He's a hot (in the commercial sense) young actor who's had acclaim for playing among other parts Elvis, the Frankenstein Monster, and Heathcliff in "Wuthering Heights" - which might be a good omen for him since Timothy Dalton did that last one many years ago.
I haven’t seen the films you mention although Frankenstein has been on my watchlist for quite some time but somehow never seems to make it to top of the list.
Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.
“Something here that I don’t quite know what to do with, 007”, said M as Bond entered his office. He waved Bond to a seat in front of his desk.
“Oh? What sort of thing, sir?” asked Bond curiously. He held out his gunmetal cigarette case and M nodded impatiently.
“This arrived this morning”. M held out a slim book with a black cover. Bond took it and examined it carefully. THE BLACK DAFFODIL it said, with an embossed image of such a flower under the title.
Bond opened the book and flicked casually through the pages before staring at M in surprise.
“My name is in here”, he said.
“Keep looking”, said M.
Bond resumed skimming through the slim volume before putting it down.
“There are some other familiar names in here, too, sir”, he said in a tone clearly looking for answers.
“Indeed there are”, said M. He packed his pipe before lighting it. “Why don’t you go to the start and read it, 007? It’s quite a short book, it won’t take you very long”.
Bond went back to the beginning and began to read.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,107Chief of Staff
I never knew the old Berlin before the war with its music, its glamour and easy charm. Paris suited me better. I was too young to have fought in the war and now in 62 I found myself travelling in Berlin for the first time. The huge city seemed an uncoordinated jumble of rubble, building sites, and shining new towers of offices and department stores and apartment blocks. I should not have been surprised, really; it was less than twenty years since the Allied Forces had done their level best to smash the whole area into the ground because of one crazy little man’s demented ideas. I suppose it didn’t really look any worse than a lot of other European cities that had been bombed and there was probably a lot of planning going on invisible to the foreign observer. It would be a good idea if I just looked at things and didn’t think too much about it.
It might also have been a good idea if I had been able to understand and speak more than very basic German. Still, I thought I might be able to get by. The city was divided into four sectors, each occupied by a power: the American, the British, the Russian, and the French. My French wasn’t too bad, though my Russian was non-existent, so I should not be completely helpless. I had heard that most Germans spoke at least one other language, usually English or French.
I sat in the back of the taxi taking me from Tempelhof to the address I had shown the driver, my suitcase beside me. He could have been taking me past the same buildings and ruins three different times for all I would have known, but eventually we reached the building I was looking for. It was at least a hundred years old and miraculously unharmed. I paid the driver probably far too much then walked to the door and read the names, each with their own bell. I found “J. Bond” without much difficulty and rang the bell. No reply, so I tried again. After the third time I rang for the concierge and an old man in faded clothes came to the door.
“Ja? Kann ich Ihnen helfen?“ he said, sounding as if he couldn’t care less whether he could help me or not.
I pointed to the name beside the bell. “Herr Bond”, I said, “James Bond”. When he didn’t respond I resorted to the time-honoured method of English-speakers abroad and repeated myself slowly and loudly. “I am looking for Herr Bond”.
“Herr Bond?” said the old man. “Ah, er ist tot. Auf Wiedersehn“.
He began to close the door but I had put my suitcase there.
“I am looking for Herr Bond”, I repeated, obviously going nowhere for the moment. “Can you tell me where he is?”
Annoyed, the porter looked back over his shoulder and shouted something. A woman of about the same age came out, rubbing her hands on her apron and avoiding looking too directly at the stranger at her door. The man spoke rapidly to her. I could make out “Herr Bond” but nothing else. She pushed what was clearly her husband to one side and spoke to me in slow English.
“You are looking for Herr Bond”, she said.
“That’s right, can you tell me where he is, please?”
She looked at me curiously.
“Entschuldigung, I am sorry, mein Herr, but Herr Bond is dead.”
“He’s dead?” I asked, taken aback. “What do you mean, he’s dead? He sent me a message only two days ago to come here and meet him. Look, this is the address he gave me, this address”.
