Never Send Flowers

by John Gardner

  Carefully folding the letter and slipping it into his pocket, Bond turned to face Flicka. She was ashen, trembling, tears starting at her eyes, the marks of shock springing from her, as though she had suffered a wound. He wrapped his arms around her, knowing that he too was trembling.

  ‘Yes, Flicka. Things like this are enough to spook anyone. Let’s go.’

  He locked the door behind them, and they rode in silence down in the elevator to the reception desk where the stern Fräulein Bruch looked up without a smile.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t deal with all of my cousin’s effects tonight.’ His voice was back to normal: level and confident. ‘It’s been a long day, so we’re going to have to ask you to wait until tomorrow. I’ll do it, myself, first thing in the morning.’

  Marietta Bruch allowed a brief look of irritation to cross her face before saying that she understood perfectly. Snapping her fingers for the porter, she instructed him to show Mr and Mrs Bond to their room.

  There was one bedroom with a king-sized bed which had a reproduction Victorian head and foot – black metal bars rising as though caging the two ends, and huge ornamental brass bed-knobs, polished and gleaming. The spacious sitting-room had been remodelled, contrasting oddly with the bedroom. It contained a suite of black leather furniture, a businesslike desk, circular glass table, television and minibar refrigerator. Bond felt an involuntary chilling shudder as the tiny fridge brought David March’s horrible cold storage vault vividly back to mind.

  The large french windows, at the far end of the sitting-room, led to a long balcony which overlooked the front of the hotel. Flicka had gone straight out on to it as soon as the porter had been tipped and shown out.

  Bond followed, standing beside her, looking down on the steady parade of locals and tourists out on their after-dinner stroll in the well-lit streets, part of the ritual of any Swiss tourist resort. By now the air had a chill to it, but they stood close together, in silence for a few moments, until he gently put an arm around her shoulders, leading her back into the room and guiding her to the long, black settee.

  ‘There has to be a rational answer to this.’ He held the letter between two fingers and thumb of his right hand. ‘We are certain that David March died five years ago?’

  ‘Absolutely. There’s no doubt.’ Colour had returned to her cheeks, but her voice still retained a trace of fear. ‘I’ve seen the death certificate – a copy anyway – and . . .’

  ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘A brain tumour. Nothing to do with his mental state, which had really gone downhill by then. David March became a walking, grunting vegetable in spite of the drugs. Three months before he died, the doctors noticed indications of severe headaches, and eye problems. They did all the usual things, X-rays, a CAT scan, the lot. The tumour was inoperable. He died in great discomfort, in spite of high-dosage painkillers.’

  ‘And do we know if Laura saw him?’

  ‘No. None of his family ever visited him. For them, it was as though he had ceased to be.’

  ‘Then there are three possibilities.’ He indicated the letter again. ‘This is either a plant, which seems quite likely – because the cops didn’t remove it – or Laura was writing to someone else, someone s disguise therehe thought of as a brother-lover; or, the last theory, that she was also unbalanced, which could mean it was a piece of mental fabrication on her part. First, I think, we have to make certain it really was written by her.’

  He crossed the room, picking up his briefcase, thumbing the security locks and opening it to reveal a laptop computer with a portable fax machine lying next to it. ‘How our trade has changed,’ he laughed. ‘There was a time when my briefcase was a lethal weapon, now the armoury is almost totally electronic.’ He did not add that the case, in fact, did contain a couple of concealed items that could be lethal if used properly.

  After reorganizing the modular telephone plugs, and switching on the fax machine, he took a clean sheet of the hotel stationery, placed it on the glass tabletop and wrote a suitably cryptic message as a fax cover page. This he fed into the machine, dialling the safe fax number in London. The cover sheet went through, followed by the two pages they had removed from Laura March’s room.

  ‘By the morning we should have a simple fax back, on the hotel’s machine. It’ll simply say yes or no. If it’s yes, then we have to work out what little Laura was up to – fantasy or reality.’

  ‘You only asked about the letter?’

  ‘I’ve asked them to identify the handwriting as Laura’s, and to recheck the facts regarding David March’s death. We’ll get some clues in the morning, and first thing I’m going to go through her room again. You stay here, the place has a bad effect on you.’

  She gave a dry little laugh. ‘You were completely unaffected by it, yes?’

  ‘No. You know I wasn’t. We were both spooked.’ He went over to the little minibar fridge. ‘Brandy? Vodka? Whisky? What d’you fancy?’

  ‘Brandy I think.’

  He smiled at her, allowing his fingers to brush her shoulder after he had placed the glasses on the table. She still looked thoroughly shaken.

  Bond poured from two miniature Remy Martins. He rotated his glass, watching the amber liquid as it swirled around. Then he took a sip. ‘This should help relax both of us. We really should get as much rest as we can. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’

  She did not look at him, but nodded, as she put the glass to her lips.

  ‘I’ll use this couch, here. You take the bed.’

  Still Flicka did not reply, and after a while Bond said he would shower and leave her in peace. She was sitting, staring into space when he returned, having unpacked his garment bag, showered and slipped into the robe provided by the hotel.

