Devil May Care

breakfast as he was cooling down, and he ate it wrapped in a towel at the table in the window. The coffee was good, but he could never feel enthusiastic about croissants. At least there was something approaching marmalade.
    After a shower, Bond changed into a sea-island cotton shirt, short-sleeved, charcoal trousers and a blazer. He wasn’t sure what the dress code of the Club Sporting de Tennis would be, but in his experience such places in France generally tried to out-British the British in their display of checks and loud ‘club’ ties. He put his tennis clothes in a small holdall and went down to the front door.
    At one minute to nine, a white Sunbeam Alpine drew up with a squeak alongside him. The hood was down, and in the driving seat, in dark glasses and a distractingly short red linen dress, was Scarlett Papava.
    ‘Hop in, James. You can push the seat back if you like.’
    Before he had had time to settle himself, she let in the clutch, and the little car sped off towards the place de la Concorde.
    Bond smiled. ‘Are we in a hurry?’
    ‘I think so,’ said Scarlett. ‘If we can manage to get you a game with Dr Gorner, you’ll need to be at your best.
    I suggest you have a little warm-up first. He’s rather competitive.’
    Scarlett swept on to the Champs-Élysées and sank her right foot. ‘You have to take these chaps on,’ she said. ‘These French drivers, I mean. Play them at their own game. There’s no point in being a shrinking violet.’
    ‘Why did you go for the Alpine, not the Tiger?’ said Bond.
    ‘My father found it for me. Second-hand. The Tiger’s bigger, isn’t it?’
    ‘It has a V8 engine,’ said Bond, ‘but the Sunbeam chassis can’t really handle that much torque. Anyway, you don’t need it. Not the way you drive.’
    At the Étoile, where fifteen streams of traffic merge and battle for survival, Scarlett gave no quarter, and a few terrifying seconds later, in a barrage of hooting, they were on their way down the avenue de Neuilly. A small smile of triumph flickered round Scarlett’s lips as the wind blew back her dark hair.
    The Club Sporting was hidden off a discreet, sandy avenue in the Bois. Bond and Scarlett walked across from the car park, through the hissing lawns where hidden sprinklers played, and up the steps into the enormous modern clubhouse.
    ‘Wait here,’ said Scarlett. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
    Bond watched the slim legs, bare to mid-thigh, as she walked away, with a slight rolling dip of the hips, towards the secretary’s office. It was the walk of a confident girl, he thought, athletic and sure of herself.
    He looked at the notices on the board: club tournaments, ladders, plates, knock-outs, seniors’ and juniors’ competitions. The names of the entrants included some of the best-known families in Paris. Towards the top of the secondladder, he saw the name ‘J. Gorner’. If the top echelon was the first and second teams, men in their twenties of near-professional standard, that must mean Gorner was a formidable player. The equivalent in golf, a game Bond knew better, would be a player of a seven or eight handicap. Quite fierce enough.
    ‘James!’ He heard his name called, and saw Scarlett beckoning him over.
    ‘The secretary says Dr Gorner will be here in a few minutes, but has no game booked. You’re in luck.’
    ‘How did you manage it?’
    Scarlett looked momentarily ashamed. ‘I know from Poppy that Gorner likes a bet. I took the liberty of telling the secretary that you were a fine athlete who would give Dr Gorner a good game and that you enjoyed a flutter yourself. I may also have led him to believe that you might not be quite good enough to win – but that you were a thorough gentleman who would pay his debts.’
    ‘I should think he must be salivating at the prospect,’ said Bond.
    ‘Well, I think they find it hard to get the regular members to play against Gorner.’
    ‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Bond. ‘How much am I in for?’
    ‘Only a hundred pounds,’ said Scarlett, innocently. ‘Now I’m going to make myself scarce.’
    ‘You’re telling me,’ said Bond. ‘But you’re not to leave the premises.’
    ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I’m going to watch. From a discreet distance. Look. Isn’t that his car arriving?’
    Through the large glass doors Bond saw a black Mercedes 300D, driven by a man in a kepi. He watched it draw up atthe foot of the steps, where the driver threw the keys to an