Bond put down the card. «And so forth,» he said. He smiled at Tiffany Case. «So I buy you the number that’s just being auctioned and you win two thousand pounds. That’ll be a pile of dollars and pound notes and cheques. The only way of spending all that sterling, even suppose that those cheques are all good, which is doubtful, would be by smuggling it through under your suspender belt. And there we’d be, back in the same old racket, but now with me on the side of the devil.»
The girl was not impressed. «There used to be a guy in the gangs called Abadaba,» she said. «He was a crooked egg-head who knew all the answers. Worked out the track odds, fixed the percentage on the numbers racket, did all the brain work. They called him ‘The Wizard of Odds’. Got rubbed out quite by mistake in the Dutch Schultz killing,» she added parenthetically. «I guess you’re just another Abadaba the way you talk yourself out of having to spend some money on a girl. Oh, well,» she shrugged her shoulders resignedly, «will you stake your girl to another Stinger?»
Bond beckoned to the steward. When he had gone she leant over so that her hair brushed his ear and said softly. «I don’t really want it. You have it. I want to stay sober as Sunday tonight.» She sat up straight. «And now what’s going on around here?» she said impatiently. «I want to see some action.»
«Here it comes,» said Bond. The auctioneer raised his voice and there was a hush in the room. «And now, ladies and gentlemen,» he said impressively. «We come to the 64,000-dollar question. Who is going to bid me £100 for the choice of High or Low Field? We all know what that means — the option to choose the High Field, which I seem to feel may be the popular choice this evening (laughter) in view of the wonderful weather outside. So who will open the bidding with £100 for the choice of High or Low Field?»
«Thank you, Sir! And now 120 and 130. Thank you, madam.»
«Hundred and fifty,» said a man’s voice not far from their table.
«A hundred and sixty.» This time it was a woman.
Monotonously the man’s voice called the 170.
«Eighty,» said someone.
«Two hundred pounds.»
Something made Bond turn round and look at the man who had spoken.
It was a biggish man. His face had the glistening, pasty appearance of a spat-out bullseye. Small, cold dark eyes were looking towards the auctioneer’s platform through motionless bifocals. All the man’s neck seemed to be at the back of his head.
Sweat matted the curly black algae of his hair and now he took off his glasses and picked up a napkin and wiped the sweat off with a circular motion that started with the left side of the face and swirled round to the back of his head where his right hand took over and completed the circuit as far as the dripping nose. «Two hundred and ten,» said someone. The big man’s chin wobbled and he opened his tight-buttoned mouth and said, «Two hundred and twenty» in a level American voice.
What was there about this man that struck a chord in Bond’s memory? He watched the big face, running his mind’s eye over the filing system of his brain, pulling out drawer after drawer, hunting for the clue. The face? The voice? England? America?
Bond gave up and turned his attention to the other man at the table. Again, the same urgent sense of recognition. The curiously delicate young features under the slicked-back white hair. The soft brown eyes under the long lashes. The general effect of prettiness, spoiled by the fleshy nose over the wide thin mouth, now open in a square empty smile like the grin of a letter-box.
«Two hundred and fifty,» said the big man mechanically.
Bond turned to Tiffany. «Ever see those two before?» he said and she noticed the line of worry between his eyes.
«Nope,» she said definitely. «Never did. Look like something from Brooklyn to me. Or a couple of cloak-and-suiters from the Garment District. Why? Do they mean anything to you?»
Bond gave them another glance. «No,» he said doubtfully. «No, I don’t think so.»
There was a burst of clapping in the room and the auctioneer beamed and rapped on the table. «Ladies and gentlemen,» he said triumphantly. «This is really splendid. Three hundred pounds I am bid by the charming lady in the beautiful pink evening dress. (Heads turned and craned and Bond could see the mouths saying ‘who is she?’) And now, Sir,» he turned towards the fat man’s table, «May I say £525?»
«Three hundred and fifty,» said the fat man.
«Four hundred,» squealed the pink woman.
«Five hundred.» The voice was toneless, indifferent.
The pink girl chattered angrily at her escort. The man suddenly looked bored. He caught the auctioneer’s eye and shook his head.
«Any increase on £500?» said the auctioneer. He now knew that he had squeezed all he would get out of the room. «Going once. Going twice.» Bang! «Sold to the gentleman over there, and I really think he deserves a clap.» He clapped his hands and the crowd dutifully followed suit although they would have preferred the pink girl to win.
The fat man lifted himself a few inches off his chair and then sat down again. There was no acknowledgment of the applause in his glistening face and he kept his eyes fixed on the auctioneer.
«And now we must go through the formality of asking this gentleman which Field he prefers. (Laughter.) Sir, do you choose the High Field or the Low Field?» The auctioneer’s voice was ironical. The question was a waste of time.
«Low Field.»
There was a moment of dead silence in the crowded Smoking Room. It was quickly followed by a buzz of comment. There had been no question. It was obvious that the man would take the High Field. The weather was perfect. The Queen must be doing at least thirty knots. Did he know something? Had he bribed someone on the bridge? Was a storm coming up? Was a bearing running hot?
The auctioneer rapped for silence. «I beg your pardon, Sir,» he said, «but did you say the Low Field?»
«Yes.»
The auctioneer rapped again. «In that case, ladies and gentlemen, we will now proceed to auction the High Field. Madam,» he turned with a bow towards the girl in pink. «Would you care to open the bidding?»
Bond turned to Tiffany. «That was a queer business,» he said. «Extraordinary thing to do. Sea’s as calm as glass.» He shrugged his shoulders. «The only answer is that they know something.» The matter was of no interest, anyway. «Someone’s told them something.» He turned and looked carelessly at the two men and then let his eyes swing past and away from them. «They seem to be quite interested in us.»
Tiffany glanced past his shoulder. «They’re not looking at us now,» she said. «I figure they’re just a couple of dopes. The white-haired guy’s looking stupid and the fat man’s sucking his thumb. They’re screwy. Doubt if they know what they’ve bought. They just got their signals crossed.»
«Sucking his thumb?» said Bond. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair, a vague memory nagging at him.
Perhaps if she had left him to follow the train of thought he would have remembered. Instead she put her hand over his and leant towards him so that her hair brushed against his face. «Forget it, James,» she said. «And don’t think so hard about those stupid men.» Her eyes were suddenly ardent and demanding. «I’ve had enough of this place. Take me somewhere else.»
Without saying anything more, they got up and left the table and walked out of the noisy room to the staircase. As they went down the stairs to the deck below, Bond’s arm went round the girl’s waist and her head fell against his shoulder.