Bond walked thoughtfully down the trim narrow drive and smelled the musty smell of the laurels and the laburnums. Could he stand it? Was there any way out of this hell-hole short of resigning from the Service? Deep in thought, he almost collided with a girl in white who came hurrying round a sharp bend in the thickly hedged drive. At the same instant as she swerved out of his path and flashed him an amused smile, a mauve Bentley, taking the corner too fast, was on top of her. At one moment she was almost under its wheels, at the next, Bond, with one swift step, had gathered her up by the waist and, executing a passable Veronica, with a sharp swivel of his hips had picked her body literally off the bonnet of the car. He put the girl down as the Bentley dry-skidded to a stop in the gravel. His right hand held the memory of one beautiful breast. The girl said ‘Oh!’ and looked up into his eyes with an expression of flurried astonishment. Then she took in what had happened and said breathlessly, ‘Oh, thank you.’ She turned towards the car. A man had climbed unhurriedly down from the driving seat. He said calmly, ‘I am so sorry. Are you all right?’ Recognition dawned on his face. He said silkily, ‘Why, if it isn’t my friend Patricia? How are you, Pat? All ready for me?’
The man was extremely handsome – a dark bronzed woman-killer with a neat moustache above the sort of callous mouth women kiss in their dreams. He had regular features that suggested Spanish or South American blood and bold, hard brown eyes that turned up oddly, or, as a woman would put it, intriguingly, at the corners. He was an athletic-looking six foot, dressed in the sort of casually well-cut beige herring-bone tweed that suggests Anderson and Sheppard. He wore a white silk shirt and a dark red polka-dot tie, and the soft dark brown V-necked sweater looked like vicuna. Bond summed him up as a good-looking bastard who got all the women he wanted and probably lived on them – and lived well.
The girl had recovered her poise. She said severely, ‘You really ought to be more careful, Count Lippe. You know there are always patients and staff walking down this drive. If it hadn’t been for this gentleman,’ she smiled at Bond, ‘you’d have run me over. After all, there
‘I am so sorry, my dear. I was hurrying. I am late for my appointment with the good Mr Wain. I am as usual in need of decarbonization – this time after two weeks in Paris.’ He turned to Bond. He said with a hint of condescension, ‘Thank you, my dear sir. You have quick reactions. And now, if you will forgive me – ’ He raised a hand, got back into the Bentley, and purred off up the drive.
The girl said, ‘Now I really must hurry. I’m terribly late.’ Together they turned and walked after the Bentley.
Bond said, examining her, ‘Do you work here?’ She said that she did. She had been at Shrublands for three years. She liked it. And how long was he staying? The small-talk continued.
She was an athletic-looking girl whom Bond would have casually associated with tennis, or skating, or show-jumping. She had the sort of firm, compact figure that always attracted him and a fresh open-air type of prettiness that would have been commonplace but for a wide, rather passionate mouth and a hint of authority that would be a challenge to men. She was dressed in a feminine version of the white smock worn by Mr Wain, and it was clear from the undisguised curves of her breasts and hips that she had little on underneath it. Bond asked her if she didn’t get bored. What did she do with her time off?
She acknowledged the gambit with a smile and a quick glance of appraisal. ‘I’ve got one of those bubble cars. I get about the country quite a lot. And there are wonderful walks. And one’s always seeing new people here. Some of them are very interesting. That man in the car, Count Lippe. He comes here every year. He tells me fascinating things about the Far East – China and so on. He’s got some sort of a business in a place called Macao. It’s near Hong Kong, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ So those turned-up eyes were a dash of Chinaman. It would be interesting to know his background. Probably Portuguese blood if he came from Macao.
They had reached the entrance. Inside the warm hall the girl said, ‘Well, I must run. Thank you again.’ She gave him a smile that, for the benefit of the watching receptionist, was entirely neutral. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’ She hurried off towards the treatment rooms. Bond followed, his eyes on the taut swell of her hips. He glanced at his watch and also went down the stairs and into a spotlessly white basement that smelled faintly of olive oil and Aerosol disinfectant.
