Читать книгу On Her Majesty's Secret Service Trilogy (Spy Classics Series) - Ian Fleming - Страница 13

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IT WAS one of those leather-padded bars, bogus-masculine, and still, because of its newness, smelling like the inside of a new motor-car. It was made to look like a Tyrolean Stube by a big stone fire-place with a roaring log fire and cartwheel chandeliers with red-stemmed electric ‘candles’. There were many wrought-iron gimmicks – wall-light brackets, ashtrays, table lamps – and the bar itself was ‘gay’ with small flags and miniature liqueur bottles. Attractive zither music tripped out from a hidden loud-speaker. It was not, Bond decided, a place to get seriously drunk in.

When he closed the leather-padded, brass-studded door behind him, there was a moment’s hush, then a mounting of decibels to hide the covert glances, the swift summing-up. Bond got a fleeting impression of one of the most beautiful groups of girls he had ever seen, when Irma Bunt, hideous in some kind of home-made, homespun ‘après-ski’, in which orange and black predominated, waddled out from among the galaxy and took him in charge. ‘Sir Hilary.’ She grasped his hand with a dry, monkey grip. ‘How delightful, isn’t it? Come please, and meet my girls.’

It was tremendously hot in the room and Bond felt the sweat bead on his forehead as he was led from table to table and shook this cool, this warm, this languid hand. Names like Ruby, Violet, Pearl, Anne, Elizabeth, Beryl, sounded in his ears, but all he saw was a sea of beautiful, sunburned faces and a succession of splendid, sweatered young bosoms. It was like being at home to the Tiller or the Bluebell Girls. At last he got to the seat that had been kept for him, between Irma Bunt and a gorgeous, bosomy blonde with large blue eyes. He sat down, overcome. The barman hovered. Bond pulled himself together. ‘Whisky and soda, please,’ he said, and heard his voice from far away. He took some time lighting a cigarette while sham, stage conversation broke out among the four tables in the semicircular embrasure that must, during the day, be the great lookout point. Ten girls and Irma. All English. No surnames. No other man. Girls in their twenties. Working girls probably. Sort of air-hostess type. Excited at having a man among them – a personable man and a baronet to boot – if that was what one did to a baronet. Pleased with his private joke, Bond turned to the blonde. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.’

‘I’m Ruby.’ The voice was friendly but refined. ‘It must be quite an ordeal being the only chap – among all us girls, I mean.’

‘Well, it was rather a surprise. But a very pleasant one. It’s going to be difficult getting all your names right.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Be an angel and run through the field, so to speak.’

Bond’s drink came and he was glad to find it strong. He took a long but discreet pull at it. He had noticed that the girls were drinking Colas and squashes with a sprinkling of feminine cocktails – Orange Blossoms, Daiquiris. Ruby was one of the ones with a Daiquiri. It was apparently O.K. to drink, but he would be careful to show a gentlemanly moderation.

Ruby seemed pleased to be able to break the ice. ‘Well, I’ll start on your right. That’s Miss Bunt, the sort of matron, so to speak. You’ve met her. Then, in the violet camelot sweater, well, that’s Violet of course. Then at the next table. The one in the green and gold Pucci shirt is Anne and next to her in green is Pearl. She’s my sort of best friend here.’ And so it went on, from one glorious golden girl to the next. Bond heard scraps of their conversation. ‘Fritz says I’m not getting enough Vorlage. My skis keep on running away from me.’ ‘It’s the same with me’ – a giggle – ‘my sit-upon’s black and blue.’ ‘The Count says I’m getting on very well. Won’t it be awful when we have to go?’ ‘I wonder how Polly’s doing? She’s been out a month now.’ ‘I think Skol’s the only stuff for sunburn. All those oils and creams are nothing but frying-fat.’ And so on – mostly the chatter you would expect from a group of cheerful, healthy girls learning to ski, except for the occasional rather awed reference to the Count and the covert glances at Irma Bunt and Bond to make sure that they were behaving properly, not making too much noise.

While Ruby continued her discreet roll-call, Bond tried to fix the names to the faces and otherwise add to his comprehension of this lovely but bizarre group locked up on top of a very high Alp indeed. The girls all seemed to share a certain basic, girl-guidish simplicity of manners and language, the sort of girls who, in an English pub, you would find sitting demurely with a boy friend sipping a Babycham, puffing rather clumsily at a cigarette and occasionally saying ‘pardon’. Good girls, girls who, if you made a pass at them, would say, ‘Please don’t spoil it all’, ‘Men only want one thing’ or, huffily, ‘Please take your hand away’. And there were traces of many accents, accents from all over Britain – the broad vowels of Lancashire, the lilt of Wales, the burr of Scotland, the adenoids of refined Cockney.

