James Bond Anthology (261 page)

Where? Bond knew. They were in the Languard range, somewhere above Pontresina in the Engadine, and their altitude would be about 10,000 feet. He buttoned up his raincoat and prepared for the rasping dagger of the cold air on his lungs when the door was opened.

Irma Bunt gave her box-like smile. ‘We have arrived,’ she said unnecessarily.

The door, with a clatter of falling ice particles, was wrenched open. The last rays of the sun shone into the cabin. They caught the woman’s yellow sun visor and shone through, turning her face Chinese. The eyes gave out a false blaze, like the glass eyes of a toy animal, under the light. ‘Mind your head.’ She bent low, her tight, squat behind inviting an enormous kick, and went down the ladder.

James Bond followed her, holding his breath against the searing impact of the Arctic, oxygenless air. There were one or two men standing around dressed like ski guides. They looked at Bond with curiosity, but there was no greeting. Bond went on across the hard-trodden snow in the wake of the woman, the extra man following with his suitcase. He heard the engine stutter and roar, and a blizzard of snow particles stung the right side of his face. Then the iron grasshopper rose into the air and rattled off into the dusk.

It was perhaps fifty yards from where the helicopter had landed to the group of buildings. Bond dawdled, getting preliminary bearings. Ahead was a long, low building, now ablaze with lights. To the right, and perhaps another fifty yards away, were the outlines of the typical modern cable railhead, a box-like structure, with a thick flat roof canted upwards from close to the ground. As Bond examined it, its lights went out. Presumably the last car had reached the valley and the line was closed for the night. To the right of this was a large, bogus-chalet type structure with a vast veranda, sparsely lit, that would be for the mass tourist trade – again a typical piece of high-Alpine architecture. Down to the left, beneath the slope of the plateau, lights shone from a fourth building that, except for its flat roof, was out of sight.

Bond was now only a few yards from the building that was obviously his destination. An oblong of yellow opened invitingly as the woman went in and held the door for him. The light illuminated a big sign with the red G surmounted by the coronet. It said GLORIA KLUB. 3605 METRES. PRIVAT! NUR FÜR MITGLIEDER. Below in smaller letters it said ‘Alpenberghaus und Restaurant Piz Gloria’, and the drooping index finger of the traditional hand pointed to the right, towards the building near the cable-head.

So! Piz Gloria! Bond walked into the inviting yellow oblong. The door, released by the woman, closed with a pneumatic hiss.

Inside it was deliciously warm, almost hot. They were in a small reception room, and a youngish man with a very pale crew-cut and shrewd eyes got to his feet from behind a desk and made a slight bob in their direction. ‘Sir Hilary is in Number Two.’

‘Weiss schon,’ said the woman curtly and, only just more politely, to Bond, ‘Follow me, please.’ She went through a facing door and down a thickly-piled, carpeted passage. The left-hand wall was only occasionally broken by windows interspersed with fine skiing and mountain photographs. On the right were at first the doors of the club rooms, marked Bar, Restaurant, and Toiletten. Then came what were obviously the doors of bedrooms. Bond was shown into Number Two. It was an extremely comfortable, chintzy room in the American motel style with a bathroom leading off. The broad picture window was now curtained, but Bond knew that it must offer a tremendous view over the valley to the Suvretta group above St Moritz. Bond threw his brief-case on the double bed and gratefully disposed of his bowler hat and umbrella. The extra man appeared with his suitcase, placed it on the luggage stand without looking at Bond, and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The woman stayed where she was. ‘This is to your satisfaction?’ The yellow eyes were indifferent to his enthusiastic reply. She had more to say. ‘That is good. Now perhaps I should explain some things, convey to you some laws of the club, isn’t it?’

Bond lit a cigarette, ‘That would certainly be helpful.’ He put a politely interested expression on his face. ‘Where are we, for instance?’

‘In the Alps. In the high Alps,’ said the woman vaguely. ‘This Alp, Piz Gloria, is the property of the Count. Together with the Gemeinde, the local authorities, he constructed the Seilbahn. You have seen the cables, yes? This is the first year it is opened. It is very popular and brings in much money. There are some fine ski runs. The Gloria Abfahrt is already famous. There is also a bob-sleigh run that is much greater than the Cresta at St Moritz. You have heard of that? You ski perhaps? Or make the bob-sleigh?’

