Read Bond 04 - Diamonds Are Forever for Free Online

idea of a diamond merchant.’
    Sergeant Dankwaerts chuckled. ‘He’s not a diamond merchant, Sir,’ he said, ‘or I’ll eat my hat.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘When I read out that list of missing stones,’ Sergeant Dankwaerts smiled happily, ‘I mentioned a Yellow Premier and two Cape Unions.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘It just happens that there aren’t such things, Sir.’

5 ....... ‘FEUILLES MORTES’
    B OND FELT the liftman watching him as he walked down the long, quiet corridor to the end room, Room 350. Bond wasn’t surprised. He knew there was more petty crime in this hotel than in any other large hotel in London. Vallance had once shown him the big monthly crime map of London. He had pointed to the forest of little flags round the Trafalgar Palace. ‘That place annoys the map-room men,’ he had said. ‘Every month this corner gets so pitted with holes they have to paste fresh paper over it to hold the next month’s pins.’
    As Bond neared the end of the corridor he could hear a piano swinging a rather sad tune. At the door of 350 he knew the music came from behind it. He recognized the tune. It was ‘Feuilles Mortes’. He knocked.
    ‘Come in.’ The hall-porter had telephoned and the voice was waiting for him.
    Bond walked into the small living-room and closed the door behind him.
    ‘Lock it,’ said the voice. It came from the bedroom.
    Bond did as he was told and walked across the middle of the room until he was opposite the open bedroom door. As he passed the portable long-player on the writing desk the pianist began on ‘La Ronde’.
    She was sitting, half-naked, astride a chair in front of the dressing-table, gazing across the back of the chair into the triple mirror. Her bare arms were folded along the tall back of the chair and her chin was resting on her arms. Her spine was arched, and there was arrogance in the set of her head and shoulders. The black string of her brassiere across the naked back, the tight black lace pants and the splay of her legs whipped at Bond’s senses.
    The girl raised her eyes from looking at her face and inspected him in the mirror, briefly and coolly.
    ‘I guess you’re the new help,’ she said in a low, rather husky voice that made no commitment. ‘Take a seat and enjoy the music. Best light record ever made.’
    Bond was amused. He obediently took the few steps to a deep armchair, moved it a little so that he could still see her through the doorway, and sat down.
    ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he said, taking out his case and putting a cigarette in his mouth.
    ‘If that’s the way you want to die.’
    Miss Case resumed the silent contemplation of her face in the mirror while the pianist played ‘J’attendrai’. Then it was the end of the record.
    Indifferently she flexed her hips back off the chair and stood up. She half turned her head and the blonde hair that fell heavily to the base of her neck curved with the movement and caught the light.
    ‘If you like it, turn it over,’ she said carelessly. ‘Be with you in a moment.’ She moved out of sight.
    Bond walked over to the gramophone and picked up the record. It was George Feyer with rhythm accompaniment. He looked at the number and memorized it. It was Vox 500. He examined the other side and, skipping ‘La Vie en Rose’ because it had memories for him, put the needle down at the beginning of ‘Avril au Portugal’.
    Before he left the gramophone he pulled the blotter softly from under it and held it up to the standard lamp beside the writing-desk. He held it sideways under the light and glanced along it. It was unmarked. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped it back under the machine and walked back to his chair.
    He thought that the music was appropriate to the girl. All the tunes seemed to belong to her. No wonder it was her favourite record. It had her brazen sexiness, the rough tang of her manner and the poignancy that had been in her eyes as they had looked moodily back at him out of the