by Ian Fleming
Page 4
Are you satisfied, monsieur? he asked. You notice how clearly they came over. Are they not a wonderful team? He made a winding motion with his right hand and raised his eyebrows.
They are so good, said Bond, that I would like to hear the rest of the programme. He grinned at the thought of the angry glances which the Muntzes must be exchanging overhead. The machine itself seems splendid. Just what I was looking for to take back to Jamaica.
Mathis made a sarcastic grimace and switched back to the Rome programme.
You and your Jamaica, he said, and sat down again on the bed.
Bond frowned at him. Well, its no good crying over spilt milk, he said. We didnt expect the cover to stick for long, but its worrying that they bowled it out so soon. He searched his mind in vain for a clue. Could the Russians have broken one of our ciphers? If so, he might just as well pack up and go home. He and his job would have been stripped naked.
Mathis seemed to read his mind. It cant have been a cipher, he said. Anyway, we told London at once and they will have changed them. A pretty flap we caused, I can tell you. He smiled with the satisfaction of a friendly rival. And now to business, before our good “Compagnons” run out of breath.
First of all, and he inhaled a thick lungful of Caporal, you will be pleased with your Number Two. She is very beautiful - Bond frowned - very beautiful indeed. Satisfied with Bonds reaction, Mathis continued: She has black hair, blue eyes, and splendid . . . er . . . protuberances. Back and front, he added. And she is a wireless expert which, though sexually less interesting, makes her a perfect employee of Radio Stentor and assistant to myself in my capacity as wireless salesman for this rich summer season down here. He grinned. We are both staying in the hotel and my assistant will thus be on hand in case your new radio breaks down. All new machines, even French ones, are apt to have teething troubles in the first day or two. And occasionally at night, he added with an exaggerated wink.
Bond was not amused. What the hell do they want to send me a woman for? he said bitterly. Do they think this is a bloody picnic?
Mathis interrupted. Calm yourself, my dear James. She is as serious as you could wish and as cold as an icicle. She speaks French like a native and knows her job backwards. Her covers perfect and I have arranged for her to team up with you quite smoothly. What is more natural than that you should pick up a pretty girl here? As a Jamaican millionaire, he coughed respectfully, what with your hot blood and all, you would look naked without one.
Bond grunted dubiously.
Any other surprises? he asked suspiciously.
Nothing very much, answered Mathis. Le Chiffre is installed in his villa. Its about ten miles down the coast road. He has his two guards with him. They look pretty capable fellows. One of them has been seen visiting a little “pension” in the town where three mysterious and rather subhuman characters checked in two days ago. They may be part of the team. Their papers are in order - stateless Czechs apparently - but one of our men says the language they talk in their room is Bulgarian. We dont see many of those around. Theyre mostly used against the Turks and the Yugoslavs. Theyre stupid, but obedient. The Russians use them for simple killings or as fall-guys for more complicated ones.
Thanks very much. Which is mine to be? asked Bond. Anything else?
No. Come to the bar of the Hermitage before lunch. Ill fix the introduction. Ask her to dinner this evening. Then it will be natural for her to come into the Casino with you. Ill be there too, but in the background. Ive got one or two good chaps and well keep an eye on you. Oh, and theres an American called Leiter here, staying in the hotel. Felix Leiter. Hes the CIA chap from Fontainebleau. London told me to tell you. He looks okay. May come in useful.
A torrent of Italian burst from the wireless set on the floor. Mathis switched it off and they exchanged some phrases about the set and about how Bond should pay for it. Then with effusive farewells and a final wink Mathis bowed himself out.
Bond sat at the window and gathered his thoughts. Nothing that Mathis had told him was reassuring. He was completely blown and under really professional surveillance. An attempt might be made to put him away before he had a chance to pit himself against Le Chiffre at the tables. The Russians had no stupid prejudices about murder. And then there was this pest of a girl. He sighed. Women were for recreation. On a job, they got in the way and fogged things up with sex and hurt feelings and all the emotional baggage they carried around. One had to look out for them and take care of them.
Bitch, said Bond and then remembering the Muntzes, he said bitch again more loudly and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 5 - THE GIRL FROM HEADQUARTERS
It was twelve oclock when Bond left the Splendide and the clock on the mairie was stumbling through its midday carillon. There was a strong scent of pine and mimosa in the air and the freshly watered gardens of the Casino opposite, interspersed with neat gravel parterres and paths, lent the scene a pretty formalism more appropriate to ballet than to melodrama.
The sun shone and there was a gaiety and sparkle in the air which seemed to promise well for the new era of fashion and prosperity for which the little seaside town, after many vicissitudes, was making its gallant bid.
Royale-les-Eaux, which lies near the mouth of the Somme before the flat coast-line soars up from the beaches of southern Picardy to the Brittany cliffs which run on to Le Havre, had experienced much the same fortunes as Trouville.
Royale (without the Eaux) also started as a small fishing village and its rise to fame as a fashionable watering-place during the Second Empire was as meteoric as that of Trouville. But as Deauville killed Trouville, so, after a long period of decline, did Le Touquet kill Royale.