Yours truly foxed, concluded Bond as Ruby finished with ‘And that’s Beryl in the pearls and twin-set. Now do you think you’ve got us all straight?’

Bond looked into the round blue eyes that now held a spark of animation. ‘Frankly no. And I feel like one of those comic film stars who get snarled up in a girls’ school. You know. Sort of St Trinian’s.’

She giggled. (Bond was to discover that she was a chronic giggler. She was too ‘dainty’ to open her lovely lips and laugh. He was also to find that she couldn’t sneeze like a human, but let out a muffled, demure squeak into her scrap of lace handkerchief, and that she took very small mouthfuls at meals and barely masticated with the tips of her teeth before swallowing with hardly a ripple of her throat. She had been ‘well brought up’.) ‘Oh, but we’re not all like St Trinian’s. Those awful girls! How could you ever say such a thing!’

‘Just a thought,’ said Bond airily. ‘Now then, how about another drink?’

‘Oh, thanks awfully.’

Bond turned to Fräulein Bunt. ‘And you, Miss Bunt?’

‘Thank you, Sair Hilary. An apple-juice, if you please.’

Violet, the fourth at their table, said demurely that she wouldn’t have another Coke. ‘They give me wind,’ she explained.

‘Oh Violet!’ Ruby’s sense of the proprieties was outraged. ‘How can you say such a thing!’

‘Well, anyway, they do,’ said Violet obstinately. ‘They make me hiccup. No harm in saying that, is there?’

Good old Manchester, thought Bond. He got up and went to the bar, wondering how he was going to plough on through this and other evenings. He ordered the drinks and had a brain-wave. He would break the ice! By hook or by crook he would become the life and soul of the party! He asked for a tumbler and that its rim should be dipped in water. Then he picked up a paper cocktail napkin and went back to the table. He sat down. ‘Now,’ he said as eyes goggled at him, ‘if we were paying for our drinks, I’ll show you how we’d decide who should pay. I learned this in the Army.’ He placed the tumbler in the middle of the table, opened the paper napkin and spread the centre tightly over the top so that it clung to the moist edge of the glass. He took his small change out of his pocket, selected a five-centime piece, and dropped it gently on to the centre of the stretched tissue. ‘Now then,’ he announced, remembering that the last time he had played this game had been in the dirtiest bar in Singapore. ‘Who else smokes? We need three others with lighted cigarettes.’ Violet was the only one at their table. Irma clapped her hands with authority. ‘Elizabeth, Beryl, come over here. And come and watch, girls, Sair Hilary is making the joke game.’ The girls clustered round, chattering happily at the diversion. ‘What’s he doing?’ ‘What’s going to happen?’ ‘How do you play?’

‘Now then,’ said Bond, feeling like the games director on a cruise ship, ‘this is for who pays for the drinks. One by one, you take a puff at your cigarette, knock off the ash, like this, and touch the top of the paper with the lighted end – just enough to burn a tiny hole, like this.’ The paper sparkled briefly. ‘Now Violet, then Elizabeth, then Beryl. The point is, the paper gets like a sort of cobweb with the coin just supported in the middle. The person who burns the last hole and makes the coin drop has to pay for the drinks. See? Now then, Violet.’

There were squeaks of excitement. ‘What a lovely game!’ ‘Oh, Beryl, look out!’ Lovely heads craned over Bond. Lovely hair brushed his cheek. Quickly the three girls got the trick of very delicately touching a space that would not collapse the cobweb until Bond, who considered himself an expert at the game, decided to be chivalrous and purposely burned a vital strand. With the chink of the coin falling into the glass there was a burst of excited laughter and applause.

‘So, you see, girls.’ It was as if Irma Bunt had invented the game. ‘Sair Hilary pays, isn’t it? A most delightful pastime. And now’ – she looked at her mannish wristwatch – ‘we must finish our drinks. It is five minutes to supper time.’

There were cries of ‘Oh, one more game, Miss Bunt!’ But Bond politely rose with his whisky in his hand. ‘We will play again tomorrow. I hope it’s not going to start you all off smoking. I’m sure it was invented by the tobacco companies!’

