DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER BY IAN FLEMING

And the heads turned round and craned and the woman looked bored and said something to the man beside her who shrugged his shoulders.

And 201, ‘A Bay Colt’, was led from the ring and 202 came sidling in to stand for a moment trembling with the shock of the lights, and the wall of unknown faces, and the fog of strange smells.

And there was a movement in the row of seats behind Bond, and Leiter’s face came forward alongside his and Leiter’s mouth said into his ear, “It’s done. It’s cost three thousand bucks but he’ll play the doublecross. Foul riding in the last furlong just as he’s due to make his winning sprint. Oh Boy! See you in the morning.” And the whisper ended, and Bond didn’t look round but went on watching the sales for a while and then slowly walked home under the elms, feeling sorry for a jockey called Tingaling Bell who was playing such a desperately dangerous game, and for a big chestnut called Shy Smile who was’ now not only a ringer but was going to be ridden foul into the bargain.

12

THE PERPETUITIES

BOND sat high up in the grandstand and through hired glasses watched Shy Smile’s owner eating soft-shell crabs.

The gangster was sitting in the restaurant enclosure four rows below Bond. Opposite him sat Rosy Budd forking down frankfurters and sauerkraut and drinking beer out of a stein. Although most of the other luncheon tables were occupied, there were two waiters hovering round this one and the maitre d’hotel made frequent visits to see that all was going well.

Pissaro looked like a gangster in a horror comic. He had a round bladder-like head in the middle of which the features were crowded together-two pin-point eyes, two black nostrils, a pursed wet pink mouth above the hint of a chin, and a fat body in a brown suit and a white shirt with a long-pointed collar and a figured chocolate bow tie. He paid no attention to the preparations for the first race but concentrated on his food, occasionally glancing across at his companion’s plate as if he might reach across and fork something off it for himself.

Rosy Budd was broad and hard-looking, with a square immobile poker player’s face in which pale eyes were buried deep under thin fair eyebrows. He was wearing a striped seersucker suit and a dark blue tie. He ate slowly and rarely looked up from his plate. When he had finished, he picked up a race programme and studied it, turning over the pages carefully. Without looking up, he gave a curt shake of the head when the maitre d’hotel offered him the menu.

Pissaro picked his teeth until a mound of ice cream arrived, and then he bent his head again and started spooning the ice cream rapidly up into his small mouth.

Through his glasses, Bond examined the two men and wondered about them. What did these people amount to? Bond remembered cold, dedicated, chess-playing Russians; brilliant, neurotic Germans; silent, deadly, anonymous men from Cen tral Europe; the people in his own Service-the double-firsts, the gay soldiers of fortune, the men who counted life well lost for a thousand a’ year. Compared with such men, Bond decided, these people were just teenage pillow-fantasies.

The results went, up for the third race, and now there was only half an hour to go before The Perpetuities. Bond put down his glasses and picked up his programme, waiting for the big board on the other side of the track to start flickering as the money went on the tote and the odds began to move.

He took a final look at the details. ‘Second Day. August 4,’ said the programme. ‘The Perpetuities Stakes. $25,000 added. 52nd Running. For Three-Year-Olds. By subscription of $50 each, to accompany the nomination. Starters to pay $250 additional. With the $25,000 added of which $5000 to second, $2500 to third and $1250 to fourth. A trophy to be presented to the owner of the winner. One Mile and a Quarter.’ And then the list of twelve horses with owners, trainers and jockeys and the Morning Line forecast of the odds.

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