The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  There was the sound of laughter. “Willy, you’re a real card,” said an American voice. “But it’s no dice. Be glad to help you, but that stone isn’t worth more than nine thousand, and I’ll give you a hundred on top of that for yourself. Now you go along and think about it. You won’t get a better offer in The Street.”

  The door opened and a stage American businessman with pince-nez and a tightly buttoned mouth ushered out a small harassed-looking Jew with a large red rose in his buttonhole. They looked startled at finding the waiting-room occupied and, with a muttered “Pardon me” to no one in particular, the American almost ran his companion across the room and out into the hall. The door closed behind them.

  Dankwaerts looked up at Bond and winked. “That’s the whole of the diamond business in a nutshell,” he said. “That was Willy Behrens, one of the best-known freelance brokers in The Street. I suppose the other man was Saye’s buyer.” He turned again to his paper, and Bond, resisting the impulse to light a cigarette, went back to his examination of the flower ‘pictures.’

  Suddenly the rich, carpeted, ticking silence of the room struck like a cuckoo clock. Simultaneously, a log fell in the grate, the sunburst clock on the wall chimed the half hour, the door was thrust open and a big, dark man took two quick steps in the room and stood looking sharply from one to the other.

  “My name is Saye,” he said harshly. “What goes on around here? What do you want?”

  The door was open behind him. Sergeant Dankwaerts rose to his feet and walked politely but firmly round the man and closed it. Then he returned to the middle of the room.

  “I am Sergeant Dankwaerts of the Special Branch of Scotland Yard,” he said in a quiet, peaceful voice. “And this,” he made a gesture towards Bond, “is Sergeant James. I am making a routine inquiry about some stolen diamonds. It occurred to the Assistant Commissioner,” the voice was of velvet, “that you might be able to help us.”

  “Yes?” said Mr Saye. He looked contemptuously from one to the other of these two underpaid flatfeet who had the effrontery to be taking up his time. “Go ahead.”

  While Sergeant Dankwaerts, in tones which to a law-breaker would have sounded menacingly level, and consulting from time to time a small black note-book, recited a story studded with ‘on the 16th instant’s’ and ‘it came to our knowledge’s,’ Bond made an unconcealed examination of Mr Saye which appeared to perturb Mr Saye no more than the undertones of Sergeant Dankwaerts’s recitation.

  Mr Saye was a large, compact man with the hardness of a chunk of quartz. He had a very square face whose sharp angles were accentuated by short, wiry black hair, cut en brosse and without side-whiskers. His eyebrows were black and straight, and tucked in below them there were two extremely sharp and steady black eyes. He was clean-shaven and his lips were a thin and rather wide straight line. The square chin was deeply cleft and the muscles bulged at the points of the jaw. He was dressed in a roomy, black, single-breasted suit, a white shirt and an almost bootlace-thin black tie, held in place by a gold tie-clip representing a spear. His long arms hung relaxed at his sides and terminated in two very large hands, now slightly curled inwards, whose backs showed black hair. His big feet, in expensive black shoes, looked to be about size 12.

  Bond summed him up as a tough and capable man who had triumphed in a variety of hard schools and who looked as if he was still serving in one of them.

  “... and these are the stones we are particularly interested in,” concluded Sergeant Dankwaerts. He referred to his black book. “One 20 carat Wesselton. Two Fine Blue-whites of about 10 carats each. One 30 carat Yellow Premier. One 15 carat Top Cape and two 15 carat Cape Unions.” He paused. Then he looked up from his book and very sharply into Mr Saye’s hard black eyes. “Have any of those passed through your hands, Mr Saye, or through your firm in New York?” he inquired softly.

  “No,” said Mr Saye flatly. “They have not.” He turned to the door behind him and opened it. “And now, good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Without bothering any further with them he walked decisively out of the room and they heard his footsteps go rapidly up a few stairs. A door opened and banged shut and there was silence.

