There were squeaks of excitement. «What a lovely game!» «Oh Beryl, look out!» Lovely heads craned over Bond. Lovely hair brushed his cheek. Quickly the three girls got the trick of very delicately touching a space that would not collapse the cobweb until Bond, who considered himself an expert at the game, decided to be chivalrous and purposely burned a vital strand. With the chink of the coin falling into the glass there was a burst of excited laughter and applause.
«So, you see, girls.» It was as if Irma Bunt had invented the game. «Sair Hilary pays, isn’t it? A most delightful pastime. And now» – she looked at her mannish wrist-watch – «we must finish our drinks. It is five minutes to supper time.»
There were cries of «Oh, one more game, Miss Bunt!» But Bond politely rose with his whisky in his hand. «We will play again tomorrow. I hope it’s not going to start you all off smoking. I’m sure it was invented by the tobacco companies!»
There was laughter. But the girls stood admiringly round Bond. What a sport he was! And they had all expected a stuffed shirt! Bond felt justifiably proud of himself. The ice had been broken. He had got them all minutely on his side. Now they were all chums together. From now on he would be able to get to talk to them without frightening them. Feeling reasonably pleased with his gambit, he followed the tight pants of Irma Bunt into the dining-room next door.
It was seven-thirty. Bond suddenly felt exhausted, exhausted with the prospect of boredom, exhausted with playing the most difficult role of his career, exhausted with the enigma of Blofeld and the Piz Gloria. What in hell was the bastard up to? He sat down on the right of Irma Bunt in the same placing as for drinks, with Ruby on his right and Violet, dark, demure, self-effacing, opposite him, and glumly opened his napkin. Blofeld had certainly spent money on his eyrie. Their three tables, in a remote corner by the long, curved, curtained window, occupied only a fraction of the space in the big, low, luxuriously appointed, mock-German baroque room, ornate with candelabra suspended from the stomachs of flying cherubs, festooned with heavy gilt plaster-work, solemnized by the dark portraits of anonymous noblemen. Blofeld must be pretty certain he was here to stay. What was the investment? Certainly not less than a million sterling, even assuming a fat mortgage from Swiss banks on the cost of the cable railway. To lease an alp, put up a cable railway on mortgage, with the engineers and the local district council participating – that, Bond knew, was one of the latest havens for fugitive funds. If you were successful, if you and the council could bribe or bully the local farmers to allow right-of-way through their pastures, cut swaths through the tree-line for the cable pylons and the ski-runs, the rest was publicity and amenities for the public to eat their sandwiches. Add to that the snob-appeal of a posh, heavily restricted club such as Bond imagined this, during the daytime, to be, the coroneted G, and the mystique of a research institute run by a Count, and you were off to the races. skiing today, Bond had read, was the most widely practised sport in the world. It sounded unlikely, but then one reckoned the others largely by spectators. Skiers were participants, and bigger spenders on equipment than in other sports. Clothes, boots, skis, bindings, and now the whole «apres-ski» routine which took care of the day from four o’clock, when the sun went, onwards, were a tremendous industry. If you could lay your hands on a good alp, which Blofeld had somehow managed to do, you really had it good. Mortgages paid off – snow was the joker, but in the Engadine, at this height, you would be all right for that – in three or four years, and then jam for ever! One certainly had to hand it to him!
It was time to make the going again! Resignedly, Bond turned to Fraulein Bunt. «Fraulein Bunt. Please explain to me. What is the difference between a piz and an alp and a berg?»
The yellow eyes gleamed with academic enthusiasm. «Ah, Sair Hilary, but that is an interesting question. It had not occurred to me before. Now let me see.» She gazed into the middle distance. «A piz, that is only a local name in this department of Switzerland for a peak. An alp, that one would think would be smaller than a berg – a hill, perhaps, or an upland pasture, as compared with a mountain. But that is not so. These» – she waved her hand – «are all alps and yet they are great mountains. It is the same in Austria, certainly in the Tyrol. But in Germany, in Bavaria for instance, which is my home land, there it is all bergs. No Sair Hilary» – the box-like smile was switched on and off – «I cannot help you. But why do you ask?»
«In my profession,» said Bond prosily, «the exact meaning of words is vital. Now, before we met for cocktails, it amused me to look up your surname, Bunt, in my books of reference. What I found, Fraulein, was most interesting. Bunt, it seems, is German for ‘gay’, ‘happy’. In England, the name has almost certainly been corrupted into Bounty, perhaps even into Bronte, because the grandfather of the famous literary family by that name had in fact changed his name from the less aristocratic name of Brunty. Now this is most interesting.» (Bond knew that it wasn’t, that this was all hocus-pocus, but he thought it would do no harm to stretch his heraldic muscles.) «Can you remember if your ancestors had any connexion with England? There is the Dukedom of Bronte, you see, which Nelson assumed. It would be interesting to establish a connexion.»
The penny dropped! A duchess! Irma Bunt, hooked, went off into a dreary chronicle of her forebears, including proudly, distant relationship with a Graf von Bunt. Bond listened politely, prodding her back to the immediate past. She gave the name of her father and mother. Bond filed them away. He now had enough to find out in due course exactly who Irma Bunt was. What a splendid trap snobbery was! How right Sable Basilisk had been! There is a snob in all of us and only through snobbery could Bond have discovered who the parents of this woman were.
Bond finally calmed down the woman’s momentary fever, and the head waiter, who had been politely hovering, presented giant menus covered in violet ink. There was everything from caviar down to Double Mokka au whisky irlandais. There were also many «spécialités Gloria» – Poulet Gloria, Homard Gloria, Tournedos Gloria, and so on. Bond, despite his forswearing of specialties, decided to give the chicken a chance. He said so and was surprised by the enthusiasm with which Ruby greeted his choice. «Oh, how right you are, Sir Hilary! I adore chicken too. I absolutely dote on it. Can I have that too, please, Miss Bunt?»
There was such surprising fervour in her voice that Bond watched Irma Bunt’s face. What was that matronly gleam in her eye as she gave her approval? It was more than approval for a good appetite among her charges. There was enthusiasm, even triumph there. Odd! And it happened again when Violet stipulated plenty of potatoes with her tournedos. «I simply love potatoes,» she explained to Bond, her eyes shining. «Don’t you?»
«They’re fine,» agreed Bond. «When you’re taking plenty of exercise, that is.»
«Oh, they’re just darling,» enthused Violet. «Aren’t they, Miss Bunt?»
«Very good indeed, my dear. Very good for you too. And Fritz, I will just have the mixed salad with some cottage cheese.» She gave the caricature of a simper. «Alas» – she spoke to Bond – «I have to watch my figure. These young things take plenty of exercise, while I must stay in my office and do the paper-work, isn’t it?»
At the next table Bond heard the girl with the Scottish burr, her voice full of saliva, ask that her Aberdeen Angus steak should be cooked very rare indeed. «Guid and bluidy,» she emphasized.
What was this? wondered Bond. A gathering of beautiful ogresses? Or was this a day off from some rigorous diet? He felt completely clueless, out of his depth. Well, he would just go on digging. He turned to Ruby. «You see what I mean about surnames. Fraulein Bunt may even have distant claim to an English title. Now what’s yours, for instance? I’ll see what I can make of it.»