I held out the paper towards them with the address showing clearly, as if that proved anything at all. The elderly couple looked at it then at each other before nodding that yes, that was certainly their address. The woman thought for a few seconds to get the right words together.
“Yes, he was killed by an automobile right here in the street”, she said.
“Did you see this happen?” I asked.
“No, we heard the sound of … of brakes when the automobile hit him, and a noise like this”. She slapped her right hand on her left forearm.
“Did you go out to him?”
“Oh nein, mein Herr, that would not have been correct”, she said, shocked by the very idea. “Untauch he was with his friends, they picked him up from the street and took his body away”.
By now I was more confused than stunned. “His friends?”
“Ja, there were two of them”, she said.
“Nein, nein”, said her husband, who evidently could understand more English than he had been letting on. Or perhaps it was different if it was his wife who was doing the talking. “Not two. Three. There was ein dritter Mann”.
They consented to order me a taxi. It would seem that I was in some sort of luck. Herr Bond’s funeral was being held in a graveyard not too far away and if I hurried I could get there while the ceremony was still going on. When the taxi came they gave the driver the address then went inside and closed their door as quickly as they could, wanting to quietly get back to not being conspicuous and not talking with strangers. This was Berlin.
The graveyard was indeed very close by and again I was sure that I overpaid the driver. I walked through the gate and between the headstones and occasional withered trees until I reached the small group of people I had spotted from the street.
An army jeep was parked near the grave. An officer in a trenchcoat and either a colonel or a major’s hat leaned against a tree, while a burly sergeant sat behind the wheel of the jeep. Both of them eyed me as I walked up, but said nothing.
The priest or whatever he was had just come to the end of the words he had been saying. Two men stood at the head of the grave, one with straw-coloured hair and a shining hook for his right hand. A beautiful dark-haired woman pressed a handkerchief to her eyes as she turned and walked away, completely oblivious to my arrival. One of the men said a few words to the other, and they began to also slowly leave. I made certain of the name on the headstone then turned to walk away myself.
“I say, hello there”, a voice called. I looked around to find it was the army officer. He had a pencil moustache and sandy hair.
“Yes?” I said, coming to a stop beside the jeep.
“Could we offer you a lift? To your hotel, perhaps”.
“I, ah, don’t have a hotel as yet. I was hoping to stay with Mr Bond but I can see that won’t be happening”.
“Well, jump in and we’ll find you something. You look like you’ve been carrying that suitcase for some time, Mr …?”
“Harry Linden”, I said as I climbed into the back of the jeep, which is not an area designed for comfort.
“Major Howard”, said the officer, offering a hand, “and this is Sergeant Lee. American, eh, I can hear? So, you haven’t been here for long, then?”
The jeep drove slowly and respectfully through the inner road of the graveyard, past the two men and then the woman, before speeding up once on the streets.
“Yes, I’m an American”, I said, “from New York to be exact. I only arrived in Berlin earlier today. Mr Bond had contacted me and offered me a job. I was to stay with him at first while we worked out the details”.
“I see”, said the Major, “then perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we fix you up with somewhere to sleep until you go back home again, Mr Linden”.
It wasn’t a question. For some reason I found myself wanting to push back, especially against the idea that I would be going home again soon.
“Thank you, but I’d prefer to find somewhere myself. And I may not be going back home soon”.
Major Howard turned and looked more carefully at me. “But surely there’s no reason for you to stay here now. After all, Mr Bond is dead and there’s no job for you”.
I returned his careful look. “Perhaps something might turn up”.
They dropped me on Friedrich Strasse, assuring me that I would have no difficulty finding a hotel there, which was true. Within twenty minutes I had checked in and was lying on the hotel bed ready to fall asleep.
To Be Continued
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 31,107Chief of Staff
It’s so atmospheric, my brain is telling me I’m actually there in Berlin. I think artistic homage is the correct phrase for this story, and it’s incredibly well done. Top notch stuff 👏
Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.
