Bond lit a cigarette, ‘That would certainly be helpful.’ He put a politely interested expression on his face. ‘Where are we, for instance?’

‘In the Alps. In the high Alps,’ said the woman vaguely. ‘This Alp, Piz Gloria, is the property of the Count. Together with the Gemeinde, the local authorities, he constructed the Seilbahn. You have seen the cables, yes? This is the first year it is opened. It is very popular and brings in much money. There are some fine ski runs. The Gloria Abfahrt is already famous. There is also a bob-sleigh run that is much greater than the Cresta at St Moritz. You have heard of that? You ski perhaps? Or make the bob-sleigh?’

The yellow eyes were watchful. Bond thought he would continue to answer no to all questions. Instinct told him to. He said apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not. Never got around to it, you know. Too much bound up with my books, perhaps.’ He smiled ruefully, self-critically.

‘Schade! That is a pity.’ But the eyes registered satisfaction. ‘These installations bring good income for the Count. That is important. It helps to support his life’s work, the Institut.’

Bond raised his eyebrows a polite fraction.

‘The Institut für physiologische Forschung. It is for scientific research. The Count is a leader in the field of allergies – you understand? This is like the hay fever, the unableness to eat shellfish, yes?’

‘Oh really? Can’t say I suffer from any myself.’

‘No? The laboratories are in a separate building. There the Count also lives. In this building, where we are, live the patients. He asks that you will not disturb them with too many questions. These treatments are very delicate. You understand?’

‘Yes, of course. And when may I see the Count? I’m afraid I am a very busy man, Fräulein Bunt. There are matters awaiting my attention in London.’ Bond spoke impressively. ‘The new African States. Much work has to be done on their flags, the design of their currency, their stamps, their medals. We are very short-handed at the College. I hope the Count understands that his personal problem, interesting and important though it is, must take second place to the problems of Government.’

Bond had got through. Now she was all eagerness, reassurance. ‘But of course, my dear Sir Hilary. The Count asks to be excused tonight, but he would much like to receive you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. That is suitable?’

‘Certainly, certainly. That will give me time to marshal my documents, my books. Perhaps’ – Bond waved to the small writing desk near the window – ‘I could have an extra table to lay these things out. I’m afraid’ – Bond smiled deprecatingly – ‘we bookworms need a lot of space.’

‘Of course, Sir Hilary. It will be done at once.’ She moved to the door and pressed a bell-button. She gestured downwards, now definitely embarrassed. ‘You will have noticed that there is no door handle on this side?’ (Bond had done so. He said he hadn’t.) ‘You will ring when you wish to leave the room. Yes? It is on account of the patients. It is necessary that they have quiet. It is difficult to prevent them visiting each other for the sake of gossiping. It is for their good. You understand? Bed-time is at ten o’clock. But there is a night staff in case you should need any service. And the doors are of course not locked. You may re-enter your room at any time. Yes? We meet for cocktails in the bar at six. It is – how do you say? – the rest-pause of the day.’ The box-like smile made its brief appearance. ‘My girls are much looking forward to meeting you.’

The door opened. It was one of the men dressed as guides, a swarthy, bull-necked man with brown Mediterranean eyes. One of Marc-Ange’s Corsican defectors? In rapid, bad French, the woman said that another table was desired. This was to be furnished during dinner. The man said ‘Entendu’. She held the door before he could close it and he went off down the passage to the right. Guards’ quarters at the end of the passage? Bond’s mind went on clicking up the clues.

‘Then that is all for the present, Sir Hilary? The post leaves at midday. We have radio telephone communications if you wish to use them. May I convey any message to the Count?’

‘Please say that I look forward greatly to meeting him tomorrow. Until six o’clock then.’ Bond suddenly wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He gestured towards his suitcase. ‘I must get myself unpacked.’

‘Of course, of course, Sir Hilary. Forgive me for detaining you.’ And, on this gracious note, Irma Bunt closed the door, with its decisive click, behind her.

Bond stood still in the middle of the room. He let out his breath with a quiet hiss. What the hell of a kettle of fish! He would have liked to kick one of the dainty bits of furniture very hard indeed. But he had noticed that, of the four electric light prisms in the ceiling, one was a blank, protruding eye ball. Closed-circuit television? If so, what would be its range? Not much more than a wide circle covering the centre of the room. Microphones? Probably the whole expanse of ceiling was one. That was the war-time gimmick. He must, he simply must assume that he was under constant supervision.

James Bond, his thoughts racing, proceeded to unpack, take a shower, and make himself presentable for ‘my girls’.

10 | TEN GORGEOUS GIRLS

It was one of those leather-padded bars, bogus-masculine, and still, because of its newness, smelling like the inside of a new motor-car. It was made to look like a Tyrolean Stube by a big stone fire-place with a roaring log fire and cartwheel chandeliers with red-stemmed electric ‘candles’. There were many wrought-iron gimmicks – wall-light brackets, ashtrays, table lamps – and the bar itself was ‘gay’ with small flags and miniature liqueur bottles. Attractive zither music tripped out from a hidden loud-speaker. It was not, Bond decided, a place to get seriously drunk in.

When he closed the leather-padded, brass-studded door behind him, there was a moment’s hush, then a mounting of decibels to hide the covert glances, the swift summing-up. Bond got a fleeting impression of one of the most beautiful groups of girls he had ever seen, when Irma Bunt, hideous in some kind of home-made, homespun ‘après-ski’, in which orange and black predominated, waddled out from among the galaxy and took him in charge. ‘Sir Hilary.’ She grasped his hand with a dry, monkey grip. ‘How delightful, isn’t it? Come please, and meet my girls.’

It was tremendously hot in the room and Bond felt the sweat bead on his forehead as he was led from table to table and shook this cool, this warm, this languid hand. Names like Ruby, Violet, Pearl, Anne, Elizabeth, Beryl, sounded in his ears, but all he saw was a sea of beautiful, sunburned faces and a succession of splendid, sweatered young bosoms. It was like being at home to the Tiller or the Bluebell Girls. At last he got to the seat that had been kept for him, between Irma Bunt and a gorgeous, bosomy blonde with large blue eyes. He sat down, overcome. The barman hovered. Bond pulled himself together. ‘Whisky and soda, please,’ he said, and heard his voice from far away. He took some time lighting a cigarette while sham, stage conversation broke out among the four tables in the semicircular embrasure that must, during the day, be the great lookout point. Ten girls and Irma. All English. No surnames. No other man. Girls in their twenties. Working girls probably. Sort of air-hostess type. Excited at having a man among them – a personable man and a baronet to boot – if that was what one did to a baronet. Pleased with his private joke, Bond turned to the blonde. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.’

‘I’m Ruby.’ The voice was friendly but refined. ‘It must be quite an ordeal being the only chap – among all us girls, I mean.’