Bond felt the liftman watching him as he walked down the long, quiet corridor to the end room, Room 350. Bond wasn’t surprised. He knew there was more petty crime in this hotel than in any other large hotel in London. Vallance had once shown him the big monthly crime map of London. He had pointed to the forest of little flags round the Trafalgar Palace. “That place annoys the map-room men,” he had said. “Every month this corner gets so pitted with holes they have to paste fresh paper over it to hold the next month’s pins.”
As Bond neared the end of the corridor he could hear a piano swinging a rather sad tune. At the door of 350 he knew the music came from behind it. He recognized the tune. It was Feuilles Mortes. He knocked.
Feuilles Mortes“Come in.” The hall porter had telephoned and t
