The dragonfly darted nervously sideways and hung above the man's left shoulder, looking down. It had been attracted by the golden shimmer of the June sunshine on the ridge of fine blond hairs above the coccyx. The story it now told was 2.30 on June 10th with the moon three-quarters full.Ī blue and green dragon-fly flashed out from among the rose bushes at the end of the garden and hovered in mid-air a few inches above the base of the man's spine. It was a Girard-Perregaux model designed for people who like gadgets, and it had a sweep second-hand and two little windows in the face to tell the day of the month, and the month, and the phase of the moon. There was also a bulky gold wristwatch on a well-used brown crocodile strap. It contained the typical membership badges of the rich man's club - a money clip, made of a Mexican fifty-dollar piece and holding a substantial wad of banknotes, a well-used gold Dunhill lighter, an oval gold cigarette case with the wavy ridges and discreet turquoise button that means Faberge, and the sort of novel a rich man pulls out of the bookcase to take into the garden - The Little Nugget - an old P.G. To judge by the glittering pile, this had been, or was, a rich man. Even the little pile of objects in the grass beside his head might have been his personal effects, meticulously assembled in full view so that no one should think that something had been stolen by his rescuers. He might have been drowned and fished out of the pool and laid out on the grass to dry while the police or the next-of-kin were summoned.

The naked man who lay splayed out on his face beside the swimming pool might have been dead.

From Russia With Love by Ian Fleming