`I can’t think of anything.’
Kerim looked at his watch. `Twelve o’clock. Just time for the car to take you back to your hotel. There might be a message. And have a good look at your things to see if anyone has been inquisitive.
He rang the bell and fired instructions at the head clerk who stood with his sharp eyes on Kerim’s and his lean head straining forward like a whippet’s.
Kerim led Bond to the door. There came again the warm powerful handclasp. `The car will bring you to lunch,’ he said. `A little place in the Spice Bazaar.’ His eyes looked happily into Bond’s. `And I am glad to be working with you. We will do well together.’ He let go of Bond’s hand. `And now I have a lot of things to do very quickly. They may be the wrong things, but at any rate,’ he grinned broadly, `jouons mal, mais jouons vite!’
The head clerk, who seemed to be some sort of chief-of-staff to Kerim, led Bond through another door in the wall of the raised platform. The heads were still bowed over the ledgers. There was a short passage with rooms on either side. The man led the way into one of these and Bond found himself in an extremely well-equipped dark-room and laboratory. In ten minutes he was out again on the street. The Rolls edged out of the narrow alley and back again on to the Galata Bridge.
A new concierge was on duty at the Kristal Palas, a small obsequious man with guilty eyes in a yellow face. He came out from behind the desk, his hands spread in apology. `Effendi, I greatly regret. My colleague showed you to an inadequate room. It was not realized that you are a friend of Kerim Bey. Your things have been moved to No. 12. It is the best room in the hotel. In fact,’ the concierge leered, `it is the room reserved for honeymoon couples. Every comfort. My apologies, Effendi. The other room is not intended for visitors of distinction.’ The man executed an oily bow, washing his hands.
If there was one thing Bond couldn’t stand it was the sound of his boots being licked. He looked the concierge in the eyes and said, `Oh.’ The eyes slid away. `Let me see this room. I may not like it. I was quite comfortable where I was.’
`Certainly, Effendi,’ the man bowed Bond to the lift. `But alas the plumbers are in your former room. The water supply . . . .’ the voice trailed away. The lift rose about ten feet and stopped at the first floor.
Well, the story of the plumbers makes sense, reflected Bond. And, after all, there was no harm in having the best room in the hotel.
The concierge unlocked a high door and stood back.
Bond had to approve. The sun streamed in through wide double windows that gave on to a small balcony. The motif was pink and grey and the style was mock French Empire, battered by the years, but still with all the elegance of the turn of the century. There were fine Bokhara rugs on the parquet floor. A glittering chandelier hung from the ornate ceiling. The bed against the right-hand wall was huge. A large mirror in a gold frame covered most of the wall behind it. (Bond was amused. The honeymoon room! Surely there should be a mirror on the ceiling as well.) The adjoining bathroom was tiled and fitted with everything, including a bidet and a shower. Bond’s shaving things were neatly laid out.
The concierge followed Bond back into the bedroom, and when Bond said he would take the room, bowed himself gratefully out.
Why not? Bond again walked round the room. This time he carefully inspected the walls and the neighbourhood of the bed and the telephone. Why not take the room? Why would there be microphones or secret doors? What would be the point of them?
His suitcase was on a bench near the chest-of-drawers. He knelt down. No scratches round the lock. The bit of fluff he had trapped in the clasp was still there. He unlocked the suitcase and took out the little attaché case. Again no signs of interference. Bond locked the case and got to his feet.