Thank you very much, guys. "Artistic homage" is a nice way to say what I'm up to here. Berlin is probably my favourite place to be, though of course I wasn't there at the time of the story. Planning to go back soon.
It seemed only moments before I woke up feeling refreshed after my travels and busy day. Was I sure about what I was doing? It had all seemed so easy back when I had agreed to come over here. It seemed so safe when I was sitting in Manhattan agreeing with people I thought I knew but now, when I really thought about it, I barely knew at all. Quick and easy money, they had said. And now the man I was to meet here was dead. If I returned without doing what I was here for, would I find myself dead as well?
I shook my head and figured it must be just about the right time for a drink. A quick wash and change and I headed for the hotel bar. The beer was superb and I followed it by asking for a bourbon and branchwater, to the friendly bartender’s chagrin. A laugh from behind told me I wasn’t alone.
“Just ask for bourbon, my friend, the water’s in a jug on the bar and tables. We’re nowhere near where the branchwater comes from but it’s okay. Make that two”, he told the bartender in a Texas accent. It was the straw-haired man from the graveside, I noted as he paid for the two drinks and sat beside me, the hook hanging from the arm that wasn’t leaning on the bar.
“This can’t be a coincidence”, I said, sipping at my drink.
“No”, he smiled. “Name’s Felix Leiter”.
“Harry Linden”. I didn’t offer to shake hands, left or right.
“How do you like the bourbon?” asked Leiter.
“It does the job. I take it you’ve been in Berlin for some time, Mr Leiter?” I asked.
“On and off. Don’t speak much German, I’m afraid, but I can find my way around a bar or restaurant. I believe this is your first time here?”
“That’s right”, I said, wondering briefly how he would know that before deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing.
“I saw you at James Bond’s funeral, Mr Linden”, he said, “and my friend and I figured you would either go back with the Army boys or ask to be dropped, and Friedrich Strasse was the most sensible place for them to drop you. From there it was easy enough to find out which hotel you would be in. I’ll call my friend Rene and tell him he can stop staking out the British Army barracks”.
"How did you know you'd find me in the bar?"
"A serious drinker can always spot another serious drinker", said Leiter soberly.
“All right, but that doesn’t explain why you and this guy Rene want to talk to me”. I finished my drink.
“Well, we’re hoping that since you aren’t going to be doing a job for your friend James you might be interested in, shall we say, doing a job for us”. He finished his drink and signalled to the barman for another. I shook my head.
“And what kind of job might that be?” I asked.
“Well, since you got here that suitcase hasn’t left your side. It’s beside you right now. That’s a bit too much attention for some clothes, wouldn’t you think? We are wondering if you were intending to buy something from your friend James, and if you would consider buying it from someone else instead”.
“You mean you”.
He sipped at his fresh drink.
“Me? What makes you say that?”
“You do mean you. All right, let’s just say that you’re right. Are you prepared to make a deal with me, Mr Leiter?”
“Oh no, Mr Linden, we aren’t at that point yet. It would be extremely foolish of me to carry around what you’re willing to buy, a man can get in a lot of trouble that way. It’s not illegal to carry money around, though. Here, take this”.
He handed me a packet of cigarettes. On the cover was written DER SCHWARZE LÖWENZAHN with an embossed image of a flower under the title.
“And what might that mean?” I asked.
“You’re a smart man, Mr Linden”, smiled Leiter. “You figure it out”.
Comments
He's a hot (in the commercial sense) young actor who's had acclaim for playing among other parts Elvis, the Frankenstein Monster, and Heathcliff in "Wuthering Heights" - which might be a good omen for him since Timothy Dalton did that last one many years ago.
I haven’t seen the films you mention although Frankenstein has been on my watchlist for quite some time but somehow never seems to make it to top of the list.
Illustration by Sonero
THE BLACK DAFFODIL
1962
Preface
“Something here that I don’t quite know what to do with, 007”, said M as Bond entered his office. He waved Bond to a seat in front of his desk.
