CHAPTER EIGHT
Nightowl (Part 2)
Inside, the Ventures was playing The 2000 Pound Bee, in adenoidal distortion. Outside, the brutal backfire of a sports car starting sprayed gravel.
Laurentine pressed her head against Bond's shoulder. She was being loving and little-girlish, at odds with her behavior earlier that day. "We should have had dinner," she said over the noise.
"We did, didn't we?"
"That little thing?"
Bond looked out at the dance floor, down the center of the converted church. A writhing mass of powdered shoulders and evening suits lit like a delirium.
She joined his gaze. "I feel out of place here."
"Why's that?"
"I don't have elbow-length gloves."
"That's ridiculous," he assured her, "you've a great face."
# # #
Laurentine insisted she was hungry after all, and they headed out as the Ventures gave way to John Coltrane and his soprano saxophone. Walking around, they found a restaurant not too far from Der Nightowl, not quite ready to close but close to it, and they went in. They were the only patrons, and Bond really couldn't blame anyone else ⸺ the interior design was more akin to a burgomeister's hunting lodge, complete with dead-eyed deer stuffed and mounted to the walls, boars in dust-covered snarls, and overturned beer barrels acting as tables.
Laurentine continued a continuous flow of chatter, skipping across topics like a flat stone flung across the placid surface of a lake, and Bond found himself enjoying the eclectic range of topics. The meal was satisfactory, although typically heavy German fare ⸺ Schweinsbraten served with Semmelknödel, a side vegetable of carrots and cabbage boiled until dead, and a basket of Buchteln rolls with Powidl in their centers. It was more of a gastronomic punishment than a meal, but Laurentine ate with gusto.
He was able to resist the sweets trolley, given that his stomach threatened to burst, but she helped herself to a Topfenstrudel.
They finished coffee after midnight and made their way via taxi back to the Kempi. Laurentine was quiet for a large part of the journey, her eyes focused not on the city passing by outside the Mercedes, but rather on the back of the passenger seat. They shared the silence.
They checked in at the desk, and Bond suggested that Laurentine could come by his room for a nightcap. "Mine," she said, "I already got the booze."
"I don't have alcohol in my room?"
"Lemme put it this way, lover boy, I know that I have drinks at mine."
She held his arm tight as they made their way up.
Laurentine pushed open the door to her room, stepped in ⸺ and stopped. "Someone's been here."
"What?"
"Someone's been here."
"Maid service," said Bond, looking in. "If it was them, they did a terrible job."
The room was precisely as they had left it.
Laurentine entered three steps and stopped. All the joy, the pleasure of the evening was sucked out of her face, leaving behind a residue of concern and disappointment. "Someone had been here."
"It looks exactly the same," Bond insisted.
"No," she said, "I can tell."
"What," he asked, half-jokingly, "did you leave a hair across the door? A trace of powder on the carpet?"
"Melvin," she said, and shook his arm. "Check the bathroom."
"Nobody has been ⸺"
"Check it!"
Bond held up a hand in appeasement. "All right," he agreed, more serious.
He looked in the small square bathroom, then checked the closet and under the bed. "Sorry," he said, "no Russian spies or Italian mafiosi in here. Just us."
"I have to change rooms," she said, "someone's been in here."
"Let's go down and ask at the desk, shall we?"
"You're not taking this seriously, are you." Not a question.
"Of course I am. I don't know why you feel someone's been in here, darling, but if you feel that you need to change, then let's change."
At the front desk, Bond asked in German if any of the staff had been to Miss St. Odine's room, and was assured that none had. He inquired about visitors and had the same answer, that there had been no one.
"Tell him I want a different room."
Bond and the front desk clerk discussed the matter, and he agreed. "The matter will be attended to shortly," he assured her in German, and Bond translated.
"Have a bellboy pack my bags and move them. I'll pay extra. I'm not going back into that room."
"Of course not," Bond agreed. "Tell you what, wait for me in the bar. I'll arrange everything with the front clerk."
"Do it," she said, in a tone of one who gives commands and expects them to be followed. Without another word, she turned on her heel and nose-dived into the Kempi's bar, which was quiet.
Bond looked at the front desk clerk and said, in English and in a near whisper, "You look ridiculous."
"I feel ridiculous," whispered David Wolkovsky. He wore a white shirt that was a size too small, and the buttons strained with the tension.
"She knew someone had been in there."
"What?"
"We walked in, and she knew immediately that someone had been there."
"Impossible," said Wolkovsky, "we use the best plumbers."
"'Plumbers?'"
"CIA talk ⸺ look, never mind. We left no indication that we had been there."
"Well, she knew."
"So that's why the move."
"I only have a minute," said Bond, "what'd you learn?"
"Not. much. Paperwork in the name of Laurentine St. Odine of Omaha, Nebraska. Recently widowed. Bank book indicates a weekly stipend from Chase to an account at Deutsche Bank, looks very legal. A lot of rich tourists do that, set up a temporary account at a local bank. She also has ten thou in U.S. traveler's checks. A lot of expensive jewelry. Not smart, she should put them in the hotel safe. More secure."
"I'll be sure to tell her. So is she really Laurentine St. Odine or is that a convincing cover?"
"It's a first class cover, if it is one. Room feels like a single woman living alone." Wolkovsky pursed his lips. "One thing, though."
"Yes?"
"She had some personal correspondence. In Hebrew."
"Hebrew?"
"We took pictures, will get it translated."
"Thanks, David, I best go check in on her."
"Oh, one other thing," he said, and passed Bond a small square of paper. "You got a message."
Bond looked it over:
Call your office
"Thanks, David."
"Running around at night. Mysterious message. B-'n'-E into pretty lady's rooms. Must be difficult, working for the Plywood Research Council."
"It's the hours that get you, not the job." He pushed off from the desk.
More loudly, Wolkovsky called out in German, "We shall take care of it. You will be in the bar?"
Bond indicated that he would.
As he crossed the lobby, he pondered another, bigger question
At Der Nightowl, he was positive that the woman at the bar with the enormous beehive hairdo was Shiri Ritchfield, the woman from the golf course.