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If the latter occurred it would be no use telling them to ring M. Precious
time would have been lost.
Murik's party had now disappeared into the stand. Nothing happened, and Bond
entered the side door, climbing the stairs to the second tier about two
minutes after the Laird's group entered. On reaching the corridor running
behind the boxes, Bond transferred the pearls to his right hand and advanced
on the Laird of Murcaldy's box.
They all had their backs to him as he knocked and stepped inside. Nobody
noticed, for they seemed intent upon watching the runners canter down to the
starting line. Bond coughed. 'Excuse me,' he said. The group turned.
Anton Murik seemed a little put out. The women looked interested.
Bond smiled and held out the pearls. 'I believe someone has been casting
pearls before this particular swine,' he said, calmly. 'I found these on the
floor outside. Looks like the chain's broken. Do they belong to . . . ?'
With a little cry, Lavender Peacock's hand flew to her throat. 'Oh my God,'
she breathed, the voice low and full of melody, even in this moment of stress.
' "My God" is right,' Murik's voice was almost unnaturally low for his
stature, and there was barely a hint of any Scottish accent. 'Thank you very
much. I've told my ward often enough that she should not wear such precious
baubles in public. Now, perhaps, she'll believe me.'
Lavender had gone chalk white and was fumbling out towards Bond's hand and the
pearls. 'I don't know how to-' she began.
Murik broke in, 'The least we can do, sir, is to ask you to stay and watch the
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
race from here.' Bond was looking into dark slate eyes, the colour of cooling
lava, and with as much life. This gaze would, no doubt, put the fear of God
into some people, Bond thought: even himself, under certain circumstances.
'Let me introduce you. I am Anton Murik; my ward, Lavender Peacock, and an old
friend, Mary-Jane Mashkin.'
Bond shook hands, in turn; introducing himself. 'My name is Bond,' he said.
'James Bond.'
Only one thing surprised him. When she spoke, Mary-Jane Mashkin betrayed in
her accent that she was undoubtedly American - something that had not appeared
on any of the files in M's office. Originally Southern, Bond thought, but well
overlaid with the nasalities of the East Coast.
'You'll stay for the race, then?' Murik asked, speaking quickly. 'Oh yes.
Please.' Lavender appeared to have recovered her poise.
Mary-Jane Mashkin smiled. She was a handsome woman, and the smile was much
warmer than the subdued malevolence of Anton Murik. 'You must stay. Anton has
a horse running.'
'Thank you.' Bond moved closer within the box, trying to place himself between
Murik and his ward. 'May I ask which horse?'
Murik had his glasses up, scanning the course, peering towards the starting
gate. 'China Blue. He's down there all right.' He lowered his glasses, and for
a second there was movement within the lava-flow eyes. 'He'll win. Mr Bond.'
'I sincerely hope so. What a coincidence,' Bond laughed, reaching for his own
binocular case. 'I have a small bet on your horse. Didn't notice who owned
him.'
'Really?' There was a faint trace of appreciation in Murik's voice. Then he
gave a small smile. 'Your money's safe. I shall have repaid you in part for
finding Lavender's pearls. What made you choose China Blue?'
'Liked the name.' Bond tried to look ingenuous. 'Had an aunt with a cat by
that name once. Pedigree Siamese.'
'They're under starter's orders.' Lavender sounded breathless. They turned
their glasses towards the far distance, and the start of the Ascot Gold
Cup-two and a half flat miles.
A roar went up from the crowd below them. Bond just had time to refocus his
glasses. The horses were off.
Within half a mile a pattern seemed to emerge. The Queen's horse was bunched
with the other favourites  Francis' Folly and Desmond's Delight, with Soft
Centre clinging to the group, way out in front of three other horses which
stood back a good ten lengths; while the rest of the field straggled out
behind.
Bond kept his glasses trained on the three horses behind the little bunch of
four leaders who seemed set to provide the winners. Among this trio was the
distinctive yellow and black of Murik's colours on China Blue.
There was a strange tension and silence in the box, contrasting with the
excited noise drifting up from the crowds lining the course. The pace was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]