“Oh? What sort of thing, sir?” asked Bond curiously. He held out his gunmetal cigarette case and M nodded impatiently.
“This arrived this morning”. M held out a slim book with a black cover. Bond took it and examined it carefully. THE BLACK DAFFODIL it said, with an embossed image of such a flower under the title.
Bond opened the book and flicked casually through the pages before staring at M in surprise.
“My name is in here”, he said.
“Keep looking”, said M.
Bond resumed skimming through the slim volume before putting it down.
“There are some other familiar names in here, too, sir”, he said in a tone clearly looking for answers.
“Indeed there are”, said M. He packed his pipe before lighting it. “Why don’t you go to the start and read it, 007? It’s quite a short book, it won’t take you very long”.
Bond went back to the beginning and began to read.
To Be Continued
Wow…M with the only surviving copy 😮
What a beginning…wow!
Once again, a lovely illustration @Sonero
Thank you for the kind appreciation @CoolHandBond.
Thanks guys, and much appreciation to @Sonero as always.
You are most welcome Barbel.
Illustration by Sonero
Chapter One
I never knew the old Berlin before the war with its music, its glamour and easy charm. Paris suited me better. I was too young to have fought in the war and now in 62 I found myself travelling in Berlin for the first time. The huge city seemed an uncoordinated jumble of rubble, building sites, and shining new towers of offices and department stores and apartment blocks. I should not have been surprised, really; it was less than twenty years since the Allied Forces had done their level best to smash the whole area into the ground because of one crazy little man’s demented ideas. I suppose it didn’t really look any worse than a lot of other European cities that had been bombed and there was probably a lot of planning going on invisible to the foreign observer. It would be a good idea if I just looked at things and didn’t think too much about it.
It might also have been a good idea if I had been able to understand and speak more than very basic German. Still, I thought I might be able to get by. The city was divided into four sectors, each occupied by a power: the American, the British, the Russian, and the French. My French wasn’t too bad, though my Russian was non-existent, so I should not be completely helpless. I had heard that most Germans spoke at least one other language, usually English or French.
I sat in the back of the taxi taking me from Tempelhof to the address I had shown the driver, my suitcase beside me. He could have been taking me past the same buildings and ruins three different times for all I would have known, but eventually we reached the building I was looking for. It was at least a hundred years old and miraculously unharmed. I paid the driver probably far too much then walked to the door and read the names, each with their own bell. I found “J. Bond” without much difficulty and rang the bell. No reply, so I tried again. After the third time I rang for the concierge and an old man in faded clothes came to the door.
“Ja? Kann ich Ihnen helfen?“ he said, sounding as if he couldn’t care less whether he could help me or not.
I pointed to the name beside the bell. “Herr Bond”, I said, “James Bond”. When he didn’t respond I resorted to the time-honoured method of English-speakers abroad and repeated myself slowly and loudly. “I am looking for Herr Bond”.
“Herr Bond?” said the old man. “Ah, er ist tot. Auf Wiedersehn“.
He began to close the door but I had put my suitcase there.
“I am looking for Herr Bond”, I repeated, obviously going nowhere for the moment. “Can you tell me where he is?”
Annoyed, the porter looked back over his shoulder and shouted something. A woman of about the same age came out, rubbing her hands on her apron and avoiding looking too directly at the stranger at her door. The man spoke rapidly to her. I could make out “Herr Bond” but nothing else. She pushed what was clearly her husband to one side and spoke to me in slow English.
“You are looking for Herr Bond”, she said.
“That’s right, can you tell me where he is, please?”
She looked at me curiously.
“Entschuldigung, I am sorry, mein Herr, but Herr Bond is dead.”
To Be Continued
Very intriguing story Barbel.
Looking forward to Chapter Two.
What a great first chapter 👏🏻
This is going to be another cracker, great stuff 👏
I'm very pleased you're liking this, guys.
Illustration by Sonero
Chapter Two
“He’s dead?” I asked, taken aback. “What do you mean, he’s dead? He sent me a message only two days ago to come here and meet him. Look, this is the address he gave me, this address”.
