only good news, also on
Le Figaro’
s
front page, was the massive evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk.
“What will you do?” the Englishman asked.
“I will stay.
La resistance
has begun. I will join it. And you?”
“I am not a wine merchant on a work visa,” replied Fleming. “But, of course, you know that. I will await orders.”
Frederique de la Croix had been working at Maxim’s since coming home from the first world war in 1918. He had a jagged welt on the right side of his neck, from ear to collar bone, the result of a fumite bomb detonated by his own squadron just before a charge from their trench. Something had caught fire and the smokescreen had turned to a wall of flames ten feet high. A buried bomb had gone off. Others less fortunate had burned to various degrees of crisp or been killed instantly. Rickie, as Maxim’s regulars called him, had been stumbling blindly when a piece of burning shrapnel glanced off his neck. He had had his eyebrows singed off as well, but they had grown back. He raised them now, slightly.
“Not too surprised, I take it?” Fleming asked.
“Only that you’d acknowledge it.”
“We may need each other, now that Hell is empty.”
“My son…?”
“What unit?”
“First Moroccan. They were at Dyle before Reims.”
“I will try.”
“Your man,” said Rickie, nodding a silent
merci
, “is at his usual table.”
“I see him,” said Fleming. “Thank you for calling me.”
“There’s an American at the table tonight,” said Rickie.
“Yes,” the Englishman replied. “The movie star. In harm’s way.”
“Stuffing his face.”
Fleming let this pass. Rickie was angry at the Americans for not helping defend France. He had been obsessed lately with what he called the blood oath his country had had to sign to get a line of credit from Roosevelt to buy airplanes from the Americans, airplanes that would have saved France, but that were not scheduled to arrive until 1941.
“Rickie,” said Ian Fleming, “who is that dazzling young thing in the corner?”
Change the subject, old man.
“She could be Mademoiselle Leigh’s sister,” he went on, when he saw Rickie’s half smile.
The L-shaped bar at Maxim’s took up a spacious alcove off of the restaurant’s rectangular main salon. It was separated from the dining room by only a few yards of thick maroon carpet and a line of gilded stanchions strung with red, velour-covered rope. Its plush maroon velvet stools were trimmed in gold epaulettes, a row of little headless Napoleons at attention at the walnut paneled bar. The Englishman, tall, thin, and darkly handsome in his trademark dark blue suit and striped knit tie, sat on one of these as he and Rickie chatted. Three large mirrors in swirling ormolu frames hung over each of the bar’s two walls, surrounded by shelves filled with exquisitely labeled bottles of liquor. The mirrors were admirable additions to the Versailles-like opulence of the famous Maxim’s, but they were also useful. From any seat at the bar, one could survey the entire restaurant, a good thing—for jealous lovers, the occasional police detective—and spies, like Fleming, who could chat casually with Rickie and still be working. And drinking, of course.
“Miss Leigh?” Freddie replied.
“The actress.
Gone With The Wind
. Come on, Rickie.”
“Ah, yes,” Rickie said. “
L
’affaire d’
Olivier
. A Frenchman,
non
?”
“English, Rickie, but you know that. Who is she?”
“The mistress of Monsieur Malle, the president of the Banque de France. He always arrives thirty minutes after her.”
“Young.”
“
Oui
, twenty-five, twenty-six.”
“New?”
“Yes, perhaps three weeks. Maison Lacloche Frères is very happy.”
They both eyed the ruby and diamond butterfly broach at the nether region of the raven-haired beauty’s ample décolletage, and the cleavage thus revealed, it goes without saying.
“It could be glass,” said Fleming.
“No, I
Le Figaro’
s
front page, was the massive evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk.
“What will you do?” the Englishman asked.
“I will stay.
La resistance
has begun. I will join it. And you?”
“I am not a wine merchant on a work visa,” replied Fleming. “But, of course, you know that. I will await orders.”
Frederique de la Croix had been working at Maxim’s since coming home from the first world war in 1918. He had a jagged welt on the right side of his neck, from ear to collar bone, the result of a fumite bomb detonated by his own squadron just before a charge from their trench. Something had caught fire and the smokescreen had turned to a wall of flames ten feet high. A buried bomb had gone off. Others less fortunate had burned to various degrees of crisp or been killed instantly. Rickie, as Maxim’s regulars called him, had been stumbling blindly when a piece of burning shrapnel glanced off his neck. He had had his eyebrows singed off as well, but they had grown back. He raised them now, slightly.
“Not too surprised, I take it?” Fleming asked.
“Only that you’d acknowledge it.”
“We may need each other, now that Hell is empty.”
“My son…?”
“What unit?”
“First Moroccan. They were at Dyle before Reims.”
“I will try.”
“Your man,” said Rickie, nodding a silent
merci
, “is at his usual table.”
“I see him,” said Fleming. “Thank you for calling me.”
“There’s an American at the table tonight,” said Rickie.
“Yes,” the Englishman replied. “The movie star. In harm’s way.”
“Stuffing his face.”
Fleming let this pass. Rickie was angry at the Americans for not helping defend France. He had been obsessed lately with what he called the blood oath his country had had to sign to get a line of credit from Roosevelt to buy airplanes from the Americans, airplanes that would have saved France, but that were not scheduled to arrive until 1941.
“Rickie,” said Ian Fleming, “who is that dazzling young thing in the corner?”
Change the subject, old man.
“She could be Mademoiselle Leigh’s sister,” he went on, when he saw Rickie’s half smile.
The L-shaped bar at Maxim’s took up a spacious alcove off of the restaurant’s rectangular main salon. It was separated from the dining room by only a few yards of thick maroon carpet and a line of gilded stanchions strung with red, velour-covered rope. Its plush maroon velvet stools were trimmed in gold epaulettes, a row of little headless Napoleons at attention at the walnut paneled bar. The Englishman, tall, thin, and darkly handsome in his trademark dark blue suit and striped knit tie, sat on one of these as he and Rickie chatted. Three large mirrors in swirling ormolu frames hung over each of the bar’s two walls, surrounded by shelves filled with exquisitely labeled bottles of liquor. The mirrors were admirable additions to the Versailles-like opulence of the famous Maxim’s, but they were also useful. From any seat at the bar, one could survey the entire restaurant, a good thing—for jealous lovers, the occasional police detective—and spies, like Fleming, who could chat casually with Rickie and still be working. And drinking, of course.
“Miss Leigh?” Freddie replied.
“The actress.
Gone With The Wind
. Come on, Rickie.”
“Ah, yes,” Rickie said. “
L
’affaire d’
Olivier
. A Frenchman,
non
?”
“English, Rickie, but you know that. Who is she?”
“The mistress of Monsieur Malle, the president of the Banque de France. He always arrives thirty minutes after her.”
“Young.”
“
Oui
, twenty-five, twenty-six.”
“New?”
“Yes, perhaps three weeks. Maison Lacloche Frères is very happy.”
They both eyed the ruby and diamond butterfly broach at the nether region of the raven-haired beauty’s ample décolletage, and the cleavage thus revealed, it goes without saying.
“It could be glass,” said Fleming.
“No, I
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