  Undismayed, Sergeant Dankwaerts slipped his note-book into his waistcoat pocket, picked up his hat and walked out into the hall and then out into the street. Bond followed him.

  They climbed into the patrol car and Bond gave the address of his flat off the King’s Road. When the car was moving, Sergeant Dankwaerts relaxed his official face. He turned to Bond. He looked amused. “I quite enjoyed that,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t often meet a nut as tough as that one. Did you get what you wanted, Sir?”

  Bond shrugged his shoulders. “Tell the truth, Sergeant, I didn’t know exactly what I did want. But I was glad to get a good look at Mr Rufus B. Saye. Quite a chap. Doesn’t look much like my idea of a diamond merchant.”

  Sergeant Dankwaerts chuckled. “He’s not a diamond merchant, Sir,” he said, “or I’ll eat my hat.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When I read out that list of missing stones,” Sergeant Dankwaerts smiled happily, “I mentioned a Yellow Premier and two Cape Unions.”

  “Yes?”

  “It just happens that there aren’t such things, Sir.”

  Chapter 5

  “Feuilles Mortes”

  Bond felt the liftman watching him as he walked down the long, quiet corridor to the end room, Room 350. Bond wasn’t surprised. He knew there was more petty crime in this hotel than in any other large hotel in London. Vallance had once shown him the big monthly crime map of London. He had pointed to the forest of little flags round the Trafalgar Palace. “That place annoys the map-room men,” he had said. “Every month this corner gets so pitted with holes they have to paste fresh paper over it to hold the next month’s pins.”

  As Bond neared the end of the corridor he could hear a piano swinging a rather sad tune. At the door of 350 he knew the music came from behind it. He recognized the tune. It was Feuilles Mortes. He knocked.

  “Come in.” The hall porter had telephoned and the voice was waiting for him.

  Bond walked into the small living-room and closed the door behind him.

  “Lock it,” said the voice. It came from the bedroom.

  Bond did as he was told and walked across the middle of the room until he was opposite the open bedroom door. As he passed the portable long-player on the writing desk the pianist began on La Ronde.

  She was sitting, half naked, astride a chair in front of the dressing-table, gazing across the back of the chair into the triple mirror. Her bare arms were folded along the tall back of the chair and her chin was resting on her arms. Her spine was arched, and there was arrogance in the set of her head and shoulders. The black string of her brassière across the naked back, the tight black lace pants and the splay of her legs whipped at Bond’s senses.

  The girl raised her eyes from looking at her face and inspected him in the mirror, briefly and coolly.

  “I guess you’re the new help,” she said in a low, rather husky voice that made no commitment. “Take a seat and enjoy the music. Best light record ever made.”

  Bond was amused. He obediently took the few steps to a deep armchair, moved it a little so that he could still see her through the doorway, and sat down.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” he said, taking out his case and putting a cigarette in his mouth.

  “If that’s the way you want to die.”

  Miss Case resumed the silent contemplation of her face in the mirror while the pianist played J’attendrai. Then it was the end of the record.

  Indifferently she flexed her hips back off the chair and stood up. She half turned her head and the blonde hair that fell heavily to the base of her neck curved with the movement and caught the light.

  “If you like it, turn it over,” she said carelessly. “Be with you in a moment.” She moved out of sight.

  Bond walked over to the gramophone and picked up t
he record. It was George Feyer with rhythm accompaniment. He looked at the number and memorized it. It was Vox 500. He examined the other side and, skipping La Vie en Rose because it had memories for him, put the needle down at the beginning of Avril au Portugal.

  Before he left the gramophone he pulled the blotter softly from under it and held it up to the standard lamp beside the writing-desk. He held it sideways under the light and glanced along it. It was unmarked. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped it back under the machine and walked back to his chair.

  He thought that the music was appropriate to the girl. All the tunes seemed to belong to her. No wonder it was her favourite record. It had her brazen sexiness, the rough tang of her manner and the poignancy that had been in her eyes as they had looked moodily back at him out of the mirror.

