ‘I thought this was the beautiful lady you’d come to see. The Mirabelle! If you want a word of advice, you’ll leave that other little lady alone.’
‘I didn’t realise the two of you were so close.’
‘Close? Between you and me, Jim, I may have found me the next Mrs Wolfe. I haven’t popped the question yet but give a woman a diamond the size of a ball bearing and you can be pretty sure of the answer. I’m going to leave it for the night we reach New York. Shame you won’t be around.’
Was there something vindictive in this last statement? Wolfe let go of Bond and walked up to a man who had been waiting for them at the entrance to the first-class drawing room. He was also dressed in whites, which contrasted with his dark mahogany skin and jet-black hair.
‘I’d love to give you the complete tour, Jim, but as you can imagine I’m a little busy right now. And anyway, it would take you the rest of the weekend to see everything. This is Dr Borghetti. He’s the ship’s medic and the only person on board right now who’s on full salary but with nothing to do.’ It seemed an unnecessary jibe and one that clearly irritated the doctor. ‘He’ll take you into some of the main rooms and give you an idea of what we’ve created here. Then we can have that cup of tea you were so keen on and maybe Sixtine will join us.’ He turned to the doctor. ‘Take Mr Bond into the main state rooms and show him a couple of the cabins. Then bring him to the Wolfe bar. OK?’
‘Right, Mr Wolfe.’
‘I’ll catch up with you later, Jim. Enjoy yourself!’
Wolfe left, walking back in the direction he had come from. Bond examined the doctor. He was, Bond thought, surprisingly ugly with an overly fussy little moustache decorating an otherwise bland and uninteresting face. The colour of his skin couldn’t quite disguise the acne that had disfigured him as a child and left its mark around his neck and chin. If Bond fell ill on a ship like this, he wouldn’t expect to be treated by someone who looked permanently diseased himself. Borghetti forced himself to smile as he began the tour. He spoke English badly.
‘This way, please.’ The doctor opened the door and for the next forty minutes, Bond explored the sumptuous interior of the Mirabelle. He was in no mood to enjoy it, not after what had happened in Aubagne that morning. And the truth was that he would never have been drawn to what the steam cruiser represented. He had no argument with extreme wealth and overindulgence – on the contrary, he felt completely at home in casinos and first-class hotels. What was missing here was an exit door. To be trapped at sea with only the idle rich for company would have all too quickly become suffocating. He’d have ended up drinking too much and bedding the cabin girls.
They began on the upper decks: the dining saloon, the smoking room, the library, the lounges. Wolfe had been true to his word: Bond had never seen so much shining chrome and Lalique glass, so many fine Persian rugs and onyx tables. The windows and ceiling lanterns had been carefully designed to allow as much light as possible to flood in, fighting against the claustrophobia that is endemic to even the largest cruise ships. There were chandeliers, too, and art deco lamps – hundreds and hundreds of them. And yet without laughter and dance music, without women in long dresses and men in black tie, in the all-pervading silence and the emptiness, the Mirabelle had about as much allure as a furniture showroom. Its very newness was unwelcoming.
As they continued, Bond became aware of one peculiarity. The ship was equipped with an extraordinary number of fire extinguishers. In normal circumstances, he might not have noticed but everything else was so exquisite – mosaics, murals, silk hangings and so on – that the ugly red cylinders really stood out, particularly as there were so many of them. Perhaps they
might be less conspicuous once the crowds arrived but Bond was surprised that the designers had been so careless. And why remind the passengers, so overtly, of the dangers of a fire?
He might have mentioned this to Borghetti but the doctor was less than friendly as he guided Bond from area to area. From the passenger decks, they passed through a service door and down a series of staircases to the engine rooms. This was a completely different world of snaking pipes and cables, gantries and narrow spaces. Everything was hard and metallic, every inch of space taken up with the complicated equipment that would somehow connect in order to power and direct this huge ship. There were more people working here, too. A fifty-strong crew was going through a series of last-minute checks, clambering up and down ladders that passed through submarine-style hatches, calibrating the brand-new machinery. Bond saw trimmers, coal passers and firemen even though the boilers were not yet alight. Everyone was busy. Bond could easily imagine the organised chaos that would follow when the ship was actually underway.
