He was still playing with the problem when she appeared quietly in the doorway to the bedroom and stood with one elbow resting high up against the door-jamb and her head bent sideways on to her hand. She looked down at him reflectively.
Bond got unhurriedly to his feet and looked back at her.
She was dressed to go out except for her hat, a small black affair that swung from her free hand. She wore a smart black tailor-made over a deep olive-green shirt buttoned at the neck, golden-tan nylons and black square-toed crocodile shoes that looked very expensive. There was a slim gold wrist-watch on a black strap at one wrist and a heavy gold chain bracelet at the other. One large baguette-cut diamond flared on the third finger of her right hand and a flat pearl ear-ring in twisted gold showed on her right ear where the heavy pale gold hair fell away from it.
She was very beautiful in a devil-may-care way, as if she kept her looks for herself and didn’t mind what men thought of them, and there was an ironical tilt to the finely drawn eyebrows above the wide, level, rather scornful grey eyes that seemed to say, «Sure. Come and try. But brother, you’d better be tops.»
The eyes themselves had the rare quality of chatoyance. When jewels have chatoyance the colour in the lustre changes with movement in the light, and the colour of this girl’s eyes seemed to vary between a light grey and a deep grey-blue.
Her skin was lightly tanned and without make-up except for a deep red on the lips, which were full and soft and rather moody so as to give the effect of what is called ‘a sinful mouth’. But not, thought Bond, one that often sinned — if one was to judge by the level eyes and the hint of authority and tension behind them.
The eyes now looked impersonally into his.
«So you’re Peter Franks,» she said and the voice was low and attractive, but with a touch of condescension.
«Yes,» he said. «And I’ve been wondering what T stands for.»
She thought for a moment. «I guess you can find out at the desk,» she said. «It stands for Tiffany.» She walked over to the gramophone and stopped the record in the middle of Je n’en connais pas la fin. She turned round. «But it’s not in the public domain,» she added coldly.
Bond shrugged his shoulders and moved over to the window-sill and leant easily against it with his ankles crossed.
His nonchalance seemed to irritate her. She sat down in front of the writing-desk. «Now then,» she said, and her voice had an edge to it, «Let’s get down to business. In the first place, why did you take on this job?»
«Somebody died.»
«Oh.» She looked at him sharply. «They told me your line was stealing.» She paused. «Hot blood or cold blood?»
«Hot blood. A fight.»
«So you want to get out?»
«That’s about it. And the money.»
She changed the subject. «Got a wooden leg? False teeth?»
«No. Everything’s real.»
She frowned. «I’m always telling them to find me a man with a wooden leg. Well, have you got any hobbies or anything? Any ideas about where you’re going to carry the stones?»
«No,» said Bond. «I play cards and golf. But I thought the handles of trunks and suitcases were good places for this sort of stuff.»
«So do the customs men,» she said dryly. She sat silent for a moment, reflecting. Then she pulled a piece of paper and a pencil towards her. «What sort of golf balls do you use?» she asked unsmilingly.
«They’re called Dunlop 65’s.» He was equally serious. «Maybe you’ve got something there.»
She made no comment, but wrote the name down. She looked up. «Got a passport?»
«Well, I have,» admitted Bond. «But it’s in my real name.»
«Oh.» She was suspicious again. «And what might that be?»
«James Bond.»
She snorted. «Why not choose Joe Doe?» She shrugged her shoulders. «Who cares anyway? Can you get an American visa in two days? And a vaccination certificate?»
«Don’t see why not,» said Bond. (Q Branch would fix all that.) «There’s nothing against me in America. Or at Criminal Records here, for the matter of that. Under Bond, that is.»
«Okay,» she said. «Now listen. Immigration will need this. You’re going over to the States to stay with a man called Tree. Michael Tree. You’ll be staying at the Astor in New York. He’s an American friend of yours. You met him in the war.» She unbent minutely. «Just for the record, this man really exists. He’ll back up your story. But he’s not generally known as Michael. He’s known as ‘Shady’ Tree to his friends. If any,» she added sourly.
Bond smiled.
«He’s not as funny as he sounds,» said the girl shortly. She opened a drawer in the desk and took out a packet of five-pound notes with a rubber band round it. She riffled them through and detached about half their number and put these back in the drawer. She rolled up the rest, snapped the rubber band round them and tossed the packet across the room to Bond. Bond leant forward and caught it near the floor.
«There’s about £500 in there,» she said. «Book yourself in at the Ritz and give that address to Immigration. Get a good used suitcase and put in it what you would take on a golfing holiday. Get your golf clubs. Keep out of sight. BOAC Monarch to New York. Thursday evening. Get a single ticket first thing tomorrow morning. The Embassy won’t give you a visa without seeing your ticket. Car will pick you up at the Ritz at 6.30 Thursday evening. Driver will give you the golf balls. Put ’em in your bag. And,» she looked him straight in the eye, «don’t think you can go into business for yourself with this stuff. The driver will stay alongside you until your luggage has gone out to the plane. And I’ll be at London Airport. So no funny business. Okay?»
Bond shrugged his shoulders. «What would I do with this kind of merchandise?» he said carelessly. «Too big for me. And what happens the other end?»
«Another driver will be waiting outside the customs. He’ll tell you what to do next. Now,» her voice was urgent, «If anything happens at the customs, either end, you know nothing, see? You just don’t know how the balls got into your bag. Whatever they ask you, just go on saying, ‘By me’. Act dumb. I shall be watching. And maybe others too. That I wouldn’t know. If they lock you up in America, ask for the British Consul and go on asking. You won’t get any help from us. But that’s what you’re being paid for. Okay?»
«Fair enough,» said Bond. «The only person I could get into trouble would be you.» He looked appraisingly at her. «And I wouldn’t like that to happen.»
«Shucks,» she said scornfully. «You’ve got nothing on me. Don’t worry about me, my friend. I can look after myself.» She got up and came and stood in front of him. «And don’t ‘little girl’ me,» she said sharply. «We’re on a job. And I can take care of myself. You’d be surprised.»
Bond stood up and away from the window-sill. He smiled down and into the flashing grey eyes that were now dark with impatience. «‘I can do anything better than you can.’ Don’t worry. I’ll be a credit to you. But just relax and stop being so business-like for a minute. I’d like to see you again. Could we meet in New York if everything goes all right?» Bond felt treacherous as he said the words. He liked this girl. He wanted to make friends with her. But it would be a question of using friendship to get further up the pipeline.
She looked thoughtfully at him for a moment and her eyes gradually lost their darkness. Her sharply compressed lips relaxed and parted a little. There was a hint of a stammer in her voice as she answered him.
«I, I… that is,» she brusquely turned away from him. «Hell,» she said, but the word sounded artificial. «I’ve got nothing on Friday night. Guess we might have dinner. ‘21’ Club on 52nd. All the cab drivers know it. Eight o’clock. If the job goes off okay. Suit you?» She turned back towards him and looked at his mouth and not his eyes.