Читать книгу On Her Majesty's Secret Service Trilogy (Spy Classics Series) - Ian Fleming - Страница 10

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JAMES BOND’S heart was still in his boots as he was conducted again through the musty corridors. Sable Basilisk indeed! What kind of a besotted old fogy would this be?

There came another heavy door with the name in gold and this time with a nightmare black monster, with a vicious beak, above it. But now Bond was shown into a light, clean, pleasantly furnished room with attractive prints on the walls and meticulous order among its books. There was a faint smell of Turkish tobacco. A young man, a few years younger than Bond, got up and came across the room to meet him. He was rapier-slim, with a fine, thin, studious face that was saved from seriousness by wry lines at the edges of the mouth and an ironical glint in the level eyes.

‘Commander Bond?’ The handshake was brief and firm. ‘I’d been expecting you. How did you get into the claws of our dear Griffon? He’s a bit of an enthusiast, I’m afraid. We all are here, of course. But he’s getting on. Nice chap, but he’s a bit dedicated, if you know what I mean.’

It was indeed like a college, this place, reflected Bond. Much of the atmosphere one associates with the Senior Common Room at a University. No doubt Griffon Or mentally put down Sable Basilisk as a young dilettante who was too big for his boots. He said, ‘He seemed very anxious to establish a connection between me and Bond Street. It took some time to persuade him that I’m perfectly content to be an ordinary Bond, which, by the way, he, rather churlishly I thought, said meant “a churl” . ’

Sable Basilisk laughed. He sat down behind his desk, pulled a file towards him, and gestured Bond to a chair beside him. ‘Well, then. Let’s get down to business. First of all’ – he looked Bond very straight in the eye – ‘I gather, I guess that is, that this is an Intelligence matter of some kind. I did my national service with Intelligence in baor, so please don’t worry about security. Secondly, we have in this building probably as many secrets as a government department – and nastier ones at that. One of our jobs is to suggest titles to people who’ve been ennobled in the Honours Lists. Sometimes we’re asked to establish ownership to a title that has become lost or defunct. Snobbery and vanity positively sprawl through our files. Before my time, a certain gentleman who had come up from nowhere, made millions in some light industry or another, and had been given a peerage “for political and public services” – i.e., charities and the party funds – suggested that he should take the title of Lord Bentley Royal, after the village in Essex. We explained that the word Royal could not be used except by the reigning family, but, rather naughtily I fear, we said that “Lord Bentley Common” was vacant.’ He smiled. ‘See what I mean? If that got about, this man would become the laughing-stock of the country. Then sometimes we have to chase up lost fortunes. So-and-so thinks he’s the rightful Duke of Blank and ought to have his money. His name happens to be Blank and his ancestors migrated to America or Australia or somewhere. So avarice and greed come to join snobbery and vanity in these rooms. Of course,’ he added, putting the record straight, ‘that’s only the submerged tenth of our job. The rest is mostly official stuff for governments and embassies – problems of precedence and protocol, the Garter ceremonies and others. We’ve been doing it for around five hundred years so I suppose it’s got its place in the scheme of things.’

‘Of course it has,’ said Bond staunchly. ‘And certainly, so far as security is concerned, I’m sure we can be open with each other. Now this man Blofeld. Truth of the matter is he’s probably the biggest crook in the world. Remember that Thunderball affair about a year ago? Only some of it leaked into the papers, but I can tell you that this Blofeld was at the bottom of it all. Now, how did you come to hear of him? Every detail, please. Everything about him is important.’

Sable Basilisk turned back to the first letter on the file. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I thought this might be the same chap when I got a lot of urgent calls from the Foreign Office and the Ministry of Defence yesterday. Hadn’t occurred to me before, I’m afraid, that this is a case where our secrets have to come second, or I’d have done something about it earlier. Now then, in June last, the tenth, we got this confidential letter from a firm of respectable Zürich solicitors, dated the day before. I’ll read it out:

‘Honoured Sirs,

‘We have a valued client by the name of Ernst Stavro Blofeld. This gentleman styles himself Monsieur le Comte Balthazar de Bleuville in the belief that he is the rightful heir to this title which we understand to be extinct. His belief is based on stories he heard from his parents in childhood to the effect that his family fled France at the time of the Revolution, settled in Germany under the adopted name of Blofeld, assumed in order to evade the Revolutionary authorities and safeguard their fortune which they had sequestered in Augsburg, and subsequently, in the 1850’s, migrated to Poland.

‘Our client is now anxious to have these facts established in order legally to obtain right to the de Bleuville title supported by an Acte de Notoriété which would in due course receive the stamp of approval of the Ministère de la Justice in Paris.