The yellow eyes were watchful. Bond thought he would continue to answer no to all questions. Instinct told him to. He said apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not. Never got around to it, you know. Too much bound up with my books, perhaps.’ He smiled ruefully, self-critically.

‘Schade! That is a pity.’ But the eyes registered satisfaction. ‘These installations bring good income for the Count. That is important. It helps to support his life’s work, the Institut.’

Bond raised his eyebrows a polite fraction.

‘The Institut für physiologische Forschung. It is for scientific research. The Count is a leader in the field of allergies – you understand? This is like the hay fever, the unableness to eat shellfish, yes?’

‘Oh really? Can’t say I suffer from any myself.’

‘No? The laboratories are in a separate building. There the Count also lives. In this building, where we are, live the patients. He asks that you will not disturb them with too many questions. These treatments are very delicate. You understand?’

‘Yes, of course. And when may I see the Count? I’m afraid I am a very busy man, Fräulein Bunt. There are matters awaiting my attention in London.’ Bond spoke impressively. ‘The new African States. Much work has to be done on their flags, the design of their currency, their stamps, their medals. We are very short-handed at the College. I hope the Count understands that his personal problem, interesting and important though it is, must take second place to the problems of Government.’

Bond had got through. Now she was all eagerness, reassurance. ‘But of course, my dear Sir Hilary. The Count asks to be excused tonight, but he would much like to receive you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. That is suitable?’

‘Certainly, certainly. That will give me time to marshal my documents, my books. Perhaps’ – Bond waved to the small writing desk near the window – ‘I could have an extra table to lay these things out. I’m afraid’ – Bond smiled deprecatingly – ‘we bookworms need a lot of space.’

‘Of course, Sir Hilary. It will be done at once.’ She moved to the door and pressed a bell-button. She gestured downwards, now definitely embarrassed. ‘You will have noticed that there is no door handle on this side?’ (Bond had done so. He said he hadn’t.) ‘You will ring when you wish to leave the room. Yes? It is on account of the patients. It is necessary that they have quiet. It is difficult to prevent them visiting each other for the sake of gossiping. It is for their good. You understand? Bed-time is at ten o’clock. But there is a night staff in case you should need any service. And the doors are of course not locked. You may re-enter your room at any time. Yes? We meet for cocktails in the bar at six. It is – how do you say? – the rest-pause of the day.’ The box-like smile made its brief appearance. ‘My girls are much looking forward to meeting you.’

The door opened. It was one of the men dressed as guides, a swarthy, bull-necked man with brown Mediterranean eyes. One of Marc-Ange’s Corsican defectors? In rapid, bad French, the woman said that another table was desired. This was to be furnished during dinner. The man said ‘Entendu’. She held the door before he could close it and he went off down the passage to the right. Guards’ quarters at the end of the passage? Bond’s mind went on clicking up the clues.

‘Then that is all for the present, Sir Hilary? The post leaves at midday. We have radio telephone communications if you wish to use them. May I convey any message to the Count?’

‘Please say that I look forward greatly to meeting him tomorrow. Until six o’clock then.’ Bond suddenly wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He gestured towards his suitcase. ‘I must get myself unpacked.’

‘Of course, of course, Sir Hilary. Forgive me for detaining you.’ And, on this gracious note, Irma Bunt closed the door, with its decisive click, behind her.

Bond stood still in the middle of the room. He let out his breath with a quiet hiss. What the hell of a kettle of fish! He would have liked to kick one of the dainty bits of furniture very hard indeed. But he had noticed that, of the four electric light prisms in the ceiling, one was a blank, protruding eye ball. Closed-circuit television? If so, what would be its range? Not much more than a wide circle covering the centre of the room. Microphones? Probably the whole expanse of ceiling was one. That was the war-time gimmick. He must, he simply must assume that he was under constant supervision.

James Bond, his thoughts racing, proceeded to unpack, take a shower, and make himself presentable for ‘my girls’.

10 | TEN GORGEOUS GIRLS

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.