  She left the sitting-room, saying only that she would look in and see him before she went to bed. Bond, feeling very restless, poured the last of the brandy into his glass and sat back to watch the CNN news. Half an hour later he barely heard the door to the bedroom open, and he just caught the whisper of clothing behind him. Looking around he saw Flicka, framed in the doorway. She wore nothing but a filmy triangle of silk and lace, her hair gleamed, and the green eyes were wide open, so that he again felt she had the ability to drown him with a look.

  ‘Ah, Flicka’s secret.’

  ‘Your secret, James.’

  He rose and she came towards him, moulding her body to his, one hand reaching up, cradling the back of his head in her palm, fingers outstretched, pulling his lips on to her mouth.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ she whispered. ‘But I must have some comfort t of the famous Mr Dragonpol.’; margin-bottom: thereonight. Please.’ The last word was not a plea, but something else which came from deep within her. Then, slowly she led him into the bedroom.

  As he entered her, she let out a little cry of pleasure, rough at the back of her throat: the sound of somebody parched who sees a means to the slaking of thirst. For a second, he saw the face of someone else, long lost, instead of Flicka, then it was gone as her own face and body worked a particular magic.

  Neither of them heard the door to the sitting-room click open, nor the soft tread of the person who crossed in front of their door, for, by then, for a short time, the bedroom had become a raft adrift and far from land.

  Then, with no warning, Bond softly put his hand over Flicka’s mouth.

  ‘Wha— ?’ she began, but he called out loudly, ‘Who’s there?’

  From the sitting-room a woman’s voice, embarrassed, said, ‘The maid, sir. I’m sorry, I thought you might want me to make up the room.’

  ‘No. No

  5

  LITTLE PINK CELLS

  Bond’s eyes snapped open, and he became alert, just before the telephone made its soft purring sound, heralding the wake-up call he had ordered for six a.m. He reached out, picked up the telephone and, after two or three seconds of listening, began to chuckle.

  He was used to being wakened by recorded voices which, in
most hotels, have now replaced the more personal touch of a real human being telling you it is six o’clock in the morning, that the weather is good, bad or indifferent, and hoping that you will have a nice day. Certainly, the wake-up call at the Victoria-Jungfrau was a recorded message, but with elaborations that could only be Swiss. There was the tinkle of a music box through which girls’ voices faded in and out, wishing the listener ‘, French and EnglishU connectGood Morning’ in German, French, Italian, Dutch, Spanish, English, Japanese and as far as he knew, Urdu. This elaborate mixture certainly caught your attention, and he listened to it for a full minute before cradling the receiver, and gently shaking Flicka’s naked shoulder.

  Gradually, with many protests, she woke up, blinked a couple of times, and then gave him a long, pleased smile – a cat-who’d-licked-the-cream look, which Bond realized was probably being reflected in his own face.

  She wanted only coffee for breakfast – ‘preferably intravenously’ – so he dialled room service and ordered a large pot of coffee, with wholewheat toast.

  As soon as he replaced the receiver the message light began to blink: a fax, they said, had come in from England overnight. He instructed them to send it up immediately. Within minutes, a porter was at the door, handing him a sealed envelope.

  He read the message, sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing the crested towelling robe. The fax was short and to the point: ‘Identification positive. Send original immediately by courier.’ It was signed ‘Mandarin’, the highest priority crypto used by M, which meant the Old Man wanted Bond to go through a courier routine involving two telephone calls to Geneva, and being physically present when the messenger arrived to pick up the letter.

  Still naked, Flick draped herself over his shoulder.

  ‘Anyone ever tell you it was rude to read other people’s mail?’ He glanced back at her.

  ‘Sure, but does a fax constitute mail? You can pluck those things straight off the telephone lines; they’ve all read it downstairs at reception, hoping it would contain something juicy . . .’

  ‘And it doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, in a way it does. Laura wrote the letter. What’s your courier service like?’

  Bond playfully slapped her hand away. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? Come to think of it you probably do, you Swiss being so efficient.’

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek and gave him a wicked little wink. ‘Actually you use the same little man as the French – Mr Hesk in Geneva. We’ve often thought that could be terribly leaky.’

  He pushed her back on to the bed, holding her down under his hard body, kissing her eyes, and then her mouth. Before matters could again get completely out of hand, a knock at the outer door signalled the arrival of breakfast.

  They sat opposite one another, not speaking, she sipping cup after cup of strong black coffee, he admitting, grudgingly, to himself that the egg was almost, but not quite, done as he liked it. Eventually, Flicka spoke.

  ‘I’m not usually like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose, easy.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were. The chemistry was right, and it was a night to remember. Outstanding. A night to dream about.’

  ‘That’s true. You were outstanding. Can we do it again some time?’

  ‘I was banking on it. I always try to bank on things in Switzerland.’ He smiled at her, their eyes meeting. Again, he had that familiar sense of being able to drown and lose himself in the green depths of her eyes. Quickly he shook himself out of the mood, saying he had to organize the courier.