I held out the paper towards them with the address showing clearly, as if that proved anything at all. The elderly couple looked at it then at each other before nodding that yes, that was certainly their address. The woman thought for a few seconds to get the right words together.
“Yes, he was killed by an automobile right here in the street”, she said.
“Did you see this happen?” I asked.
“No, we heard the sound of … of brakes when the automobile hit him, and a noise like this”. She slapped her right hand on her left forearm.
“Did you go out to him?”
“Oh nein, mein Herr, that would not have been correct”, she said, shocked by the very idea. “Unt auch he was with his friends, they picked him up from the street and took his body away”.
By now I was more confused than stunned. “His friends?”
“Ja, there were two of them”, she said.
“Nein, nein”, said her husband, who evidently could understand more English than he had been letting on. Or perhaps it was different if it was his wife who was doing the talking. “Not two. Three. There was ein dritter Mann”.
They consented to order me a taxi. It would seem that I was in some sort of luck. Herr Bond’s funeral was being held in a graveyard not too far away and if I hurried I could get there while the ceremony was still going on. When the taxi came they gave the driver the address then went inside and closed their door as quickly as they could, wanting to quietly get back to not being conspicuous and not talking with strangers. This was Berlin.
The graveyard was indeed very close by and again I was sure that I overpaid the driver. I walked through the gate and between the headstones and occasional withered trees until I reached the small group of people I had spotted from the street.
An army jeep was parked near the grave. An officer in a trenchcoat and either a colonel or a major’s hat leaned against a tree, while a burly sergeant sat behind the wheel of the jeep. Both of them eyed me as I walked up, but said nothing.
The priest or whatever he was had just come to the end of the words he had been saying. Two men stood at the head of the grave, one with straw-coloured hair and a shining hook for his right hand. A beautiful dark-haired woman pressed a handkerchief to her eyes as she turned and walked away, completely oblivious to my arrival. One of the men said a few words to the other, and they began to also slowly leave. I made certain of the name on the headstone then turned to walk away myself.
“I say, hello there”, a voice called. I looked around to find it was the army officer. He had a pencil moustache and sandy hair.
“Yes?” I said, coming to a stop beside the jeep.
“Could we offer you a lift? To your hotel, perhaps”.
“I, ah, don’t have a hotel as yet. I was hoping to stay with Mr Bond but I can see that won’t be happening”.
“Well, jump in and we’ll find you something. You look like you’ve been carrying that suitcase for some time, Mr …?”
“Harry Linden”, I said as I climbed into the back of the jeep, which is not an area designed for comfort.
“Major Howard”, said the officer, offering a hand, “and this is Sergeant Lee. American, eh, I can hear? So, you haven’t been here for long, then?”
The jeep drove slowly and respectfully through the inner road of the graveyard, past the two men and then the woman, before speeding up once on the streets.
“Yes, I’m an American”, I said, “from New York to be exact. I only arrived in Berlin earlier today. Mr Bond had contacted me and offered me a job. I was to stay with him at first while we worked out the details”.
“I see”, said the Major, “then perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we fix you up with somewhere to sleep until you go back home again, Mr Linden”.
It wasn’t a question. For some reason I found myself wanting to push back, especially against the idea that I would be going home again soon.
“Thank you, but I’d prefer to find somewhere myself. And I may not be going back home soon”.
Major Howard turned and looked more carefully at me. “But surely there’s no reason for you to stay here now. After all, Mr Bond is dead and there’s no job for you”.
I returned his careful look. “Perhaps something might turn up”.
They dropped me on Friedrich Strasse, assuring me that I would have no difficulty finding a hotel there, which was true. Within twenty minutes I had checked in and was lying on the hotel bed ready to fall asleep.
To Be Continued
Ooohhh, this is VERY intriguing 👏🏻😁
It’s so atmospheric, my brain is telling me I’m actually there in Berlin. I think artistic homage is the correct phrase for this story, and it’s incredibly well done. Top notch stuff 👏
Story is getting even more mysterious Barbel.