  Bond had had no picture in his mind of the Miss Case who was to shadow him to America. He had taken for granted that it would be some tough, well-used slattern with dead eyes—a hard, sullen woman who had ‘gone the route’ and whose body was no longer of any interest to the gang she worked for. This girl was tough all right, tough of manner, but whatever might be the history of her body, the skin had shone with life under the light.

  What was her first name? Bond got up again and walked over to the gramophone. There was a Pan-American Airways label attached to the grip. It said Miss T. Case. T? Bond walked back to his chair. Teresa? Tess? Thelma? Trudy? Tilly? None of them seemed to fit. Surely not Trixie, or Tony or Tommy.

  He was still playing with the problem when she appeared quietly in the doorway to the bedroom and stood with one elbow resting high up against the door-jamb and her head bent sideways on to her hand. She looked down at him reflectively.

  Bond got unhurriedly to his feet and looked back at her.

  She was dressed to go out except for her hat, a small black affair that swung from her free hand. She wore a smart black tailor-made over a deep olive-green shirt buttoned at the neck, golden-tan nylons and black, square-toed crocodile shoes that looked very expensive. There was a slim gold wrist-watch on a black strap at one wrist and a heavy gold chain bracelet at the other. One large baguette-cut diamond flared on the third finger of her right hand and a flat pearl ear-ring in twisted gold showed on her right ear where the heavy pale gold hair fell away from it.

  She was very beautiful in a devil-may-care way, as if she kept her looks for herself and didn’t mind what men thought of them, and there was an ironical tilt to the finely drawn eyebrows above the wide, level, rather scornful grey eyes that seemed to say, “Sure. Come and try. But brother, you’d better be tops.”

  The eyes themselves had the rare quality of chatoyance. When jewels have chatoyance the colour in the lustre changes with movement in the light, and the colour of this girl’s eyes seemed to vary between a light grey and a deep grey-blue.

  Her skin was lightly tanned and without make-up except for a deep red on the lips, which were full and soft and rather moody so as to give the effect of what is called ‘a sinful mouth.’ But not, thought Bond, one that often sinned—if one was to judge by the level eyes and the hint of authority and tension behind them.

  The eyes now looked impersonally into his.

  “So you’re Peter Franks,” she said and the voice was low and attractive, but with a touch of condescension.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I’ve been wondering what T stands for.”

  She thought for a moment. “I guess you can find out at the desk,” she said. “It stands for Tiffany.” She walked over to the gramophone and stopped the record in the middle of Je n’en connais pas la fin. She turned round. “But it’s not in the public domain,” she added coldly.

  Bond shrugged his shoulders and moved over to the window-sill and leant easily against it with his ankles crossed.

  His nonchalance seemed to irritate her. She sat down in front of the writing-desk. “Now then,” she said, and her voice had an edge to it, “Let’s get down to business. In the first place, why did you take on this job?”

  “Somebody died.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him sharply. “They told me your line was stealing.” She paused. “Hot blood or cold blood?”

  “Hot blood. A fight.”

  “So you want to get out?”

  “That’s about it. And the money.”

  She changed the subject. “Got a wooden leg? False teeth?”

  “No. Everything’s real.”

  She frowned. “I’m always telling them to find me a man with a wooden leg. Well, have you got any hobbies or anything? Any ideas about where you’re going to carry the stones?”

  “No,” said Bond. “I play cards and golf. But I thought the handles of trunks and suitcases were good places for this sort of stuff.”

  “So do the customs men,” she said dryly. She sat silent for a moment, reflecting. Then she pulled a piece of paper and a pencil towards her. “What sort of golf balls do you use?” she asked unsmilingly.

  “They’re called Dunlop 65’s.” He was equally serious. “Maybe you’ve got something there.”

  She made no comment, but wrote the name down. She looked up. “Got a passport?”

  “Well, I have,” admitted Bond. “But it’s in my real name.”

