James Bond - 028 - Never Send Flowers by John Gardner

Author:John Gardner
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Thrillers, Suspense, Espionage, Fiction
ISBN: 9781409135739
Publisher: Putnam Adult
Published: 1993-05-30T07:00:00+00:00

she came into my office looking ill –on b even

10

SCHLOSS DRACHE

The cackle turned into a soft laugh. The strange creature’s hands moved, closing together, and the long-taloned fingers gripped the wrists, one after the other, seeming to snap off the skin, bone and nails. Now, latex gloves dangled from the fingertips of one hand, while the other moved upwards to rip the long black hair from his head. The body appeared to change before their eyes, straightening up, growing.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t resist that. You should have seen your faces. My name’s David Dragonpol. Fräulein von Grüsse and Mr Bond, welcome to Schloss Drache.’

He fiddled with his nose, pulling off the putty which had shaped the strange crooked beak. Half revealed before them was Dragonpol himself. Even the voice had returned to normal.

‘You see, Hort fancies herself as a painter, and I’m posing for her. She has this idea that oil paintings of me in my best roles will look well in one of the museum rooms. I can’t say I agree with her. Hort, come and meet our guests.’

They followed his eyes and for the first time saw a woman seated behind an easel set in a kind of niche to one side of the long book-laden left-hand wall. Putting down her palette, she rose gracefully – a poised hostess, dressed in paint-daubed jeans and a T-shirt, the front of which carried the words ‘Go For It! Life is not a dress rehearsal.’ She came towards them with a smile and a hand held out to be either kissed or shaken.

‘Maeve Horton,’ she introduced herself. ‘We spoke on the telephone, Mr Bond.’

Her hand was cucumber cool and the wide dark eyes seemed to be visibly stripping Bond of his clothes. She was very tall, almost a full six feet, with the slim agile body of a dancer, and a face which had the clear skin and regular features of an Irish girl. ‘I’d have talked for longer if I’d known how good looking you were . . .’

‘Come on, Hort, not so much of the blarney.’ Apart from the doublet and hose, Dragonpol was fully recognizable now, raking his fingers through the mane of straw-coloured hair, revealing the face which had captured the imagination of millions; the actor who could transform himself into any character he chose. ‘You probably know we have Irish family connections.’ He gave them both that winning smile, brimming with a near tangible charisma. ‘Hort plays the Irish colleen to the hilt. Everyone calls her Hort, by the way, never Maeve.’

Maeve Horton made a tutting sound, part way between ‘whisht’ and ‘ocht’. Then she turned to Flicka, as Dragonpol took Bond’s elbow and steered him away from the women, speaking softly. ‘I always try to be delicate in these matters. In this day and age one has to be blunt. I wasn’t certain of the sleeping arrangements, Mr Bond . . .’

‘Call me James.’ He was trying to take in as much

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