Chapter V

       Dinner at Blades

       Table of Content

      It was eight o'clock as Bond followed M. through the tall doors, across the well of the staircase from the card room, that opened into the beautiful white and gold Regency dining-room of Blades.

      M. chose not to hear a call from Basildon who was presiding over the big centre table where there were still two places vacant. Instead, he walked firmly across the room to the end one of a row of six smaller tables, waved Bond into the comfortable armed chair that faced outwards into the room, and himself took the one on Bond's left so that his back was to the company.

      The head steward was already behind Bond's chair. He placed a broad menu card beside his plate and handed another to M. 'Blades' was written in fine gold script across the top. Below there was a forest of print.

      "Don't bother to read through all that," said M., "unless you've got no ideas. One of the first rules of the club, and one of the best, was that any member may speak for any dish, cheap or dear, but he must pay for it. The same's true today, only the odds are one doesn't have to pay for it. Just order what you feel like." He looked up at the steward. "Any of that Beluga caviar left, Porterfield?"

      "Yes, sir. There was a new delivery last week."

      "Well," said M. "Caviar for me. Devilled kidney and a slice of your excellent bacon. Peas and new potatoes. Strawberries in kirsch. What about you, James?"

      "I've got a mania for really good smoked salmon," said Bond. Then he pointed down the menu. "Lamb cutlets. The same vegetables as you, as it's May. Asparagus with Béarnaise sauce sounds wonderful. And perhaps a slice of pineapple." He sat back and pushed the menu away.

      "Thank heaven for a man who makes up his mind," said M. He looked up at the steward. "Have you got all that, Porterfield?"

      "Yes, sir." The steward smiled. "You wouldn't care for a marrow bone after the strawberries, sir? We got half a dozen in today from the country, and I'd specially kept one in case you came in."

      "Of course. You know I can't resist them. Bad for me but it can't be helped. God knows what I'm celebrating this evening. But it doesn't often happen. Ask Grimley to come over, would you."

      "He's here now, sir," said the steward, making way for the wine-waiter.

      "Ah, Grimley, some vodka, please." He turned to Bond. "Not the stuff you had in your cocktail. This is real pre-war Wolfschmidt from Riga. Like some with your smoked salmon?"

      "Very much," said Bond.

      "Then what?" asked M. "Champagne? Personally I'm going to have a half-bottle of claret. The Mouton Rothschild '34, please, Grimley. But don't pay any attention to me, James. I'm an old man. Champagne's no good for me. We've got some good champagnes, haven't we, Grimley? None of that stuff you're always telling me about, I'm afraid, James. Don't often see it in England. Taittinger, wasn't it?"

      Bond smiled at M.'s memory. "Yes," he said, "but it's only a fad of mine. As a matter of fact, for various reasons I believe I would like to drink champagne this evening. Perhaps I could leave it to Grimley."

      The wine-waiter was pleased. "If I may suggest it, sir, the Dom Perignon '46. I understand that France only sells it for dollars, sir, so you don't often see it in London. I believe it was a gift from the Regency Club in New York, sir. I have some on ice at the moment. It's the Chairman's favourite and he's told me to have it ready every evening in case he needs it."

      Bond smiled his agreement.

      "So be it, Grimley," said M. "The Dom Perignon. Bring it straight away, would you?"

      A waitress appeared and put racks of fresh toast on the table and a silver dish of Jersey butter. As she bent over the table her black skirt brushed Bond's arm and he looked up into two pert, sparkling eyes under a soft fringe of hair. The eyes held his for a fraction of a second and then she whisked away. Bond's eyes followed the white bow at her waist and the starched collar and cuffs of her uniform as she went down the long room. His eyes narrowed. He recalled a pre-war establishment in Paris where the girls were dressed with the same exciting severity. Until they turned round and showed their backs.

      He smiled to himself. The Marthe Richards law had changed all that.

      M. turned from studying their neighbours behind him. "Why were you so cryptic about drinking champagne?"

      "Well, if you don't mind, sir," Bond explained, "I've got to get a bit tight tonight. I'll have to seem very drunk when the time comes. It's not an easy thing to act unless you do it with a good deal of conviction. I hope you won't get worried if I seem to get frayed at the edges later on."

      M. shrugged his shoulders. "You've got a head like a rock, James," he said. "Drink as much as you like if it's going to help. Ah, here's the vodka."

      When M. poured him three fingers from the frosted carafe Bond took a pinch of black pepper and dropped it on the surface of the vodka. The pepper slowly settled to the bottom of the glass leaving a few grains on the surface which Bond dabbed up with the tip of a finger. Then he tossed the cold liquor well to the back of his throat and put his glass, with the dregs of the pepper at the bottom, back on the table.

      M. gave him a glance of rather ironical inquiry.

      "It's a trick the Russians taught me that time you attached me to the Embassy in Moscow," apologized Bond. "There's often quite a lot of fusel oil on the surface of this stuff--at least there used to be when it was badly distilled. Poisonous. In Russia, where you get a lot of bath-tub liquor, it's an understood thing to sprinkle a little pepper in your glass. It takes the fusel oil to the bottom. I got to like the taste and now it's a habit. But I shouldn't have insulted the club Wolfschmidt," he added with a grin.

      M. grunted. "So long as you don't put pepper in Basildon's favourite champagne," he said drily.

      A harsh bray of laughter came from a table at the far end of the room. M. looked over his shoulder and then turned back to his caviar.

      "What do you think of this man Drax?" he said through a mouthful of buttered toast.

      Bond helped himself to another slice of smoked salmon from the silver dish beside him. It had the delicate glutinous texture only achieved by Highland curers--very different from the dessicated products of Scandinavia. He rolled a wafer-thin slice of brown bread-and-butter into a cylinder and contemplated it thoughtfully.

      "One can't like his manner much. At first I was rather surprised that you tolerate him here." He glanced at M., who shrugged his shoulders. "But that's none of my business and anyway clubs would be very dull without a sprinkling of eccentrics. And in any case he's a national hero and a millionaire and obviously an adequate card-player. Even when he isn't helping himself to the odds," he added. "But I can see he's the sort of man I always imagined.