Fleming, Ian - Bond 06 - (1958) Dr No

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I HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR

Punctually at six o'clock the sun set with a last yellow flash behind the Blue Mountains, a wave of violet shadow poured

down Richmond Road, and the crickets and tree frogs in the fine gardens began to zing and tinkle.

Apart from the background noise of the insects, the wide empty street was quiet. The wealthy owners of the big, withdrawn

houses—the bank managers, company directors and top civil servants—had been home since five o'clock and they would be

discussing the day with their wives or taking a shower and changing their clothes. In half an hour the street would come to life

again with the cocktail traffic, but now this very superior half mile of 'Rich Road', as it was known to the tradesmen of

Kingston, held nothing but the suspense of an empty stage and the heavy perfume of night-scented jasmine.

Richmond Road is the 'best' road in all Jamaica. It is Jamaica's Park Avenue, its Kensington Palace Gardens, its Avenue

D'lena. The 'best' people live in its big old-fashioned houses, each in an acre or two of beautiful lawn set, too trimly, with the

finest trees and flowers from the Botanical Gardens at Hope. The long, straight road is cool and quiet and withdrawn from the

hot, vulgar sprawl of Kingston where its residents earn their money, and, on the other side of the T-inter-section at its top, lie

the grounds of King's House, where the Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Jamaica lives with his family. In Jamaica, no

road could have a finer ending.

On the eastern corner of the top intersection stands No 1 Richmond Road, a substantial two-storey house with broad white-

painted verandas running round both floors. From the road a gravel path leads up to the pillared entrance through wide lawns

marked out with tennis courts on which this evening, as on all evenings, the sprinklers are at work. This mansion is the social

Mecca of Kingston. It is Queen's Club, which, for fifty years, has boasted the power and frequency of its blackballs.

Such stubborn retreats will not long survive in modern Jamaica. One day Queen's Club will have its windows smashed and

perhaps be burned to the ground, but for the time being it is a useful place to find in a sub-tropical island—well run, well

staffed and with the finest cuisine and cellar in the Caribbean. At that-time of day, on most evenings of the year, you would

find the same four motor cars standing in the road outside the club. They were the cars belonging to the high bridge game that

assembled punctually at five and played until around midnight. You could almost set your watch by these cars. They belonged,

reading from the order in which they now stood against the kerb, to the Brigadier in command of the Caribbean Defence Force,

to Kingston's leading criminal lawyer, and to the Mathematics Professor from Kingston University. At the tail of the line*

stood the black Sunbeam Alpine of Commander John Strangways, RN (Ret.), Regional Control Officer for the Caribbean—or,

less discreetly, the local representative of the British Secret Service.

Just before six-fifteen, the silence of Richmond Road was softly broken. Three blind beggars came round the corner of the

intersection and moved slowly down the pavement towards the four cars. They were Chigroes—Chinese Negroes—bulky men,

but bowed as they shuffled along, tapping at the kerb with their white sticks. They walked in file. The first man, who wore blue

glasses and could presumably see better than the others, walked in front holding a tin cup against the crook of the stick in his

left hand. The right hand of the second man rested on his shoulder and the right hand of the third on the shoulder of the second.

The eyes of the second and third men were shut. The three men were dressed in rags and wore dirty jippa-jappa baseball caps

with long peaks. They said nothing and no noise came from them except the soft tapping of their sticks as they came slowly

down the shadowed pavement towards the group of cars.

The three blind men would not have been incongruous in Kingston, where there are many diseased people on the streets, but,

in this quiet rich empty street, they made an unpleasant impression. And it was odd that they should all be Chinese Negroes.

This is not a common mixture of bloods.

In the cardroom, the sunburned hand reached out into the green pool of the centre table and gathered up the four cards. There

was a quiet snap as the trick went to join the rest.

"Hundred honours," said Strangways, "and ninety below!" He looked at his watch and stood up. "Back in twenty minutes.

Your deal, Bill. Order some drinks. Usual for me. Don't bother to cook a hand for me while I'm gone. I always spot them."

Bill Templar, the Brigadier, laughed shortly. He pinged the bell by his side and raked the cards in towards him. He said,

"Hurry up, blast you. You always let the cards go cold just as your partner's in the money."

Strangways was already out of the door. The three men sat back resignedly in their chairs. The coloured steward came in and

they ordered drinks for themselves and a whisky and water for Strangways.

There was this maddening interruption every evening at six-fifteen, about halfway through their second rubber. At this time

precisely, even if they were in the middle of a hand, Strangways had to go to his 'office' and 'make a call'. It was a damned

nuisance. But Strangways was a vital part of their four and they put up with it. It was never explained what 'the call' was, and

no one asked. Strangways's job was 'hush' and that was that. He was rarely away for more than twenty minutes and it was

understood that he paid for his absence with a round of drinks.

