‘Thank you,’ said Irma Bunt. ‘We have three expert Frenchmen in the kitchen. Men are very good at cooking, is it not?’
Bond felt rather than saw a man approaching their table. He came up to Bond. He was a military-looking man, of about Bond’s age, and he had a puzzled expression on his face. He bowed slightly to the ladies and said to Bond, ‘Excuse me, but I saw your name in the visitors’ book. It is Hilary Bray, isn’t it?’
Bond’s heart sank. This situation had always been a possibility and he had prepared a fumbling counter to it. But this was the worst possible moment with that damned woman watching and listening!
Bond said, ‘Yes, it is,’ with heartiness.
‘Sir Hilary Bray?’ The pleasant face was even more puzzled.
Bond got to his feet and stood with his back to his table, to Irma Bunt. ‘That’s right.’ He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose to obscure the next question, which might be fatal.
‘In the Lovat Scouts during the war?’
‘Ah,’ said Bond. He looked worried, lowered his voice appropriately. ‘You’re thinking of my first cousin. From Ben Trilleachan. Died six months ago, poor chap. I inherited the title.’
‘Oh, lord!’ The man’s puzzlement cleared. Grief took its place. ‘Sorry to hear that. Great pal of mine in the war. Funny! I didn’t see anything about it in The Times, Always read the “Births, Marriages, and Deaths’’. What was it?’
Bond felt the sweat running down under his arms. ‘Fell off one of those bloody mountains of his. Broke his neck.’
‘My God! Poor chap! But he was always fooling around the tops by himself. I must write to Jenny at once.’ He held out his hand. ‘Well, sorry to have butted in. Thought this was a funny place to find old Hilary. Well, so long, and sorry again.’ He moved off between the tables. Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw him rejoin a very English-looking table of men and, obviously, wives, to whom he began talking animatedly.
Bond sat down, reached for his drink and drained it and went back to his eggs. The woman’s eyes were on him. He felt the sweat running down his face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped at it. ‘Gosh, it’s hot out here in the sun! That was some pal of my first cousin’s. My cousin had the same name. Collateral branch. Died not long ago, poor chap.’ He frowned sadly. ‘Didn’t know this man from Adam. Nice-looking fellow.’ Bond looked bravely across the table. ‘Do you know any of his party, Fräulein Bunt?’
Without looking at the party, Fräulein Bunt said shortly, ‘No, I do not know everyone who comes here.’ The yellow eyes were still inquisitive, holding his. ‘But it was a curious coincidence. Were you very alike, you and your cousin?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Bond, gushing. ‘Spit image. Often used to get taken for each other.’ He looked across at the English group. Thank God they were picking up their things and going. They didn’t look particularly smart or prosperous. Probably staying at Pontresina or under the ex-officers’ scheme at St Moritz. Typical English skiing party. With any luck they were just doing the big runs in the neighbourhood one by one. Bond reviewed the way the conversation had gone while coffee came and he made cheerful small talk with Ruby, whose foot was again clamped against his, about her skiing progress that morning.
Well, he decided, the woman couldn’t have heard much of it with all the clatter and chatter from the surrounding tables. But it had been a narrow squeak, a damned narrow squeak. The second of the day!
So much for walking on tiptoe inside the enemy lines!
Not good enough! Definitely not good enough!
13 | PRINCESS RUBY?
My Dear Sable Basilisk,
I arrived safely – by helicopter, if you please! – at this beautiful place called Piz Gloria, 10,000 feet up somewhere in the Engadine. Most comfortable with an excellent male staff of several nationalities and a most efficient secretary to the Count named Fräulein Irma Bunt who tells me that she comes from Munich.
I had a most profitable interview with the Count this morning as a result of which he wishes me to stay on for a week to complete the first draft of his genealogical tree. I do hope you can spare me for so long. I warned the Count that we had much work to do on the new Commonwealth States. He himself, though busily engaged on what sounds like very public-spirited research work on allergies and their cause (he has ten English girls here as his patients), has agreed to see me daily in the hope that together we may be able to bridge the gap between the migration of the de Bleuvilles from France and their subsequent transference, as Blofelds, from Augsburg to Gdynia. I have suggested to him that we conclude the work with a quick visit to Augsburg for the purposes you and I discussed, but he has not yet given me his decision. Please tell my cousin Jenny Bray that she may be hearing from a friend of her late husband who apparently served with him in the Lovat Scouts. He came up to me at lunch today and took me for the other Hilary! Quite a coincidence!
Working conditions are excellent. We have complete privacy here, secure from the madding world of skiers, and very sensibly the girls are confined to their rooms after ten at night to put them out of the temptation of roaming and gossiping. They seem a very nice lot, from all over the United Kingdom, but rather on the dumb side!
Now for my most interesting item. The Count has not got lobes to his ears! Isn’t that good news! He also is of a most distinguished appearance and bearing with a fine head of silvery hair and a charming smile. His slim figure also indicates noble extraction. Unfortunately he has to wear dark-green contact lenses because of weak eyes and the strength of the sunshine at this height, and his aquiline nose is blemished by a deformed nostril which I would have thought could easily have been put right by facial surgery. He speaks impeccable English with a gay lilt to his voice and I am sure that we will get on very well.
Now to get down to business. It would be most helpful if you would get in touch with the old printers of the Almanach de Gotha and see if they can help us over our gaps in the lineage. They may have some traces. Cable anything helpful. With the new evidence of the ear-lobes I am quite confident that the connection exists. That’s all for now.
Yours ever,
HILARY BRAY
P.S. Don’t tell my mother, or she will be worried for my safety among the eternal snows! But we had a nasty accident here this morning. One of the staff, a Yugoslav it seems, slipped on the bob-run and went the whole way to the bottom! Terrible business. He’s apparently being buried in Pontresina tomorrow. Do you think we ought to send some kind of a wreath?
H.B.
Bond read the letter several times. Yes, that would give the officers in charge of Operation ‘CORONA’ plenty to bite on. Particularly the hint that they should get the dead man’s name from the registrar in Pontresina. And he had covered up a bit on the Bray mix-up when the letter, as Bond was sure it would be, was steamed open and photostated before dispatch. They might of course just destroy it. To prevent this, the bit of bogosity about the Almanach de Gotha would be a clincher. This source of heraldic knowledge hadn’t been mentioned before. It would surely excite the interest of Blofeld.
Bond rang the bell, handed out the letter for dispatch, and got back to his work, which consisted initially of going into the bathroom with the strip of plastic and his scissors in his pocket and snipping two inch-wide strips off the end. These would be enough for the purposes he and, he hoped, Ruby would put them to. Then, using the first joint of his thumb as a rough guide, he marked off the remaining eighteen inches into inch measures, to support his lie about the ruler, and went back to his desk and to the next hundred years of the de Bleuvilles.