Tiffany is satisfied Bond’s fingerprints are a match for Peter Franks.

Bond drinks his Scotch in the living room, then sniffs the fingerprint powder on the glass, and smiles.

Tffany returns to the living room, this time a redhead, in a deeply plunging v-neck dress.

“Ah, I don’t care much for redheads,” says Bond. “Terrible tempers. But somehow, it seems to suit you.”

Tiffany shrugs. “It’s my own,” she says.

“Ah,” repeats Bond. “But it is in need of some soft lighting, and I know a restaurant real close…”

“I never mix business with pleasure,” replies Tiffany, uncorking a bottle of sweet vermouth.

“Well, neither do I,” says Bond.

“Good,” says Tiffany. “And we can start with saving the cute remarks until you get the diamonds into Los Angeles.” She pours herself a tall glass of vermouth.

“Well, where are they now?” asks Bond.

“That’s not your problem,” replies Tiffany, recorking the vermouth. “Your problem is getting them in.”

“How much is there?” asks Bond.

“Fifty thousand carats,” says Tiffany.

“Well, at a hundred and forty two carats an ounce, that’s an awful lot of ice!” says Bond. “That won’t be easy!”

Tiffany sits down on a couch. “That’s why you’re being paid fifty grand! What did you think it was going to be, a pair of earrings? And Franks, for God’s sake –”

IN THIS MINUTE:

Jill St. John as T. Case