The drinks came and the three men began to talk racing.

In fact, this was the most important moment in Strangways's day—the time of his duty radio contact with the powerful

transmitter on the roof of the building in Regent's Park that is the headquarters of the Secret Service. Every day, at eighteen-

thirty local time, unless he gave' warning the day before that he would not be on the air—when he had business on one of the

other islands in his territory, for instance, or was seriously ill—he would transmit his daily report and receive his orders. If he

failed to come on the air precisely at six-thirty, there would be a second call, the 'Blue' call, at seven, and, finally, the 'Red' call

at seven-thirty. After this, if his transmitter remained silent, it was 'Emergency', and Section III, his controlling authority in

London, would urgently get on the job of finding out what had happened to him.

Even a 'Blue' call means a bad mark for an agent unless his 'Reasons in Writing' are unanswerable. London's radio schedules

round the world are desperately tight and their minute disruption by even one extra call is a dangerous nuisance. Strangways

had never suffered the ignominy of a 'Blue' call, let alone a 'Red', and was as certain as could be that he never would do so.

Every evening, at precisely six-fifteen, he left Queen's Club, got into his car and drove for ten minutes up into the foothills of

the Blue Mountains to his neat bungalow with the fabulous view over Kingston harbour. At six twenty-five he walked through

the hall to the office at the back. He unlocked the door and locked it again behind him. Miss Trueblood, who passed as his

secretary, but was in fact his No. 2 and a former Chief Officer WRNS, would already be sitting in front of the dials inside the

dummy filing cabinet. She would have the earphones on and would be making first contact, tapping out his call-sign, WXN, on

14 megacycles. There would be a shorthand pad on her elegant knees. Strangways would drop into the chair beside her and

pick up the other pair of headphones and, at exactly six twenty-eight, he would take over from her and wait for the sudden

hollowness in the ether that meant that WWW in London was coming in to acknowledge.

It was an iron routine. Strangways was a man of iron routine. Unfortunately, strict patterns of behaviour can be deadly if

they are read by an enemy.

Strangways, a tall lean man with a black patch over the right eye and the sort of aquiline good looks you associate with the

bridge of a destroyer, walked quickly across the mahogany panelled hallway of Queen's Club and pushed through the light

mosquito-wired doors and ran down the three steps to the path.

There was nothing very much on his mind except the sensual pleasure of the clean fresh evening air and the memory of the

finesse that had given him his three spades. There was this case, of course, the case he was working on, a curious and

complicated affair that M had rather nonchalantly tossed over the air at him two weeks earlier. But it was going well. A chance

lead into the Chinese community had paid off. Some-odd angles had come to light—for the present the merest shadows of

angles—but if they jelled, thought Strangways as. he strode down the gravel path and into Richmond Road, he might find

himself involved in something very odd indeed.

Strangways shrugged his shoulders. Of course it wouldn't turn out like that. The fantastic never materialized in his line of

business. There would be some drab solution that had been embroidered by overheated imaginations and the usual hysteria of

the Chinese.

Automatically, another part of Strangways's mind took in the three blind men. They were tapping slowly towards him down

the sidewalk. They were about twenty yards away. He calculated that they would pass him a second or two before he reached

his car. Out of shame for his own health and gratitude for it, Strangways felt for a coin. He ran his thumbnail down its edge to

make sure it was a florin and not a penny. He took it out. He was parallel with the beggars. How odd, they were all Chigroes!

How very odd! Strangways's hand went out. The coin clanged in the tin cup.

"Bless you, Master," said the leading man. "Bless you," echoed the other two.

The car key was in Strangways's hand. Vaguely he registered the moment of silence as the tapping of the white sticks

ceased. It was too late.

As Strangways had passed the last man, all three had swivelled. The back two had fanned out a step to have a clear field of

fire. Three revolvers, ungainly with their sausage-shaped silencers, whipped out of holsters concealed among the rags. With

disciplined precision the three men aimed at different points down Strangways's spine—one between the shoulders, one in the

small of the back, one at the pelvis.

The three heavy coughs were almost one. Strangways's body was hurled forward as if it had been kicked. It lay absolutely

still in the small puff of dust from the sidewalk.

It was six-seventeen. With a squeal of tyres, a dingy motor hearse with black plumes flying from the four corners of its roof

took the T-intersection into Richmond Road and shot down towards the group on the pavement. The three men had just had

time to pick up Strangways's body when the hearse slid to a stop abreast of them. The double doors at the back were open. So

was the plain deal coffin inside. The three men manhandled the body through the doors and into the coffin. They climbed in.