Eventually the doctor took him back to a bar that seemed to have been modelled on the Savoy in London – all dark wood and plush – and which the ship’s owner had named after himself. Bond was relieved to see that the promised tea had not been served. Also, Sixtine had arrived. She was sitting in a double-sized velvet armchair, smoking a cigarette, looking as if she would rather be somewhere else. It struck Bond that, outside the casino, she had the sort of face that found it hard to disguise what she was thinking. But then again, perhaps it was more the case of having a temperament that didn’t care anyway.
‘So, what do you think?’ Wolfe demanded.
It was the sort of question that could only have one answer and Bond had no choice but to provide it. ‘She’s magnificent,’ he said. Then he added, as an afterthought: ‘You seem quite nervous about her.’
‘Nervous?’
Bond had been impressed by the ship’s engineering. But there was still a part of him that resented having to admit it to Irwin Wolfe and he had deliberately chosen to prick at the man’s self-importance. ‘I’ve never seen so many fire extinguishers,’ he explained. ‘I suppose you must be worried about a short circuit in the wiring or something.’
Wolfe smiled but without humour. ‘I’m not worried about anything, Jim. Every last detail on this boat has been thought out and we’ve got the sea trials starting in three days to pick up any issues.’ He jabbed with a finger, making his point. ‘But when you’ve spent over $2 million on a project, it makes sense to protect your investment. I guess you wouldn’t understand these things. But that’s how it is.’
‘I quite understand,’ Bond said affably.
‘Irwin has bad news,’ Sixtine said, in a voice that didn’t sound too sorry at all. ‘He’s cancelling tea.’
‘That’s right.’ Wolfe nodded. ‘I’m heading out to the plant at Menton. I have some last-minute business that needs taking care of.’
‘I’ll come with you!’ Sixtine spoke casually, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, but Bond got the feeling that somehow it mattered to her.
‘That’s not a good idea, honey. You’d only get in the way. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘But you promised you’d take me out there, Irwin. You know I’m keen to learn about your work. And this is my last chance if you’re leaving on Tuesday.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Wolfe was adamant. He gave her a thin smile. ‘It won’t work for me right now and anyway, I’ve already told you, there’s nothing out there that would interest you. You really want to learn about film production, you can visit my plant in Massachusetts.’
‘But I’m here right now.’
‘Honey, let’s not argue about it, OK?’
There was no point continuing. Sixtine stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. ‘All right, then. I’ll go home and have an early night. The south of France isn’t any fun without you.’
She was acting. Bond was sure of it. But Wolfe was satisfied. He grabbed hold of her and pulled her towards him, kissing her on the side of the cheek as if he were nervous of the fullness of her lips. ‘You mind showing my guest off the ship?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t set fire to anything on the way.’
‘Good to see you again, Jim.’ Another handshake. ‘Next time you come to America, you know how to get there.’
‘I certainly do.’
Bond and Sixtine left together, taking the gangplank down to the quayside of the port of Nice. This was where the Mirabelle had been berthed for its final checks before it headed out to sea, surrounded by cranes that stood like courtiers, bowing their heads to an undoubted queen. Bond had walked over from the Negresco but Sixtine had driven. A bright red two-seater MG TD was waiting cheerfully for them on the forecourt with its hood folded back and Bond knew at once that it was hers. Sure enough, she took a key ring out of her bag and twirled it around her finger as they walked across.
‘Come with me,’ she said without looking at him, perhaps not caring if he came or not. She opened the door of the little car and climbed in.
‘Where to?’ Bond asked, climbing in beside her. ‘Are you going back to Shame Lady?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like being there on my own.’
‘Isn’t Wolfe going to turn up later?’
‘I like it even less when he’s with me.’
‘Then where?’
