It was a typical Ritz sitting-room, extremely elegant, with good Empire furniture. The walls were white and the curtains and chair covers were of a small patterned chintz of red roses on white. The carpet was wine-red and close-fitted.
In a pool of sunshine, in a low armed chair beside a Directoire writing desk, a little old woman sat knitting.
The tinkle of the steel needles continued. The eyes behind light-blue tinted bi-focals examined Bond with polite curiosity.
`Oui, Monsieur?’ The voice was deep and hoarse. The thickly powdered, rather puffy face under the white hair showed nothing but well-bred interest.
Bond’s hand on the gun under his coat was taut as a steel spring. His half-closed eyes flickered round the room and back to the little old woman in the chair.
Had he made a mistake? Was this the wrong room? Should he apologize and get out? Could this woman possibly belong to SMERSH? She looked so exactly like the sort of respectable rich widow one would expect to find sitting by herself in the Ritz, whiling the time away with her knitting. The sort of woman who would have her own table, and her favourite waiter, in a corner of the restaurant downstairs–not, of course, the grill room. The sort of woman who would doze after lunch and then be fetched by an elegant black limousine with white side-walled tyres and be driven to the tea-room in the rue de Berri to meet some other rich crone. The old-fashioned black dress with the touch of lace at the throat and wrists, the thin gold chain that hung down over the shapeless bosom and ended in a folding lorgnette, the neat little feet in the sensible black-buttoned boots that barely touched the floor. It couldn’t be Klebb! Bond had got the number of the room wrong. He could feel the perspiration under his arms. But now he would have to play the scene through.
`My name is Bond, James Bond.’
`And I, Monsieur, am the Comtesse Metterstein. What can I do for you?’ The French was rather thick. She might be German Swiss. The needles tinkled busily.
`I am afraid Captain Nash has met with an accident. He won’t be coming today. So I came instead.’
Did the eyes narrow a fraction behind the pale blue spectacles?
`I have not the pleasure of the Captain’s acquaintance, Monsieur. Nor of yours. Please sit down and state your business.’ The woman inclined her head an inch towards the high-backed chair beside the writing desk.
One couldn’t fault her. The graciousness of it all was devastating. Bond walked across the room and sat down. Now he was about six feet away from her. The desk held nothing but a tall old-fashioned telephone with a receiver on a hook, and, within reach of her hand, an ivory-buttoned bellpush. The black mouth of the telephone yawned at Bond politely.
Bond stared rudely into the woman’s face, examining it. It was an ugly face, toadlike, under the powder and under the tight cottage-loaf of white hair. The eyes were so light brown as to be almost yellow. The pale lips were wet and blubbery below the fringe of nicotine-stained moustache. Nicotine? Where were her cigarettes? There was no ashtray–no smell of smoke in the room.
Bond’s hand tightened again on his gun. He glanced down at the bag of knitting, at the shapeless length of small-denier beige wool the woman was working on. The steel needles. What was there odd about them? The ends were discoloured as if they had been held in fire. Did knitting needles ever look like that?
`Eh bien, Monsieur’ Was there an edge to the voice? Had she read something in his face?
Bond smiled. His muscles were tense, waiting for any movement, any trick. `It’s no use,’ he said cheerfully, gambling. You are Rosa Klebb. And you are Head of Otdyel II of SMERSH. You are a torturer and a murderer. You wanted to kill me and the Romanov girl. I am very glad to meet you at last.’
The eyes had not changed. The harsh voice was patient and polite. The woman reached out her left hand towards the bell-push. `Monsieur, I am afraid you are deranged. I must ring for the valet de chambre and have you shown to the door.’