The lid was put on and the doors pulled shut. The three Negroes sat down on three of the four little seats at the corners of the

coffin and unhurriedly laid their white sticks beside them. Roomy black alpaca coats hung over the backs of the seats. They put

the coats on over their rags. Then they took off their baseball caps and reached down to the floor and picked up black top hats

and put them on their heads.

The driver, who also was a Chinese Negro, looked nervously over his shoulder.

"Go, man. Go!" said the biggest of the killers. He glanced down at the luminous dial of his wrist watch. It said six-twenty.

Just three minutes for the job. Dead on time.

The hearse made a decorous U-turn and moved at a sedate speed up to the intersection. There it turned right and at thirty

miles an hour it cruised genteelry up the tarmac highway towards the hills, its black plumes streaming the doleful signal of its

burden and the three mourners sitting bolt upright with their arms crossed respectfully over their hearts.

'WXN calling WWW… WXN calling WWW…

WXN… WXN… WXN…'

The centre finger of Mary Trueblood's right hand stabbed softly, elegantly, at the key. She lifted her left wrist. Six twenty-

eight. He was a minute late. Mary Trueblood smiled at the thought of the little open Sunbeam tearing up the road towards her.

Now, in a second, she would hear the quick step, then the key in the lock and he would be sitting beside her. There would be

the apologetic smile as he reached for the earphones. "Sorry, Mary. Damned car wouldn't start." Or, "You'd think the blasted

police knew my number by now. Stopped me at Halfway Tree." Mary Trueblood took the second pair of earphones off their

hook and put them on his chair to save him half a second.

'… WXN calling WWW____WXN calling WWW____'

She tuned the dial a hair's breadth and tried again. Her watch said six-twenty-nine. She began to worry. In a matter of

seconds, London would be coming in. Suddenly she thought, God, what could she do if Strangways wasn't on time! It was

useless for her to acknowledge London and pretend she was him—useless and dangerous. Radio Security would be monitoring

the call, as they monitored every call from an agent. Those instruments which measured the minute peculiarities in an

operator's 'fist' would at once detect it wasn't Strangways at the key. Mary Trueblood had been shown the forest of dials in the

quiet room on the top floor at headquarters, had watched as the dancing hands registered the weight of each pulse, the speed of

each cipher group, the stumble over a particular letter. The Controller had explained it all to her when she had joined the

Caribbean station five years before—how a buzzer would sound and the contact be automatically broken if the wrong operator

had come on the air. It was the basic protection against a Secret Service'transmitter falling into enemy hands. And, if an agent

had been captured and was being forced to contact London under torture, he had only to add a few hairbreadth peculiarities to

his usual 'fist' and they would tell the story of his capture as clearly as if he had announced it en clair.

Now it had come! Now she was hearing the hollowness in the ether that meant London was coming in. Mary Trueblood

glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. Panic! But now, at last, there were the footsteps in the hall. Thank God! In a second he would

come in. She must protect him! Desperately she decided to take a chance and keep the circuit open.

'WWW calling WXN____WWW calling WXN____Can

you hear me?… can you hear me?' London was coming over strong, searching for the Jamaica station.

The footsteps were at the door.

Coolly, confidently, she tapped back: 'Hear you loud and clear… Hear you loud and clear… Hear you…"

Behind her there was an explosion. Something hit her on the ankle. She looked down. It was the lock of the door.

Mary Trueblood swivelled sharply on her chair. A man stood in the doorway. It wasn't Strangways. It was a big Negro with

yellowish skin and slanting eyes. There was a gun in his hand. It ended in a thick black cylinder.

Mary Trueblood opened her mouth to scream.

The man smiled broadly. Slowly, lovingly, he lifted the gun and shot her three times in and around the left breast.

The girl slumped sideways off her chair. The earphones slipped off her golden hair on to the floor. For perhaps a second the

tiny chirrup of London sounded out into the room. Then it stopped. The buzzer at the Controller's desk in Radio Security had

signalled that something was wrong on WXN.

The killer walked out of the door. He. came back carrying a box with a coloured label on it that said PRESTO FIRE, and a

big sugar sack marked TATE & LYLE. He put the box down on the floor and went to the body and roughly forced the sack

over the head and down to the ankles. The feet stuck out. He bent them and crammed them in. He dragged the bulky sack out

into the hall and came back. In the corner of the room the safe stood open, as he had been told it would, and the cipher books

had been taken out and laid on the desk ready for work on the London signals. The man threw these and all the papers in the

safe into the centre of the room. He tore down the curtains and added them to the pile. He topped it up with a couple of chairs.

