The door opened. Bond went through with the girl at his heels. When he stopped dead in his tracks, he didn’t feel the girl bump into him. He just stood and stared.
13 | MINK-LINED PRISON
It was the sort of reception room the largest American corporations have on the President’s floor in their New York skyscrapers. It was of pleasant proportions, about twenty feet square. The floor was close-carpeted in the thickest wine-red Wilton and the walls and ceiling were painted a soft dove grey. Colour lithograph reproductions of Degas ballet sketches were well hung in groups on the walls and the lighting was by tall modern standard lamps with dark green silk shades in a fashionable barrel design.
To Bond’s right was a broad mahogany desk with a green leather top, handsome matching desk furniture and the most expensive type of intercom. Two tall antique chairs waited for visitors. On the other side of the room was a refectory-type table with shiny magazines and two more chairs. On both the desk and the table were tall vases of freshly cut hibiscus. The air was fresh and cool and held a slight, expensive fragrance.
There were two women in the room. Behind the desk, with pen poised over a printed form, sat an efficient-looking Chinese girl with horn-rimmed spectacles below a bang of black hair cut short. Her eyes and mouth wore the standard receptionist’s smile of welcome – bright, helpful, inquisitive.
Holding the door through which they had come, and waiting for them to move farther into the room so that she could close it, stood an older, rather matronly woman of about forty-five. She also had Chinese blood. Her appearance, wholesome, bosomy, eager, was almost excessively gracious. Her square cut pince-nez gleamed with the hostess’s desire to make them feel at home.
Both women were dressed in spotless white, with white stockings and white suede brogues, like assistants in the most expensive American beauty-parlours. There was something soft and colourless about their skins as if they rarely went out of doors.
While Bond took in the scene, the woman at the door twittered conventional phrases of welcome as if they had been caught in a storm and had arrived late at a party.
‘You poor dears. We simply didn’t know when to expect you. We kept on being told you were on your way. First it was teatime yesterday, then dinner, and it was only half an hour ago we heard you would only be here in time for breakfast. You must be famished. Come along now and help Sister Rose fill in your forms and then I’ll pack you both straight off to bed. You must be tired out.’
Clucking softly, she closed the door and ushered them forward to the desk. She got them seated in the chairs and rattled on. ‘Now I’m Sister Lily and this is Sister Rose. She just wants to ask you a few questions. Now, let me see, a cigarette?’ She picked up a tooled leather box. She opened it and put it on the desk in front of them. It had three compartments. She pointed with a little finger. ‘Those are American, and those are Players, and those are Turkish.’ She picked up an expensive desk-lighter and waited.
Bond reached out his manacled hands to take a Turkish cigarette.
Sister Lily gave a squeak of dismay. ‘Oh, but really.’ She sounded genuinely embarrassed. ‘Sister Rose, the key, quickly. I’ve said again and again that patients are never to be brought in like that.’ There was impatience and distaste in her voice. ‘Really, that outside staff! It’s time they had a talking to.’
Sister Rose was just as much put out. Hastily, she scrabbled in a drawer and handed a key across to Sister Lily who, with much cooing and tut-tutting, unlocked the two pairs of handcuffs and walked behind the desk and dropped them as if they were dirty bandages into the wastepaper basket.
‘Thank you.’ Bond was unable to think of any way to handle the situation except to fall in with what was happening on the stage. He reached out and took a cigarette and lit it. He glanced at Honeychile Rider who sat looking dazed and nervously clutching the arms of her chair. Bond gave her a reassuring smile.
‘Now, if you please.’ Sister Rose bent over a long printed form on expensive paper. ‘I promise to be as quick as I can. Your name please Mister – er …’
‘Bryce, John Bryce.’
She wrote busily. ‘Permanent address?’
‘Care of the Royal Zoological Society, Regent’s Park, London, England.’
‘Profession.’
‘Ornithologist.’
‘Oh dear,’ she dimpled at him, ‘could you please spell that?’
Bond did so.
‘Thank you so much. Now, let me see, Purpose of Visit?’
‘Birds,’ said Bond. ‘I am also a representative of the Audubon Society of New York. They have a lease of part of this island.’
‘Oh, really.’ Bond watched the pen writing down exactly what he had said. After the last word she put a neat query in brackets.
‘And,’ Sister Rose smiled politely in the direction of Honeychile, ‘your wife? Is she also interested in birds?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘And her first name?’
‘Honeychile.’
