Free Bond 10 - The Spy Who Loved Me by Ian Fleming Page B

‘COME INTO MY PARLOUR …’
    T HE RAIN was hammering down just as hard, its steady roar providing a background to the gurgling torrents from the downspouts at the four corners of the building. I looked forward to bed. How soundly I would sleep between the sheets in the spotless little cabin – those percale sheets that featured in the advertisements for the motel! How luxurious the Elliott Frey beds, Magee custom-designed carpets, Philco television and air-conditioning, Icemagic ice-makers, Acrilan blankets and Simmons Vivant furniture (‘Our phenolic laminate tops and drawers are immune to cigarette burns, alcohol stains’) – in fact all those refinements of modern motel luxury down to Acrylite shower enclosures, Olsonite Pearlescent lavatory seats and Delsey ‘bathroom tissue’, otherwise lavatory paper (‘in modern colours to harmonize with contemporary décor’) that would be mine, and mine alone, tonight!
    Despite all these gracious trimmings, plus a beautiful site, it seemed that The Dreamy Pines was in a bad way, and, when I had come upon it two weeks before, there were only two overnighters in the whole place and not a single reservation for the last fortnight of the season.
    Mrs Phancey, an iron-grey woman with bitter, mistrustful eyes and a grim slit of a mouth, was at the desk when I came in that evening. She had looked sharply at me, a lone girl, and at my meagre saddlebags, and, when I pushed the Vespa over to Number 9, she followed me with my card in her hand to check that I had not entered a false vehicle licence. Her husband, Jed, was more genial, but I soon understood why when the back of his hand brushed against my breast as, later in the cafeteria, he put the coffee in front of me. Apparently he doubled as handyman and short-order cook and, while his pale brown eyes moved over me like slugs, he complained whiningly about how much there was to do around the place getting it ready for closing date and constantly being called away from some job to fry eggs for parties of transients. It seemed they were the managers for the owner. He lived in Troy. A Mr Sanguinetti. ‘Big shot. Owns plenty property down on Cohoes Road. Riverfront property. And The Trojan Horse – roadhouse on Route 9, outside Albany. Maybe you know the joint?’ When I said I didn’t, Mr Phancey looked sly. ‘You ever want some fun, you go along to The Horse. Better not go alone, though. Pretty gal like you could get herself roughed up. After the fifteenth, when I get away from here, you could give me a call. Phancey’s the name. In the phone book. Be glad to escort you, show you a good time.’ I thanked him, but said I was just passing through the district on my way south. Could I have a couple of fried eggs, sunnyside up, and bacon?
    But Mr Phancey wouldn’t leave me alone. While I ate, he came and sat at my little table and told me some of his dull life-story and, in between episodes, slipped in questions about me and my plans – what parents I had, didn’t I mind being so far from home, did I have any friends in the States, and so on – innocuous questions, put, it seemed to me, with normal curiosity. He was after all around forty-five, old enough to be my father, and though he was obviously a dirty old man, they were a common enough breed, and anyway Mrs Phancey was keeping an eye on us from the desk at the other end of the room.
    Mr Phancey finally left me and went over to his wife and, while I smoked a cigarette and finished my second cup of coffee (‘No charge, miss. Compliments of The Dreamy Pines’), I heard them talking in a low voice over something that, because of an occasional chuckle, seemed to give them satisfaction. Finally Mrs Phancey came over, clucking in a motherly fashion about my adventurous plans (‘My, oh, my! What will you modern girls be doing next?’), and then she sat down and, looking as winsome as she knew how, said why didn’t I stop over for a few days and have a rest and