asked Bond, gaining time. He knew the answer.
‘I know it’s you,’ said the voice, and Bond could feel that it was right up against the mouthpiece. ‘This is Solitaire.’ The name was scarcely breathed into the telephone.
Bond waited, all his senses pricked to what might be the scene at the other end of the line. Was she alone? Was she speaking foolishly on a house-phone with extensions to which other listeners were now coldly, intently glued? Or was she in a room with only Mr Big’s eyes bent carefully on her, a pencil and pad beside him so that he could prompt the next question?
‘Listen,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve got to be quick. You must trust me. I’m in a drugstore, but I must get back at once to my room. Please believe me.’
Bond had his handkerchief out. He spoke into it. ‘If I can reach Mr Bond what shall I tell him?’
‘Oh damn you,’ said the girl with what sounded like a genuine touch of hysteria. ‘I swear by my mother, by my unborn children. I’ve got to get away. And so have you. You’ve got to take me. I’ll help you. I know a lot of his secrets. But be quick. I’m risking my life here talking to you.’ She gave a sob of exasperation and panic. ‘For God’s sake trust me. You must. You must!’
Bond still paused, his mind working furiously.
‘Listen,’ she spoke again, but this time dully, almost hopelessly. ‘If you don’t take me, I shall kill myself. Now will you? Do you want to murder me?’
If it was acting, it was too good acting. It was still an unpardonable gamble, but Bond decided. He spoke directly into the telephone, his voice low.
‘If this is a double-cross, Solitaire, I’ll get at you and kill you if it’s the last thing I do. Have you got a pencil and paper?’
‘Wait,’ said the girl, excitedly. ‘Yes, yes.’
If it had been a plant, reflected Bond, all that would have been ready.
‘Be at Pennsylvania Station at ten-twenty exactly. The Silver Phantom to …’ he hesitated. ‘… to Washington. Car 245, Compartment H. Say you’re Mrs Bryce. Conductor has the ticket in case I’m not there already. Go straight to the compartment and wait for me. Got that?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘and thank you, thank you.’
‘Don’t be seen,’ said Bond. ‘Wear a veil or something.’
‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘I promise. I really promise. I must go.’ She rang off.
Bond looked at the dead receiver, then put it down on the cradle. ‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s torn it.’
He got up and stretched. He walked to the window and looked out, seeing nothing. His thoughts raced. Then he shrugged and turned back to the telephone. He looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.
‘Room Service, good morning,’ said the golden voice.
‘Breakfast, please,’ said Bond. ‘Pineapple juice, double. Cornflakes and cream. Shirred eggs with bacon. Double portion of Café Espresso. Toast and marmalade.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the girl. She repeated the order. ‘Right away.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Bond grinned to himself.
‘The condemned man made a hearty breakfast,’ he reflected. He sat down by the window and gazed up at the clear sky, into the future.
Up in Harlem, at the big switchboard, The Whisper was talking to the town again, passing Bond’s description again to all Eyes: ‘All de railroads, all de airports. Fifth Avenue an’ 55th Street doors of da San Regis. Mr Big sez we gotta chance da highways. Pass it down da line. All de railroads, all de airports…’
10 ....... THE SILVER PHANTOM
B OND, THE collar of his new raincoat up round his ears, was missed as he came out of the entrance of the St. Regis Drugstore on 55th Street, which has a connecting door into the hotel.
He waited in the entrance and leaped at a cruising cab, hooking the door open with the thumb of his injured hand and throwing his light suitcase in ahead of him. The cab hardly checked. The negro with the collecting-box for the
‘I know it’s you,’ said the voice, and Bond could feel that it was right up against the mouthpiece. ‘This is Solitaire.’ The name was scarcely breathed into the telephone.
Bond waited, all his senses pricked to what might be the scene at the other end of the line. Was she alone? Was she speaking foolishly on a house-phone with extensions to which other listeners were now coldly, intently glued? Or was she in a room with only Mr Big’s eyes bent carefully on her, a pencil and pad beside him so that he could prompt the next question?
‘Listen,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve got to be quick. You must trust me. I’m in a drugstore, but I must get back at once to my room. Please believe me.’
Bond had his handkerchief out. He spoke into it. ‘If I can reach Mr Bond what shall I tell him?’
‘Oh damn you,’ said the girl with what sounded like a genuine touch of hysteria. ‘I swear by my mother, by my unborn children. I’ve got to get away. And so have you. You’ve got to take me. I’ll help you. I know a lot of his secrets. But be quick. I’m risking my life here talking to you.’ She gave a sob of exasperation and panic. ‘For God’s sake trust me. You must. You must!’
Bond still paused, his mind working furiously.
‘Listen,’ she spoke again, but this time dully, almost hopelessly. ‘If you don’t take me, I shall kill myself. Now will you? Do you want to murder me?’
If it was acting, it was too good acting. It was still an unpardonable gamble, but Bond decided. He spoke directly into the telephone, his voice low.
‘If this is a double-cross, Solitaire, I’ll get at you and kill you if it’s the last thing I do. Have you got a pencil and paper?’
‘Wait,’ said the girl, excitedly. ‘Yes, yes.’
If it had been a plant, reflected Bond, all that would have been ready.
‘Be at Pennsylvania Station at ten-twenty exactly. The Silver Phantom to …’ he hesitated. ‘… to Washington. Car 245, Compartment H. Say you’re Mrs Bryce. Conductor has the ticket in case I’m not there already. Go straight to the compartment and wait for me. Got that?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘and thank you, thank you.’
‘Don’t be seen,’ said Bond. ‘Wear a veil or something.’
‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘I promise. I really promise. I must go.’ She rang off.
Bond looked at the dead receiver, then put it down on the cradle. ‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s torn it.’
He got up and stretched. He walked to the window and looked out, seeing nothing. His thoughts raced. Then he shrugged and turned back to the telephone. He looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.
‘Room Service, good morning,’ said the golden voice.
‘Breakfast, please,’ said Bond. ‘Pineapple juice, double. Cornflakes and cream. Shirred eggs with bacon. Double portion of Café Espresso. Toast and marmalade.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the girl. She repeated the order. ‘Right away.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Bond grinned to himself.
‘The condemned man made a hearty breakfast,’ he reflected. He sat down by the window and gazed up at the clear sky, into the future.
Up in Harlem, at the big switchboard, The Whisper was talking to the town again, passing Bond’s description again to all Eyes: ‘All de railroads, all de airports. Fifth Avenue an’ 55th Street doors of da San Regis. Mr Big sez we gotta chance da highways. Pass it down da line. All de railroads, all de airports…’
10 ....... THE SILVER PHANTOM
B OND, THE collar of his new raincoat up round his ears, was missed as he came out of the entrance of the St. Regis Drugstore on 55th Street, which has a connecting door into the hotel.
He waited in the entrance and leaped at a cruising cab, hooking the door open with the thumb of his injured hand and throwing his light suitcase in ahead of him. The cab hardly checked. The negro with the collecting-box for the
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