There was laughter. But the girls stood admiringly round Bond. What a sport he was! And they had all expected a stuffed shirt! Bond felt justifiably proud of himself. The ice had been broken. He had got them all minutely on his side. Now they were all chums together. From now on he would be able to get to talk to them without frightening them. Feeling reasonably pleased with his gambit, he followed the tight pants of Irma Bunt into the dining-room next door.

It was seven-thirty. Bond suddenly felt exhausted, exhausted with the prospect of boredom, exhausted with playing the most difficult role of his career, exhausted with the enigma of Blofeld and the Piz Gloria. What in hell was the bastard up to? He sat down on the right of Irma Bunt in the same placing as for drinks, with Ruby on his right and Violet, dark, demure, self-effacing, opposite him, and glumly opened his napkin. Blofeld had certainly spent money on his eyrie. Their three tables, in a remote corner by the long, curved, curtained window, occupied only a fraction of the space in the big, low, luxuriously appointed, mock-German baroque room, ornate with candelabra suspended from the of flying cherubs, festooned with heavy gilt plasterwork, solemnized by the dark portraits of anonymous noblemen. Blofeld must be pretty certain he was here to stay. What was the investment? Certainly not less than a million sterling, even assuming a fat mortgage from Swiss banks on the cost of the cable railway. To lease an alp, put up a cable railway on mortgage, with the engineers and the local district council participating – that, Bond knew, was one of the latest havens for fugitive funds. If you were successful, if you and the council could bribe or bully the local farmers to allow right-of-way through their pastures, cut swaths through the tree-line for the cable pylons and the ski-runs, the rest was publicity and amenities for the public to eat their sandwiches. Add to that the snob-appeal of a posh, heavily restricted club such as Bond imagined this, during the daytime, to be, the coroneted G, and the mystique of a research institute run by a Count, and you were off to the races. Skiing today, Bond had read, was the most widely practised sport in the world. It sounded unlikely, but then one reckoned the others largely by spectators. Skiers were participants, and bigger spenders on equipment than in other sports. Clothes, boots, skis, bindings, and now the whole ‘après-ski’ routine which took care of the day from four o’clock, when the sun went, onwards, were a tremendous industry. If you could lay your hands on a good alp, which Blofeld had somehow managed to do, you really had it good. Mortgages paid off – snow was the joker, but in the Engadine, at this height, you would be all right for that – in three or four years, and then jam forever! One certainly had to hand it to him!

It was time to make the going again! Resignedly, Bond turned to Fräulein Bunt. ‘Fräulein Bunt. Please explain to me. What is the difference between a piz and an alp and a berg?’

The yellow eyes gleamed with academic enthusiasm. ‘Ah, Sair Hilary, but that is an interesting question. It had not occurred to me before. Now let me see.’ She gazed into the middle distance. ‘A piz, that is only a local name in this department of Switzerland for a peak. An alp, that one would think would be smaller than a berg – a hill, perhaps, or an upland pasture, as compared with a mountain. But that is not so. These’ – she waved her hand – ‘are all alps and yet they are great mountains. It is the same in Austria, certainly in the Tyrol. But in Germany, in Bavaria for instance, which is my home land, there it is all bergs. No, Sair Hilary’ – the box-like smile was switched on and off – ‘I cannot help you. But why do you ask?’

‘In my profession,’ said Bond prosily, ‘the exact meaning of words is vital. Now, before we met for cocktails, it amused me to look up your surname, Bunt, in my books of reference. What I found, Fräulein, was most interesting. Bunt, it seems, is German for “gay”, “happy”. In England, the name has almost certainly been corrupted into Bounty, perhaps even into Brontë, because the grandfather of the famous literary family by that name had in fact changed his name from the less aristocratic name of Brunty. Now this is most interesting.’ (Bond knew that it wasn’t, that this was all hocus-pocus, but he thought it would do no harm to stretch his heraldic muscles.) ‘Can you remember if your ancestors had any connection with England? There is the Dukedom of Brontë, you see, which Nelson assumed. It would be interesting to establish a connection.’

The penny dropped! A duchess! Irma Bunt, hooked, went off into a dreary chronicle of her forebears, including proudly, distant relationship with a Graf von Bunt. Bond listened politely, prodding her back to the immediate past. She gave the name of her father and mother. Bond filed them away. He now had enough to find out in due course exactly who Irma Bunt was. What a splendid trap snobbery was! How right Sable Basilisk had been! There is a snob in all of us and only through snobbery could Bond have discovered who the parents of this woman were.