‘In the meantime, our client proposes to continue to adopt, albeit provisionally, the title of Comte de Bleuville together with the family arms which he informs us are “Argent four fusils in fesse gules” and the de Bleuville motto which, in English, is “For Hearth and Home” . ’

‘That’s a good one!’ interjected Bond. Sable Basilisk smiled and continued:

‘We understand that you, honoured Sirs, are the only body in the world who is capable of undertaking this research work and we have been instructed to get in touch with you under the strictest conditions of confidence, which, in view of the social aspects involved, we think we have the right to request.

‘The financial standing of our client is impeccable and expense is no object in this matter. As a preliminary honorarium and open acceptance of this commission, we propose a payment of one thousand pounds sterling to your account in such bank as you may designate.

‘Awaiting the favour of an early reply, we remain, honoured sirs etc. etc., Gebrüder Gumpold-Moosbrugger, Advokaten, 16 bis, Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich.’

Sable Basilisk looked up. James Bond’s eyes were glittering with excitement. Sable Basilisk smiled. ‘We were even more interested than you seem to be. You see, to let you in on a secret, our salaries are extremely modest. So we all have private means which we supplement from fees received for special work like this. These fees rarely go above fifty guineas for a piece of pretty tough research and all the leg work at Somerset House and in parish records and graveyards that is usually involved in tracking a man’s ancestry. So this looked like a real challenge for the College, and as I was “in waiting” the day the letter came in, sort of “officer of the watch”, the job fell into my lap.’

Bond said urgently, ‘So what happened? Have you kept the contact?’

‘Oh yes, but rather tenuously, I’m afraid. Of course I wrote at once accepting the commission and agreeing to the vow of secrecy which’ – he smiled – ‘you now force me to break presumably by invoking the Official Secrets Act. That is so, isn’t it? I am acting under force majeure?’

‘You are indeed,’ said Bond emphatically.

Sable Basilisk made a careful note on the top paper in the file and continued. ‘Of course the first thing I had to ask for was the man’s birth certificate and, after a delay, I was told that it had been lost and that I was on no account to worry about it. The Count had in fact been born in Gdynia of a Polish father and a Greek mother – I have the names here – on May 28th, 1908. Could I not pursue my researches backwards from the de Bleuville end? I replied temporizing, but by this time I had indeed established from our library that there had been a family of de Bleuvilles, at least as lately as the seventeenth century, at a place called Blonville-sur-Mer, Calvados, and that their arms and motto were as claimed by Blofeld.’ Sable Basilisk paused. ‘This of course he must have known for himself. There would have been no purpose in inventing a family of de Bleuvilles and trying to stuff them down our throats. I told the lawyers of my discovery and, in my summer holidays – the North of France is more or less my private heraldic beat, so to speak, and very rich it is too in connections with England – I motored down there and sniffed around. But meanwhile I had, as a matter of routine, written to our Ambassador in Warsaw and asked him to contact our Consul in Gdynia and request him to employ a lawyer to make the simple researches with the Registrar and the various churches where Blofeld might have been baptized. The reply, early in September, was, but is no longer, surprising. The pages containing the record of Blofeld’s birth had been neatly cut out. I kept this information to myself, that is to say I did not pass it on to the Swiss lawyers because I had been expressly instructed to make no inquiries in Poland. Meanwhile I had carried out similar inquiries through a lawyer in Augsburg. There, there was indeed a record of Blofelds, but of a profusion of them, for it is a fairly common German name, and in any case nothing to link any of them with the de Bleuvilles from Calvados. So I was stumped, but no more than I have been before, and I wrote a neutral report to the Swiss lawyers and said that I was continuing my researches. And there’ – Sable Basilisk slapped the file shut – ‘until my telephone began ringing yesterday, presumably because someone in the Northern Department of the Foreign Office was checking the file copies from Warsaw and the name Blofeld rang a bell, and you appeared looking very impatient from the cave of my friend the Griffon, the case rests.’

Bond scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘But the ball’s still in play?’

‘Oh yes, definitely.’

‘Can you keep it in play? I take it you haven’t got Blofeld’s present address?’ Sable Basilisk shook his head. ‘Then would there be any conceivable excuse for an envoy from you?’ Bond smiled. ‘Me, for example, to be sent out from the College to have an interview with Blofeld – some tricky point that cannot be cleared up by correspondence, something that needs a personal inquiry from Blofeld?’