He opened the box of Presto firelighters and took out a handful and tucked them into the pile and lit them. Then he went out

into the hall and lit similar bonfires in appropriate places. The tinder-dry furniture caught quickly and the flames began to lick

up the panelling. .The man went to the front door and opened it. Through the hibiscus hedge he could see the glint of the

hearse. There was no noise except the zing of crickets and the soft tick-over of the car's engine. Up and down the road there

was no other sign of life. The man went back into the smoke-filled hall and easily shouldered the sack and came out again,

leaving the door open to make a draught. He walked swiftly down the path to the road. The back doors of the hearse were

open. He handed in the sack and watched the two men force it into the coffin on top of Strangways's body. Then he climbed in

and shut the doors and sat down and put on his top hat. .

As the first flames showed in the upper windows of the bungalow, the hearse moved quietly from the sidewalk and went on

its way up towards the Mona Reservoir. There the weighted coffin would slip down into its fifty-fathom grave and, in just

forty-five minutes, the personnel and records of the Caribbean station of the Secret Service would have been utterly destroyed.

CHOICE OF WEAPONS

Three weeks later, in London, March came in like a rattlesnake.

From first light on March ist, hail and icy sleet, with a Force 8 gale behind them, lashed at the city and went on lashing as

the people streamed miserably to work, their legs whipped by the wet hems of their macintoshes and their faces blotching with

the cold.

It was a filthy day and everybody said so—even M, who rarely admitted the existence of weather even in its extreme forms.

When the old black Silver Wraith Rolls with the nondescript number-plate stopped outside the tall building in Regent's Park

and he climbed stiffly out on to the pavement, hail hit him in the face like a whiff of small-shot. Instead of hurrying inside the

building, he walked deliberately round the car to the window beside the chauffeur.

"Won't be needing the car again today, Smith. Take it away and go home. I'll use the tube this evening. No weather for

driving a car. Worse than one of those PQ convoys."

Ex-Leading Stoker Smith grinned gratefully. "Aye-aye, sir. And thanks." He watched the elderly erect figure walk round the

bonnet of the Rolls and across the pavement and into the building. Just like the old boy. He'd always see the men right first.

Smith clicked the gear lever into first and moved off, peering forward through the streaming windscreen. They didn't come like

that any more.

M went up in the lift to the eighth floor and along the thick-carpeted corridor to his office. He shut the door behind him, took

off his overcoat and scarf and hung them behind the door. He took out a large blue silk bandanna handkerchief and brusquely

wiped it over his face. It was odd, but he wouldn't have done this in front of the porters or the liftman. He went over to his desk

and sat down and bent towards the intercom. He pressed a switch. "I'm in, Miss Moneypenny. The signals, please, and

anything else you've got. Then get me Sir James Molony. He'll be doing his rounds at St Mary's about now. Tell the Chief of

Staff I'll see 007 in half an hour. And let me have the Strangways file." M waited for the metallic "Yes, sir" and released the

switch.

He sat back and reached for his pipe and began filling it thoughtfully. He didn't look up when his secretary came in with the

stack of papers and he even ignored the half dozen pink Most Immediates on top of the signal file. If they had been vital he

would have been called during the night.

A yellow light winked on the intercom. M picked up the black telephone from the row of four. "That you, Sir James? Have

you got five minutes?"

"Six, for you." At the other end of the line the famous neurologist chuckled. "Want me to certify one of Her Majesty's

Ministers?"

"Not today." M frowned irritably. The old Navy had respected governments. "It's about that man of mine you've been

handling. We won't bother about the name. This is an open line. I gather you let him out yesterday. Is he fit for duty?"

There was a pause on the other end. Now the voice was professional, judicious. "Physically he's as fit as a fiddle. Leg's

healed up. Shouldn't be any after-effects. Yes, he's all right." There was another pause. "Just one thing, M. There's a lot of

tension there, you know. You work these men of yours pretty hard. Can you give him something easy to start with? From what

you've told me he's been having a tough time for some years now."

M said gruffly, "That's what he's paid for. It'll soon show if he's not up to the work. Won't be the first one that's cracked.

From what you say, he sounds in perfectly good shape. It isn't as if he'd really been damaged like some of the patients I've sent

you—men who've been properly put through the mangle."

