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 ]e 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’$.” 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.