She reached into the glove compartment and took out a pair of sunglasses, then turned the key in the ignition and Bond listened appreciatively to the throaty growl of the tiny 1,250 cc engine which had been perfectly tuned. ‘Let’s make it a mystery tour,’ she shouted. ‘It’s not very far and it’s going to be a beautiful evening.’
She was right. The sun was already setting as they roared out of Nice, following the coastal road towards Cannes with the Mediterranean a deepening scarlet on their left. They passed the airport and the new developments – offices and apartments – that were already springing up beside the sea, threatening to overwhelm the area and, one day for sure, to destroy its casual charm.
Bond had always believed that even the best women drivers had a reticence, a lack of confidence behind the wheel. They would interrogate corners before they attacked them and the more powerful the car, the less they would seem to be in control. But Sixtine handled the MG like an expert, smiling carelessly as she pushed the engine above sixty, her dark hair streaming in the wind, the sunglasses masking her eyes. The traffic was heavy but she cut in and out of the other cars, sometimes with inches to spare, smiling at the blasts of their horns and changing through the four gears with the incisiveness of a surgeon.
They came off the main road at Antibes and dropped down the Boulevard du Cap until it reached the end of the headland. Here, a narrow lane continued steeply downhill with pine trees on both sides. Bond saw a glimpse of water – a secluded bay ahead of them – but before they reached it Sixtine span the wheel and drove through the open gate of a small, old-style house with pink walls, tumbling bougainvillea and a roughly paved courtyard planted with lemon trees and olives. A balcony with stone columns stretched out over the front door and presumably offered a sea view. It was a jewel box and, once again without asking, Bond knew it was hers.
The house wasn’t locked. Sixtine led him into a living room with French windows that opened onto a small, private garden with a swimming pool running its full length to one side. A high wall, thickly covered in ivy, separated the house from its neighbours. There wasn’t a breath of wind. With the warm, velvet touch of the evening, everything smelled of pine and eucalyptus. A thousand cicadas were sawing away as they welcomed a darkness punctured only by a slither of silver moonlight.
‘Will you have a glass of Dom Pérignon?’ she asked.
‘I’ll join you.’
‘Of course.’
She put on a record. It was an Édith Piaf album, Chansons Parisiennes. Then she went into the kitchen, leaving Bond to admire the f
urniture – antique but comfortable – and the brightly coloured modern art. Sixtine liked to read. There were two shelves of books in English and French, a lot of classical fiction, some history and politics. The house was a bolthole but it had been furnished with care. It had a distinctly feminine touch in the choice of the duck-egg wallpaper, the ornate mirrors and the thick Turkish rugs. The quiet piano music suited it.
A moment later she was back, holding a bottle and two glasses. ‘I’ve always liked Antibes,’ she said. ‘Nice and Cannes are already spoiled and overcrowded. In a few years’ time they’ll be impossible. But when I’m here I feel like I’m hiding from the world.’
‘I can’t imagine you hiding from anyone.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘So why have you brought me here?’
‘Why did you come?’
She looked at him and he saw the amusement in her eyes. At the same time, he felt the desire that had taken hold of him the night before at the swimming pool. He caught hold of himself. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Why do you have to treat everything like a game?’
‘Because it is a game. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘For you, maybe. Not for me.’ He turned on her. ‘What are you doing in this country? You don’t love Irwin Wolfe, so why are you with him? He’s talking about marrying you, for God’s sake!’
She threw her head back and laughed when she heard that. ‘Maybe I’ll get a boat named after me. Can you see me as the next Mrs Wolfe? The first one killed herself, you know. She threw herself out of the ninth floor of a building rather than spend another night with Irwin. He says she fell. But even he doesn’t believe it.’
She poured the champagne but Bond shook his head. ‘Not for me, thank you. You asked me why I came here. Well, it wasn’t to drink champagne with you. I want information.’
‘You’re becoming tiresome, James. That’s what you said the first time we met. And I told you then: I don’t give anything away for nothing.’
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