Great writing as always.👏
Thank you very much, guys. "Artistic homage" is a nice way to say what I'm up to here. Berlin is probably my favourite place to be, though of course I wasn't there at the time of the story. Planning to go back soon.
Illustration by Sonero
The Third Chapter
It seemed only moments before I woke up feeling refreshed after my travels and busy day. Was I sure about what I was doing? It had all seemed so easy back when I had agreed to come over here. It seemed so safe when I was sitting in Manhattan agreeing with people I thought I knew but now, when I really thought about it, I barely knew at all. Quick and easy money, they had said. And now the man I was to meet here was dead. If I returned without doing what I was here for, would I find myself dead as well?
I shook my head and figured it must be just about the right time for a drink. A quick wash and change and I headed for the hotel bar. The beer was superb and I followed it by asking for a bourbon and branchwater, to the friendly bartender’s chagrin. A laugh from behind told me I wasn’t alone.
“Just ask for bourbon, my friend, the water’s in a jug on the bar and tables. We’re nowhere near where the branchwater comes from but it’s okay. Make that two”, he told the bartender in a Texas accent. It was the straw-haired man from the graveside, I noted as he paid for the two drinks and sat beside me, the hook hanging from the arm that wasn’t leaning on the bar.
“This can’t be a coincidence”, I said, sipping at my drink.
“No”, he smiled. “Name’s Felix Leiter”.
“Harry Linden”. I didn’t offer to shake hands, left or right.
“How do you like the bourbon?” asked Leiter.
“It does the job. I take it you’ve been in Berlin for some time, Mr Leiter?” I asked.
“On and off. Don’t speak much German, I’m afraid, but I can find my way around a bar or restaurant. I believe this is your first time here?”
“That’s right”, I said, wondering briefly how he would know that before deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing.
“I saw you at James Bond’s funeral, Mr Linden”, he said, “and my friend and I figured you would either go back with the Army boys or ask to be dropped, and Friedrich Strasse was the most sensible place for them to drop you. From there it was easy enough to find out which hotel you would be in. I’ll call my friend Rene and tell him he can stop staking out the British Army barracks”.
"How did you know you'd find me in the bar?"
"A serious drinker can always spot another serious drinker", said Leiter soberly.
“All right, but that doesn’t explain why you and this guy Rene want to talk to me”. I finished my drink.
“Well, we’re hoping that since you aren’t going to be doing a job for your friend James you might be interested in, shall we say, doing a job for us”. He finished his drink and signalled to the barman for another. I shook my head.
“And what kind of job might that be?” I asked.
“Well, since you got here that suitcase hasn’t left your side. It’s beside you right now. That’s a bit too much attention for some clothes, wouldn’t you think? We are wondering if you were intending to buy something from your friend James, and if you would consider buying it from someone else instead”.
“You mean you”.
He sipped at his fresh drink.
“Me? What makes you say that?”
“You do mean you. All right, let’s just say that you’re right. Are you prepared to make a deal with me, Mr Leiter?”
“Oh no, Mr Linden, we aren’t at that point yet. It would be extremely foolish of me to carry around what you’re willing to buy, a man can get in a lot of trouble that way. It’s not illegal to carry money around, though. Here, take this”.
He handed me a packet of cigarettes. On the cover was written DER SCHWARZE LÖWENZAHN with an embossed image of a flower under the title.
“And what might that mean?” I asked.
“You’re a smart man, Mr Linden”, smiled Leiter. “You figure it out”.
To Be Continued
And as ever thanks to @Sonero for his inventive illustrations.
Thank you for the kind words..
Very intriguing and unique story Barbel.
More, more, more, please 👏
@Sonero I’m guessing you haven’t seen a certain classic movie, which makes your wonderful illustrations even more admirable.
Thank you @CoolHandBond for the kind words.
More soon, @CoolHandBond.
What an intriguing story 😁👏🏻
Yes, it's very intriguing. Wish it were mine ...
Edit: You might say I'm Greene with envy ....