The James Bond Anthology полностью

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 instants’ and ‘it came to our knowledges’, 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 notebook 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.’

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 brassiere 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.