“Someone who does your nails. We must look our best for Doctor No.” At the back of Bond’s mind was the urgent necessity to get his hands on some kind of weapon-a pair of scissors would be better than nothing. Anything would do.
He pressed two more bells. He let her go and looked round the room. Someone had come while they were asleep and taken away the breakfast things. There was a drink tray on a sideboard against the wall. Bond went over and examined it. It had everything. Propped among the bottles were two menus, huge double-folio pages covered with print. They might have been from the Savoy Grill, or the ’21’, or the Tour d’Argent. Bond ran his eye down one of them. It began with Caviar double de Beluga and ended with Sorbet d la Champagne. In between was every dish whose constituents would not be ruined by a deep freeze. Bond tossed it down. One certainly couldn’t grumble about the quality of the cheese in the trap!
There was a knock on the door and the exquisite May came in. She was followed by two other twittering Chinese girls. Bond brushed aside their amiabilities, ordered tea and buttered toast for Honeychile and told them to look after her hair and nails,. Then he went into the bathroom and had a couple of Aspirins and a cold shower. He put on his kimono again, reflected that he looked idiotic in it, and went back into the room. A beaming May asked if he would be good enough to select what he and Mrs. Bryce could care to have for dinner. Without enthusiasm, Bond ordered caviar, grilled lamb cutlets and salad, and angels on horseback for himself. When Honeychile refused to make any suggestions, he chose melon, roast chicken a PAnglaise and vanilla icecream with hot chocolate sauce for her.
May dimpled her enthusiasm and approval. “The Doctor asks if seven forty-five for eight would be convenient.”
Bond said curtly that it would.
“Thank you so much, Mr Bryce. I will call for you at seven forty-four.”
Bond walked over to where Honeychile was being ministered to at the dressing table. He watched the busy delicate fingers at work on her hair’and her nails. She smiled at him excitedly in the mirror. He said gruffly, “Don’t let them make too much of a monkey out of you,” and went to the drink tray. He poured himself out a stiff Bourbon and soda and took it into his own room. So much for his idea of getting hold of a weapon. The scissors and ‘files and probes were attached to the mani-curist’s waist by a chain. So were the scissors of the hairdresser. Bond sat down on his rumpled bed and lost himself in drink and gloomy reflections.
The women went. The girl looked in at him. When he didn’t lift his head she went back into her room and left him alone. In due course Bond came into her room to get himself another drink. He said perfunctorily, “Honey, you look wonderful.” He glanced at the clock on the wall and went back and drank his drink and put on another of the idiotic kimonos, a plain black one.
In due course there came the soft knock on the door and the two of them went silently out of the room and along the empty, gracious corridor. May stopped at the lift. Its doors were held open by another eager Chinese gui. They walked in and the doors shut. Bond noticed that the lift was made by Waygood Otis. Everything in the prison was de luxe. He gave an inward shudder of distaste. He noticed the reaction. He turned to the girl. “I’m sorry, Honey. Got a bit of a headache.” He didn’t want to tell her that all this luxury play-acting was getting him down, that he hadn’t the smallest idea what it was all about, that he knew it was bad news, and that he hadn’t an inkling of a plan of how to get them out of whatever situation they were in. That was the worst of it. There was nothing that depressed Bond’s spirit so much as the knowledge that he hadn’t one line of either attack or defence.