‘Well, yes, there is in a way.’ Sable Basilisk looked rather dubious. ‘You see, in some families there is a strong physical characteristic that goes on inevitably from generation to generation. The Habsburg lip is a case in point. So is the tendency to haemophilia among descendants of the Bourbons. The hawk nose of the Medici is another. A certain royal family have minute, vestigial tails. The original maharajahs of Mysore were born with six fingers on each hand. I could go on indefinitely, but those are the most famous cases. Now, when I was scratching around in the crypt of the chapel at Blonville, having a look at the old Bleuville tombs, my flashlight, moving over the stone faces, picked out a curious fact that I tucked away in my mind but that your question has brought to the surface. None of the de Bleuvilles, as far as I could tell, and certainly not through a hundred and fifty years, had lobes to their ears.’

‘Ah,’ said Bond, running over in his mind the Identicast picture of Blofeld and the complete, printed physiognometry of the man in Records. ‘So he shouldn’t by rights have lobes to his ears. Or at any rate it would be a strong piece of evidence for his case if he hadn’t?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, he has got lobes,’ said Bond, annoyed. ‘Rather pronounced lobes as a matter of fact. Where does that get us?’

‘To begin with, added to what I know anyway, that makes him probably not a de Bleuville. But after all’ – Sable Basilisk looked sly – ‘there’s no reason why he should know what physical characteristic we’re looking for in this interview.’

‘You think we could set one up?’

‘Don’t see why not. But’ – Sable Basilisk was apologetic – ‘would you mind if I got clearance from Garter King of Arms? He’s my boss, so to speak, under the Duke of Norfolk that is, the Earl Marshal, and I can’t remember that we’ve ever been mixed up in this sort of cloak-and-dagger stuff before. Actually’ – Sable Basilisk waved a deprecating hand – ‘we are, we have to be, damned meticulous. You do see that, don’t you?’

‘Naturally. And I’m sure there’d be no objection. But, even if Blofeld agreed to see me, how in hell could I play the part? This stuff is all double Dutch to me.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t know the difference between a gule and a bezant and I’ve never been able to make out what a baronet is. What’s my story to Blofeld? Who am I exactly?’

Sable Basilisk was getting enthusiastic. He said cheerfully, ‘Oh that’ll be all right. I’ll coach you in all the dope about the de Bleuvilles. You can easily mug up a few popular books on heraldry. It’s not difficult to be impressive on the subject. Very few people know anything about it.’

‘Maybe. But this Blofeld is a pretty smart animal. He’ll want the hell of a lot of credentials before he sees anyone but his lawyer and his banker. Who exactly am I?’

‘You think Blofeld’s smart because you’ve seen the smart side of him,’ said Sable Basilisk sapiently. ‘I’ve seen hundreds of smart people from the City, industry, politics – famous people I’ve been quite frightened to meet when they walked into this room. But when it comes to snobbery, to buying respectability so to speak, whether it’s the title they’re going to choose or just a coat of arms to hang over their fire-places in Surbiton, they dwindle and dwindle in front of you’ – he made a downward motion over his desk with his hand – ‘until they’re no bigger than homunculi. And the women are even worse. The idea of suddenly becoming a “lady” in their small community is so intoxicating that the way they bare their souls is positively obscene. It’s as if’ – Sable Basilisk furrowed his high, pale brow, seeking for a simile – ‘these fundamentally good citizens, these Smiths and Browns and Joneses and’ – he smiled across the desk – ‘Bonds, regarded the process of ennoblement as a sort of laying-on of hands, a way of ridding themselves of all the drabness of their lives, of all their, so to speak, essential meagreness, their basic inferiority. Don’t worry about Blofeld. He has already swallowed the bait. He may be a tremendous gangster, and he must be from what I remember of the case. He may be tough and ruthless in his corner of human behaviour. But if he is trying to prove that he is the Comte de Bleuville, you can be sure of various things. He wants to change his name. That is obvious. He wants to become a new, a respectable personality. That is obvious too. But above all he wants to become a Count.’ Sable Basilisk brought his hand flat down on his desk for emphasis. ‘That, Mr Bond, is tremendously significant. He is a rich and successful man in his line of business – no matter what it is. He no longer admires the material things, riches and power. He is now 54, as I reckon it. He wants a new skin. I can assure you, Mr Bond, that he will receive you, if we play our cards right that is, as if he were consulting his doctor about’ – Sable Basilisk’s aristocratic face took on an expression of distaste – ‘as if he were consulting his doctor after contracting V.D.’ Sable Basilisk’s eyes were now compelling. He sat back in his chair and lit his first cigarette. The smell of Turkish tobacco drifted across to Bond. ‘That’s it,’ he said with certitude. ‘This man knows he is unclean, a social pariah. Which of course he is. Now he has thought up this way of buying himself a new identity. If you ask me, we must help the hair to grow and flourish on his heel of Achilles until it is so luxuriant that he trips on it.’