Bond finally calmed down the woman’s momentary fever, and the head waiter, who had been politely hovering, presented giant menus covered in violet ink. There was everything from caviar down to Double Mokka au whisky irlandais. There were also many ‘spécialités Gloria’ – Poulet Gloria, Homard Gloria, Tournedos Gloria, and so on. Bond, despite his forswearing of spécialités, decided to give the chicken a chance. He said so and was surprised by the enthusiasm with which Ruby greeted his choice. ‘Oh, how right you are, Sir Hilary! I adore chicken too. I absolutely dote on it. Can I have that too, please, Miss Bunt?’

There was such surprising fervour in her voice that Bond watched Irma Bunt’s face. What was that matronly gleam in her eye as she gave her approval? It was more than approval for a good appetite among her charges. There was enthusiasm, even triumph there. Odd! And it happened again when Violet stipulated plenty of potatoes with her tournedos. ‘I simply love potatoes,’ she explained to Bond, her eyes shining. ‘Don’t you?’

‘They’re fine,’ agreed Bond. ‘When you’re taking plenty of exercise, that is.’

‘Oh, they’re just darling,’ enthused Violet. ‘Aren’t they, Miss Bunt?’

‘Very good indeed, my dear. Very good for you too. And Fritz, I will just have the mixed salad with some cottage cheese.’ She gave the caricature of a simper. ‘Alas’ – she spoke to Bond – ‘I have to watch my figure. These young things take plenty of exercise, while I must stay in my office and do the paper-work, isn’t it?’

At the next table Bond heard the girl with the Scottish burr, her voice full of saliva, ask that her Aberdeen Angus steak should be cooked very rare indeed. ‘Guid and bluidy,’ she emphasized.

What was this? wondered Bond. A gathering of beautiful ogresses? Or was this a day off from some rigorous diet? He felt completely clueless, out of his depth. Well, he would just go on digging. He turned to Ruby. ‘You see what I mean about surnames. Fräulein Bunt may even have distant claim to an English title. Now what’s yours, for instance? I’ll see what I can make of it.’

Fräulein Bunt broke in sharply. ‘No surnames here, Sair Hilary. It is a rule of the house. We use only first names for the girls. It is part of the Count’s treatment. It is bound up with a change, a transference of identity, to help the cure. You understand?’

‘No, I’m afraid that’s way out of my depth,’ said Bond cheerfully.

‘No doubt the Count will explain some of these matters to you tomorrow. He has special theories. One day the world will be startled when he reveals his methods.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Bond politely. ‘Well now’ – he searched for a subject that would leave his mind free to roam on its own. ‘Tell me about your skiing. How are you getting on? Don’t do it myself, I’m afraid. Perhaps I shall pick up some tips watching your classes.’

It was an adequate ball which went bouncing on between Ruby and Violet, and Bond kept it in play while their food came and proved delicious. Poulet Gloria was spatchcocked, with a mustard-and-cream sauce. The girls fell silent over their dishes, consuming them with polite but concentrated greed. There was a similar pause in the chatter at the other tables. Bond made conversation about the decor of the room and this gave him a chance to have a good look at the waiters. There were twelve of them in sight. It was not difficult to sum them up as three Corsicans, three Germans, three vaguely Balkan faces, Turks, Bulgars, or Yugoslavs, and three obvious Slavs. There would probably be three Frenchmen in the kitchen. Was this the old pattern of SPECTRE? The well-tried communist-cell pattern of three men from each of the great gangster and secret-service organizations in Europe? Were the three slavs ex-SMERSH men? The whole lot of them looked tough enough, had that quiet smell of the pro. The man at the airport was one of them. Bond recognized others as the reception steward and the man who had come to his room about the table. He heard the girls calling them Fritz, Joseph, Ivan, Achmed. And some of them were ski-guides during the day. Well, it was a nice little set-up if Bond was right.

Bond excused himself after dinner on the grounds of work. He went to his room and laid out his books and papers on the desk and on the extra table that had been provided. He bent over them studiously while his mind reviewed the day.

At ten o’clock he heard the goodnights of the girls down the corridor and the click of the doors shutting. He undressed, turned the thermostat on the wall down from eighty-five to sixty, switched off the light, and lay on his back for a while staring up into the darkness. Then he gave an authentic sigh of exhaustion for the microphones, if any, and turned over on his side and went to sleep.

Later, much later, he was awakened by a very soft murmuring that seemed to come from somewhere under the floor, but very, very far away. He identified it as a minute, spidery whispering that went on and on. But he could not make out any words and he finally put it down to the central-heating pipes, turned over, and went to sleep again.