‘Very good, sir.’ The gym shoes of the chief attendant, followed by the slapping feet, came down the corridor outside the plastic curtain of the massage room and on to the end room of all, the electric Turkish bath. The door sighed shut and a few minutes later sighed again as the attendant, having installed Count Lippe, came back down the corridor. Twenty minutes went by. Twenty-five. Bond rolled off the table. ‘Well, thanks, Sam. You’ve done me a power of good. I’ll be back to see you again one of these days I expect. I’ll just go along and have a final salt rub and a Sitz bath. You cut along to your carrot cutlets. Don’t worry about me. I’ll let myself out when I’ve finished.’ Bond wrapped a towel round his waist and moved off down the corridor. There was a flurry of movement and voices as the attendants got rid of their patients and made their way through the staff door for the luncheon break. The last patient, a reformed drunk, called back from the entrance, ‘See you later, Irrigator!’ Somebody laughed. Now the petty-officer voice of Beresford sounded down the corridor, making certain that everything was shipshape: ‘Windows, Bill? Okay. Your next is Mr Dunbar at two sharp. Len, tell the laundry we shall need more towels after lunch. Ted…Ted. You there, Ted? Well, then, Sam, look after Count Lippe, would you, Turkish bath.’
Bond had listened to this routine for a whole week, noting the men that cut minutes off their duty and got off early to lunch, noting the ones that stayed to do their full share of the last chores. Now, from the open door of the empty shower room, he called back, in Sam’s deep voice, ‘Okay, Mr Beresford,’ and waited for the crisp squeak of the gym shoes on the linoleum. There it was! The brief pause half way down the corridor and then the double sigh as the staff door opened and shut. Now there was dead silence save for the hum of the fans. The treatment rooms were empty. Now there was only James Bond and Count Lippe.
Bond waited a moment and then came out of the shower room and softly opened the door to the Turkish bath. He had had one session in the place, just to get the geography clear in his mind, and the scene was exactly as he remembered.
It was a white cubicle treatment-room like all the others, but in this one the only object was a big cream metal and plastic box about five feet tall by four feet square. It was closed on all sides but the top. The front of the big cabinet was hinged to allow a patient to climb in and sit inside and there was a hole in the top with a foam rubber support for the nape of the neck and the chin, through which the patient’s head emerged. The rest of his body was exposed to the heat from many rows of naked electric bulbs inside the cabinet and the degree of heat was thermostatically controlled by a dial at the back of the cabinet. It was a simple sweat-box, designed, as Bond had noticed on his previous visit to the room, by the Medikalischer Maschinenbau G.m.b.H., 44 Franziskanerstrasse, Ulm, Bavaria.
The cabinet faced away from the door. At the hiss of the hydraulic fastener, Count Lippe said angrily, ‘Goddammit, Beresford. Let me out of this thing. I’m sweating like a pig.’
‘You said you wanted it hot, sir.’ Bond’s amiable voice was a good approximation to the chief attendant’s.
‘Don’t argue, goddammit. Let me out of here.’
‘I don’t think you quite realize the value of heat in the H-Cure, sir. Heat resolves many of the toxins in the blood-stream and for the matter of that in the muscle tissue also. A patient suffering from your condition of pronounced toxaemia will find much benefit from the heat treatment.’ Bond found the H-lingo rattling quite easily off the tongue. He was not worried about the consequences to Beresford. He would have the solid alibi of luncheon in the staff canteen.
‘Don’t give me that crap. I tell you, let me out of here.’
Bond examined the dial on the back of the machine. The needle stood at 120. What should he give the man? The dial ran up to 200 degrees. That much might roast him alive. This was only to be a punishment, not a murder. Perhaps 180 would be a just retribution. Bond clicked the knob up to 180. He said: ‘I think just half an hour of real heat will do you the world of good, sir.’ Bond dropped the sham voice. He added sharply, ‘And if you catch fire you can sue.’
The dripping head tried to turn, failed. Bond moved towards the door. Count Lippe now had a new voice, controlled but desperate. He said woodenly, concealing the knowledge and the hate, ‘Give you a thousand pounds and we’re quits.’ He heard the hiss of the opening door. ‘Ten thousand. All right then, fifty.’
