Bond smiled. ‘I am very glad to have met you. If the introduction had to be effected at the point of two automatics, that will only make it all the more memorable. The whole affair was certainly executed with neatness and expedition.’
Marc-Ange’s expression was rueful. ‘Now you are being sarcastic. But believe me, my friend, drastic measures were necessary. I knew they were.’ He reached to the top drawer of his desk, took out a sheet of writing-paper and passed it over to Bond.
‘And now, if you read that, you will agree with me. That letter was handed in to the concierge of the Splendide at 4.30 this afternoon for posting to me in Marseilles, when Teresa went out and you followed her. You suspected something? You also feared for her? Read it, please.’
Bond took the letter. He said, ‘Yes. I was worried about her. She is a girl worth worrying about.’ He held up the letter. It contained only a few words, written clearly, with decision.
Dear Papa,
I am sorry, but I have had enough. It is only sad because tonight I met a man who might have changed my mind. He is an Englishman called James Bond. Please find him and pay him 200,000 New Francs which I owe him. And thank him from me.
This is nobody’s fault but my own.
Goodbye and forgive me.
TRACY
Bond didn’t look at the man who had received this letter. He slid it back to him across the desk. He took a deep drink of the whisky and reached for the bottle. He said, ‘Yes, I see.’
‘She likes to call herself Tracy. She thinks Teresa sounds too grand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Commander Bond.’ There was now a terrible urgency in the man’s voice – urgency, authority and appeal. ‘My friend, you have heard the whole story and now you have seen the evidence. Will you help me? Will you help me save this girl? It is my only chance, that you will give her hope. That you will give her a reason to live. Will you?’
Bond kept his eyes on the desk in front of him. He dared not look up and see the expression on this man’s face. So he had been right, right to fear that he was going to become involved in all this private trouble! He cursed under his breath. The idea appalled him. He was no Good Samaritan. He was no doctor for wounded birds. What she needed, he said fiercely to himself, was the psychiatrist’s couch. All right, so she had taken a passing fancy to him and he to her. Now he was going to be asked, he knew it, to pick her up and carry her perhaps for the rest of his life, haunted by the knowledge, the unspoken blackmail, that, if he dropped her, it would almost certainly be to kill her. He said glumly, ‘I do not see that I can help. What is it you have in mind?’ He picked up his glass and looked into it. He drank, to give him courage to look across the desk into Marc-Ange’s face.
The man’s soft brown eyes glittered with tension. The creased dark skin round the mouth had sunk into deeper folds. He said, holding Bond’s eyes, ‘I wish you to pay court to my daughter and marry her. On the day of the marriage, I will give you a personal dowry of one million pounds in gold.’
James Bond exploded angrily. ‘What you ask is utterly impossible. The girl is sick. What she needs is a psychiatrist. Not me. And I do not want to marry, not anyone. Nor do I want a million pounds. I have enough money for my needs. I have my profession.’ (Is that true? What about that letter of resignation? Bond ignored the private voice.) ‘You must understand all this.’ Suddenly he could not bear the hurt in the man’s face. He said, softly, ‘She is a wonderful girl. I will do all I can for her. But only when she is well again. Then I would certainly like to see her again – very much. But, if she thinks so well of me, if you do, then she must first get well of her own accord. That is the only way. Any doctor would tell you so. She must go to some clinic, the best there is, in Switzerland probably, and bury her past. She must want to live again. Then, only then, would there be any point in our meeting again.’ He pleaded with Marc-Ange. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Marc-Ange? I am a ruthless man. I admit it. And I have not got the patience to act as anyone’s nurse, man or woman. Your idea of a cure might only drive her into deeper despair. You must see that I cannot take the responsibility, however much I am attracted by your daughter.’ Bond ended lamely, ‘Which I am.’
The man said resignedly, ‘I understand you, my friend. And I will not importune you with further arguments. I will try and act in the way you suggest. But will you please do one further favour for me? It is now nine o’clock. Will you please take her out to dinner tonight? Talk to her as you please, but show her that she is wanted, that you have affection for her. Her car is here and her clothes. I have had them brought. If only you can persuade her that you would like to see her again, I think I may be able to do the rest. Will you do this for me?’
Bond thought, God, what an evening! But he smiled with all the warmth he could summon. ‘But of course. I would love to do that. But I am booked on the first morning flight from Le Touquet tomorrow morning. Will you be responsible for her from then?’
‘Certainly, my friend. Of course I will do that.’ Marc-Ange brusquely wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘Forgive me. But you have given me hope at the end of a long night.’ He straightened his shoulders and suddenly leaned across the desk and put his hands decisively down. ‘I will not thank you. I cannot, but tell me, my dear friend, is there anything in this world that I can do for you, now at this moment? I have great resources, great knowledge, great power. They are all yours. Is there nothing I can do for you?’
Bond had a flash of inspiration. He smiled broadly. ‘There is a piece of information I want. There is a man called Blofeld, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. You will have heard of him. I wish to know if he is alive and where he is to be found.’
Marc-Ange’s face underwent a remarkable change. Now the bandit, cold, cruel, avenging, looked out through the eyes that had suddenly gone as hard as brown opals. ‘Aha!’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The Blofeld. Yes, he is certainly alive. Only recently he suborned three of my men, bribed them away from the Union. He has done this to me before. Three of the members of the old were taken from the Union. Come, let us find out what we can.’
Marc-Ange’s face underwent a remarkable change. Now the bandit, cold, cruel, avenging, looked out through the eyes that had suddenly gone as hard as brown opals. ‘Aha!’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The Blofeld. Yes, he is certainly alive. Only recently he suborned three of my men, bribed them away from the Union. He has done this to me before. Three of the members of the old SPECTRE were taken from the Union. Come, let us find out what we can.’