  “Oh.” She was suspicious again. “And what might that be?”

  “James Bond.”

  She snorted. “Why not choose Joe Doe?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Who cares anyway? Can you get an American visa in two days? And a vaccination certificate?”

  “Don’t see why not,” said Bond. (Q Branch would fix all that.) “There’s nothing against me in America. Or at Criminal Records here, for the matter of that. Under Bond, that is.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Now listen. Immigration will need this. You’re going over to the States to stay with a man called Tree. Michael Tree. You’ll be staying at the Astor in New York. He’s an American friend of yours. You met him in the war.” She unbent minutely. “Just for the record, this man really exists. He’ll back up your story. But he’s not generally known as Michael. He’s known as ‘Shady’ Tree to his friends. If any,” she added sourly.

  Bond smiled.

  “He’s not as funny as he sounds,” said the girl shortly. She opened a drawer in the desk and took out a packet of five-pound notes with a rubber band round it. She riffled them through and detached about half their number and put these back in the drawer. She rolled up the rest, snapped the rubber band round them and tossed the packet across the room to Bond. Bond leant forward and caught it near the floor.

  “There’s about £500 in there,” she said. “Book yourself in at the Ritz and give that address to Immigration. Get a good used suitcase and put in it what you would take on a golfing holiday. Get your golf clubs. Keep out of sight. BOAC Monarch to New York. Thursday evening. Get a single ticket first thing tomorrow morning. The Embassy won’t give you a visa without seeing your ticket. Car will pick you up at the Ritz at 6.30 Thursday evening. Driver will give you the golf balls. Put ’em in your bag. And,” she looked him straight in the eye, “don’t think you can go into business for yourself with this stuff. The driver will stay alongside you until your luggage has gone out to the plane. And I’ll be at London Airport. So no funny business. Okay?”

  Bond shrugged his shoulders. “What would I do with this kind of merchandise?” he said carelessly. “Too big for me. And what happens the other end?”

  “Another driver will be waiting outside the customs. He’ll tell you what to do next. Now,” her voice was urgent, “If anything happens at the customs, either end, you know nothing, see? You just don’t know how the balls got into your bag. Whatever they ask you, just go on saying, ‘By me.’ Act dumb. I shall be watching. And maybe others too. That I wouldn’t know. If they lock you up in America, ask for the British Consul and go on asking. You won’t get any help from us. But that’s what you’re being paid for. Okay?”

  “Fair enough,” said Bond. “The only person I could get into trouble would be yo
u.” He looked appraisingly at her. “And I wouldn’t like that to happen.”

  “Shucks,” she said scornfully. “You’ve got nothing on me. Don’t worry about me, my friend. I can look after myself.” She got up and came and stood in front of him. “And don’t ‘little girl’ me,” she said sharply. “We’re on a job. And I can take care of myself. You’d be surprised.”

  Bond stood up and away from the window-sill. He smiled down and into the flashing grey eyes that were now dark with impatience. “‘I can do anything better than you can.’ Don’t worry. I’ll be a credit to you. But just relax and stop being so business-like for a minute. I’d like to see you again. Could we meet in New York if everything goes all right?” Bond felt treacherous as he said the words. He liked this girl. He wanted to make friends with her. But it would be a question of using friendship to get further up the pipeline.

  She looked thoughtfully at him for a moment and her eyes gradually lost their darkness. Her sharply compressed lips relaxed and parted a little. There was a hint of a stammer in her voice as she answered him.

  “I, I... that is,” she brusquely turned away from him. “Hell,” she said, but the word sounded artificial. “I’ve got nothing on Friday night. Guess we might have dinner. ‘21’ Club on 52nd. All the cab drivers know it. Eight o’clock. If the job goes off okay. Suit you?” She turned back towards him and looked at his mouth and not his eyes.

  “Fine,” said Bond. He thought it was time to get out before he made a mistake. “Now,” he said efficiently. “Is there anything else?”