"Would you care to step into the office for a moment and shake him by the hand?"
There's Tommy Thompson, who just wrote Serpentine. Nora Ephrom,
'She cabled me to come. She was in an emergency ward in a hospital in Miami. Goldfinger had thrown her out. She was dying. The doctors didn't know what was the matter. She told me what had happened to her - what he had done to her. She died the same night.' The girl's voice was dry - matter of fact. 'When I got back to England I went to Train, the skin specialist. He told me this business about the pores of the skin. It had happened to some cabaret girl who had to pose as a silver statue. He showed me details of the case and the autopsy. Then I knew what had happened to Jill. Gold-finger had had her painted all over. He had murdered her. It must have been out of revenge for - for going with you.' There was a pause. The girl said dully, 'She told me about you. She - she liked you. She told me if ever I met you I was to give you this ring.'
While the man with the gun held the Negro's eyes in his, Bond saw him turn the gun round in his hand so that he was holding it by the barrel. Suddenly, with a back-handed blow that had all his shoulder behind it, he lashed the butt of the revolver into the centre of the Negro's huge belly.
"Sure," said Leiter. He slipped his steel hook into the right-hand pocket of his coat and took Bond's arm with his left hand. They moved out on to the street and Bond noticed that Leiter walked with a heavy limp. "In Texas even the fleas are so rich they can hire themselves dogs. Let's go. Sardi's is just over the way."
`Oh, well,' said Bond reluctantly. `You'd better take mine. Come on in.'
'Where is this man? I would like to question him.'
The three men walked like executioners, saying nothing. Drax took out his key and they silently filed through the door a few feet below the taut bodies of Bond and Gala.
Bond felt a moment of relief. At least she was not being got down by the performance. Bond said, "And I would like a medium Vodka dry Martini-with a slice of lemon peel. Shaken-and not stirred, please. I would prefer Russian or Polish vodka."
It was a typical Balkan wayside station-a facade of dour buildings in over-pointed stone, a dusty expanse of platform, not raised, but level with the ground so that there was a long step down from the train, some chickens pecking about and a few drab officials standing idly, unshaven, not even trying to look important. Up towards the cheap half of the train, a chattering horde of peasants with bundles and wicker baskets waited for the customs and passport control so that they could clamber aboard and join the swarm inside.
When Bond got to his room, it was midnight. His windows had been closed and the air-conditioning turned on. He switched it off and opened the windows halfway and then, with heartfelt relief, took a shower and went to bed. He worried for a while about having shown off with the gun, but it was an act of folly which he couldn't undo, and he soon went to sleep to dream of three black-cloaked men dragging a shapeless bundle through dappled moonlight towards dark waters that were dotted with glinting red eyes. The gnashing white teeth and the crackling bones resolved themselves into a persistent scrabbling noise that brought him suddenly awake. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It said 3:30. The scrabbling became a quiet tapping from behind the curtains. James Bond slid quietly out of bed, took his gun from under his pillow, and crept softly along the wall to the edge of the curtains. He pulled them aside with one swift motion. The golden hair shone almost silver in the moonlight. Mary Goodnight whispered urgently, "Quick, James! Help me in!"
So now James Bond paused before he replied to Major Townsend's question about how he could be of help. He looked at the Soft Man and then into the fire. He added up the accuracy of the description he had been given of Major Townsend's appearance, and before he said what he had been told to say, he gave Colonel Boris ninety out of a hundred. The big, friendly face, the wide-apart, pale-brown eyes, bracketed by the wrinkles of a million smiles, the military moustache, the rimless monocle dangling from a thin black cord, the brushed-back, thinning sandy hair, the immaculate double-breasted blue suit, stiff white collar and brigade tie-it was all there. But what Colonel Boris hadn't said was that the friendly eyes were as cold and steady as gunbarrels and that the lips were thin and scholarly.
The Company were all pleas'd with the Lad's Performance, in which he imitated the Nightingale to Admiration. Thus they diverted themselves, 'till Chariots came to carry them out to take the Evening Air.