  He brought the briefcase through from the bedroom, but when he came to operate the security locks he was surprised to find that they were already set to the correct eight-digit code.,’ Flicka whispered.outhing

  ‘I could have sworn . . .’ he began, knowing that he had automatically set the tumblers after sending last night’s fax. It was something he always did without thinking, like breathing, yet, for a moment, he had second thoughts.

  Swiftly, he clicked the locks open and raised the case’s lid. Everything appeared normal until he opened the small buff folder into which he had put the original letter. It was empty: Laura March’s bizarre unaddressed, and unmailed, message to ‘David’ her ‘lover and brother’ was as though it had never been.

  ‘Something wrong, darling?’ Flicka sat at the small table, looking at him with an expression of innocence that strangely worried him.

  ‘You tell me?’ he asked, unsmiling.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I said, you tell me, Flicka. There were only two of us in this suite last night. You saw me lock my briefcase. I slept like a proverbial log . . .’

  ‘So did I, eventually.’ The ghost of a smile on her lips and a touch of bewilderment in her eyes.

  ‘You sure you didn’t go sleepwalking?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you. I put the March letter in this case last night. I then locked it, using a sequence that even my masters in London don’t know. Now, someone’s carefully unlocked it, and the letter is gone.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But, apart from me, you’re the only person who could have done it, Flicka. Come on, if you’re playing games for your bosses, it would be better to tell me now. Save any further accusations and unpleasantness.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean! James, I was with you all night. Surely you know that. Why would I want to . . . ?’

  ‘I have no idea as to why, but you’re the only possible suspect.’

  She slowly rose from the table. ‘Then you’re crazy, James. I didn’t touch your bloody briefcase, and if you’re implying that I invited you into my bed simply to steal something, then . . . Oh, hell, what’s the use? I never touched the bloody case.’ In a second her attitude changed from warm and loving to an ice-cold anger. Red patches appeared on her cheeks as she turned and walked quickly towards the bedroom. ‘I suggest you examine other possibilities, James. Also you can find another woman to brighten your nights.’ The door slammed behind her, leaving Bond kneeling beside the briefcase.

  Indeed, he thought, she sounded genuinely angry, but that was often the best defence for the guilty. He cursed quietly. She was a trained security officer and could, therefore, quite easily have read the combination code when he had unlocked the briefcase. Lord knew, he had done it hundreds of times with people dialling telephone numbers. Nobody else could have crept in during the night . . . He stopped, cursed again. Of course, there was somebody else. The maid who had come in and almost caught them in the bedroom – or had she? How long had the maid been in the sitting-room before he heard her? He recalled thinking that he had known the voice.

  Then he remembered the car he thought had tailed them from Thun. It was just possible that an unknown other had managed to get in and steal the letter. After all, he was pretty well occupied for quite a long time before drifting into a sweet and dreamless sleep. Whichever way the theft had been accomplished, he was still to blame, and there was no other option but to apologize to Flicka, give her the benefit of the doubt was at-, and watch her like the proverbial hawk.

  He went to the bedroom door and tapped on it softly, calling her name and then trying the handle. She had locked it on the inside, and the next hour was spent apologizing, followed by the not unpleasant human ritual of ‘making up’.

  His message to London was a careful combination of necessary information and excuse. Like any other intelligence officer, Bond was adept at covering his back. This time he did it with greater care than usual, referring to an unexplained incident, quite out of his control, as the reason for the original letter going missing. By the time he saw M in London, he would have thought out some logical excuse. The message also asked for his service to check on possible security service activity in Switzerland. For good measure he mentioned the red Volkswagen. After sending the fax, Bond took a scalding hot shower, followed by a freezing cold one, to open the pores and stimulate the
nerve ends. He shaved and dressed, talking to Flicka all the time, as she sat at the dressing table preparing her face for the day ahead.

  By this time they were running late for their meeting with the local police in Grindelwald, so on their way out, Bond paused by the reception desk to tell the stern Marietta Bruch that they would go through Ms March’s room on their return. She answered him with a clipped, ‘Ja?’ and her eyes threw invisible stilettos at him. He was certainly not her most popular man of the month.

  Though she had more than accepted his apology, in the ultimate way that a woman could, Flicka appeared to have withdrawn again. She was not the ice queen, nor was there obvious anger, but the conversation finally dwindled into one of monosyllabic, sometimes terse, responses, and she drove out to Grindelwald in near silence.

  The police presence was obvious. Two cars and a police van blocked the little road to the chair lift, and a large sign, in three languages – German, French and English – proclaimed that the chair lift up the mountain, to the First area with its great view of the Grindelwald Basin, was closed until further notice. The entrance was also blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. A uniformed inspector stood, with a plump, untidy-looking man in civilian clothes, by the chair lift entrance. The plainclothes man held a pigskin folder loosely under one arm, and paid scant attention to their arrival.

  The uniformed officer obviously knew Flicka, for he greeted her by name and, in turn, she introduced Bond to ‘Inspector Ponsin’. He nodded gravely, and turned to the civilian.

  ‘This is Detective Bodo Lempke, of the Interlaken police department, in charge of the investigation.’ He waved a hand between them, flapping it like a fish’s fin.