“Two hundred and fifty,” said the big man mechanically.
Bond turned to Tiffany. “Ever see those two before?” he said and she noticed the line of worry between his eyes.
“Nope,” she said definitely. “Never did. Look like something from Brooklyn to me. Or a couple of cloak-and-suiters from the Garment District. Why? Do they mean anything to you?”
Bond gave them another glance. “No,” he said doubtfully. “No, I don’t think so.”
There was a burst of clapping in the room and the auctioneer beamed and rapped on the table. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said triumphantly. “This is really splendid. Three hundred pounds I am bid by the charming lady in the beautiful pink evening dress. (Heads turned and craned and Bond could see the mouths saying ‘who is she?’) And now, Sir,” he turned .towards the fat man’s table, “May I say £525?”
“Three hundred and fifty,” said the fat man.
“Four hundred,” squealed the pink woman.
“Five hundred.” The voice was toneless, indifferent.
The pink girl chattered angrily at her escort. The man suddenly looked bored. He caught the auctioneer’s eye and shook his head.
“Any increase on £500?” said the auctioneer. He now knew that he had squeezed all he would get out of the room. “Going once. Going twice.” Bang! “Sold to the gentleman over there, and I really think he deserves a clap.” He clapped his hands and the crowd dutifully followed suit although they would have preferred the pink girl to win.
The fat man lifted himself a few inches off his chair and then sat down again. There was no acknowledgment of the applause in his glistening face and he kept his eyes fixed on the auctioneer.
“And now we must go through the formality of asking this gentleman which Field he prefers. (Laughter.) Sir, do you choose the High Field or the Low Field?” The auctioneer’s voice was ironical. The question was a waste of time.
“Low Field.”
There was a moment of dead silence in the crowded Smoking Room. It was quickly followed by a buzz of comment. There had been no question. It was obvious that the man would take the High Field. The weather was perfect. The Queen must be doing at least thirty knots. Did he know something? Had he bribed someone on the bridge? Was a storm coming up? Was a bearing running hot?
The auctioneer rapped for silence. “I beg your pardon, Sir,” he said, “but did you say the Low Field?”
“Yes.”
The auctioneer rapped again. “In that case, ladies and gentlemen, we will now proceed to auction the High Field. Madam,” he turned with a bow towards the girl in pink. “Would you care to open the bidding?”
Bond turned to Tiffany. “That was a queer business,” he said. “Extraordinary thing to do. Sea’s as calm as glass.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The only answer is that they know something.” The matter was of no interest, anyway. “Someone’s told them something.” He turned and looked carelessly at the two men and then let his eyes swing past and away from them. “They seem to be quite interested in us.”
Tiffany glanced past his shoulder. “They’re not looking at us now,” she said. “I figure they’re just a couple of dopes. The white-haired guy’s looking stupid and the fat man’s sucking his thumb. They’re screwy. Doubt if they know what they’ve bought. They just got their signals crossed.”
“Sucking his thumb?” said Bond. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair, a vague memory nagging at him.
Perhaps if she had left him to follow the train of thought he would have remembered. Instead she put her hand over his and leant towards him so that her hair brushed against his face. “Forget it, James,” she said. “And don’t think so hard about those stupid men.” Her eyes were suddenly ardent and demanding. “I’ve had enough of this place. Take me somewhere else.”
Without saying anything more, they got up and left the table and walked out of the noisy room to the staircase. As they went down the stairs to the deck below, Bond’s arm went round the girl’s waist and her head fell against his shoulder.