At the turn of the century, when things were going badly for the little seaside town and when the fashion was to combine pleasure with a cure, a natural spring in the hills behind Royale was discovered to contain enough diluted sulphur to have a beneficent effect on the liver. Since all French people suffer from liver complaints, Royale quickly became Royale-les-Eaux, and Eau Royale, in a torpedo-shaped bottle, grafted itself demurely on to the tail of the mineral-water lists in hotels and restaurant cars.
It did not long withstand the powerful combines of Vichy and Perrier and Vittel. There came a series of lawsuits, a number of people lost a lot of money and very soon its sale was again entirely local. Royale fell back on the takings from the French and English families during the summer, on its fishing-fleet in winter and on the crumbs which fell to its elegantly dilapidated Casino from the table at Le Touquet.
But there was something splendid about the Negresco baroque of the Casino Royale, a strong whiff of Victorian elegance and luxury, and in 1950 Royale caught the fancy of a syndicate in Paris which disposed of large funds belonging to a group of expatriate Vichyites.
Brighton had been revived since the war, and Nice. Nostalgia for more spacious, golden times might be a source of revenue.
The Casino was repainted in its original white and gilt and the rooms decorated in the palest grey with wine-red carpets and curtains. Vast Chandeliers were suspended from the ceilings. The gardens were spruced and the fountains played again and the two main hotels, the Splendide and the Hermitage, were prinked and furbished and restaffed.
Even the small town and the vieux-port managed to fix welcoming smiles across their ravaged faces, and the main street became gay with the vitrines of great Paris jewellers and couturiers, tempted down for a butterfly season by rent-free sites and lavish promises.
Then the Mahomet Ali Syndicate was cajoled into starting a high game in the Casino and the Soci‚t‚ des Bains de Mer de Royale felt that now at last Le Touquet would have to yield up some of the treasure stolen over the years from its parent plage.
Against the background of this luminous and sparkling stage Bond stood in the sunshine and felt his mission to be incongruous and remote and his dark profession an affront to his fellow actors.
He shrug
ged away the momentary feeling of unease and walked round the back of his hotel and down the ramp to the garage. Before his rendezvous at the Hermitage he decided to take his car down the coast road and have a quick look at Le Chiffres villa and then drive back by the inland road until it crossed the route nationale to Paris.
Bonds car was his only personal hobby. One of the last of the 41/2-litre Bentleys with the supercharger by Amherst Villiers, he had bought it almost new in 1933 and had kept it in careful storage through the war. It was still serviced every year and, in London, a former Bentley mechanic, who worked in a garage near Bonds Chelsea flat, tended it with jealous care. Bond drove it hard and well and with an almost sensual pleasure. It was a battleship-gray convertible coupe, which really did convert, and it was capable of touring at ninety with thirty miles an hour in reserve.
Bond eased the car out of the garage and up the ramp and soon the loitering drum-beat of the two-inch exhaust was echoing down the tree-lined boulevard, through the crowded main street of the little town, and off through the sand dunes to the south.
An hour later, Bond walked into the Hermitage bar and chose a table near one of the broad windows.
The room was sumptuous with those over-masculine trappings which, together with briar pipes and wire-haired terriers, spell luxury in France. Everything was brass-studded leather and polished mahogany. The curtains and carpets were in royal blue. The waiters wore striped waistcoats and green baize aprons. Bond ordered an Americano and examined the sprinkling of over-dressed customers, mostly from Paris he guessed, who sat talking with focus and vivacity, creating that theatrically clubbable atmosphere of lheure de lap‚ritif
The men were drinking inexhaustible quarter-bottles of champagne, the women dry martinis.
Moi, jadore le “Dry”, a bright-faced girl at the next table said to her companion, too neat in his unseasonable tweeds, who gazed at her with moist brown eyes over the top of an expensive shooting-stick from Hermes, fait avec du Gordons, bien entendu.
Daccord, Daisy. Mais tu sais, un zeste de citron . . .
Bonds eye was caught by the tall figure of Mathis on the pavement outside, his face turned in animation to a darkhaired girl in grey. His arm was linked in hers, high up above the elbow, and yet there was a lack of intimacy in their appearance, an ironical chill in the girls profile, which made them seem two separate people rather than a couple. Bond waited for them to come through the street door into the bar, but for appearances sake continued to stare out of the window at the passers-by.
But surely it is Monsieur Bond? Mathiss voice behind him was full of surprised delight. Bond, appropriately flustered, rose to his feet. Can it be that you are alone? Are you awaiting someone? May I present my colleague, Mademoiselle Lynd? My dear, this is the gentleman from Jamaica with whom I had the pleasure of doing business this morning.
Bond inclined himself with a reserved friendliness. It would be a great pleasure, he addressed himself to the girl. I am alone. Would you both care to join me? He pulled out a chair and while they sat down he beckoned to a waiter and despite Mathiss expostulations insisted on ordering the drinks - a fine … leau for Mathis and a bacardi for the girl.
Mathis and Bond exchanged cheerful talk about the fine weather and the prospects of a revival in the fortunes of Royale-les-Eaux. The girl sat silent. She accepted one of Bonds cigarettes, examined it and then smoked it appreciatively and without affectation, drawing the smoke deeply into her lungs with a little sigh and then exhaling it casually through her lips and nostrils. Her movements were economical and precise with no trace of self-consciousness.