"Of course, if you put it like that. But pain's an odd thing. We know very little about it. You can't measure it—the difference

in suffering between a woman having a baby and a man having a renal colic. And, thank God, the body seems to forget fairly

quickly. But this man of yours has been in real pain, M. Don't think that just because nothing's been broken…"

"Quite, quite." Bond had made a mistake and he had suffered for it. In any case M didn't like being lectured, even by one of

the most famous doctors in the world, on how he should handle his agents. There had been a note of criticism in Sir James

Molony's voice. M said abruptly, "Ever hear of a man called Steincrohn—Dr Peter Steincrohn?"

"No, who's he?"

"American doctor. Written a book my Washington people sent over for our library. This man talks about how much

punishment the human body can put up with. Gives a list of the bits of the body an average man can do without. Matter of fact,

J copied it out for future reference. Care to hear the list?" M dug into his coat pocket and put some letters and scraps of paper

on the desk in front of him. With his left hand he selected a piece of paper and unfolded it. He wasn't put out by the silence on

the other end of the line, "Hullo, Sir James! Well, here they are: 'Gall bladder, spleen, tonsils, appendix, one of his two

kidneys, one of his two lungs, two of his four or five quarts of blood, two-fifths of his liver, most of his stomach, four of his

twenty-three feet of intestines and half,of his brain.' " M paused. When the silence continued at the other end, he said, "Any

comments, Sir James?"

There was a reluctant grunt at the other end of the telephone. "I wonder he didn't add an arm and a leg, or all of them. I don't

see quite what you're trying to prove."

M gave a curt laugh. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Sir James. It just struck me as an interesting list. All I'm trying to say

is that my man seems to have got off pretty lightly compared with that sort of punishment. But," M relented, "don't let's argue

about it." He said in a milder voice, "As a matter of fact I did have it in mind to let him have a bit of a breather. Something's

come up in Jamaica." M glanced at the streaming windows. "It'll be more of a rest cure than anything. Two of my people, a

man and a girl, have gone off together. Or that's what it looks like. Our friend can have a spell at being an inquiry agent—in

the sunshine too. How's that?"

"Just the ticket. I wouldn't mind the job myself on a day like this." But Sir James Molony was determined to get his message

through. He persisted mildly. "Don't think I wanted to interfere, M, but there are limits to a man's courage. I know you have to

treat these men as if they were expendable, but presumably you don't want them to crack at the wrong moment. This one I've

had here is tough. I'd say you'll get plenty more work out of him. But you know what Moran has to say about courage in that

book of his."

"Don't recall."

"He says that courage is a capital sum reduced by expenditure. I agree with him. All I'm trying to say is that this particular

man seems to have been spending pretty hard since before the war. I wouldn't say he's overdrawn—not yet, but there are

limits."

"Just so." M decided that was quite enough of that. Nowadays, softness was everywhere. "That's why I'm sending him

abroad. Holiday in Jamaica. Don't worry, Sir James. I'll take care of him. By the way, did you ever discover what the stuff was

that Russian woman put into him?"

"Got the answer yesterday." Sir James Molony also was glad the subject had been changed. The old man was as raw as the

weather. Was there any chance that he had got his message across into what he described to himself as M's thick skull? "Taken

us three months. It was a bright chap at the School of Tropical Medicine who came up with it. The drug was fugu poison. The

Japanese use it for committing suicide. It comes from the sex organs of the Japanese globe-fish. Trust the Russians to use

something no one's ever heard of. They might just as well have used curare. It has much the same effect—paralysis of the

central nervous system. Fugu's scientific name is Tetrodotoxin. It's terrible stuff and very quick. One shot of it like your man

got and in a matter of seconds the motor and respiratory muscles are paralysed. At first the chap sees double and then he can't

keep his eyes open. Next he can't swallow. His head falls and he can't raise it. Dies of respiratory paralysis."

"Lucky he got away with it."

"Miracle. Thanks entirely to that Frenchman who was with him. Got your man on the floor and gave him artificial

respiration as if he was drowning. Somehow kept his lungs going until the doctor came. Luckily the doctor had worked in

South America. Diagnosed curare and treated him accordingly. But it was a chance in a million. By the same token, what

happened to the Russian woman?"

M said shortly, "Oh, she died. Well, many thanks, Sir James. And don't worry about your patient. I'll see he has an easy time

of it. Goodbye."

M hung up. His face was cold and blank. He pulled over the signal file and went quickly through it. On some of the signals

he scribbled a comment. Occasionally he made a brief telephone call to one of the Sections. When he had finished he tossed

the pile into his Out basket and reached for his pipe and the tobacco jar made out of the base of a fourteen-pounder shell.

Nothing remained in front of him except a buff folder marked with the Top Secret red star. Across the centre of the folder was

written in block capitals: CARIBBEAN STATION, and underneath, in italics, Strangways and Trueblood.

A light winked on the intercom. M pressed down the switch. "Yes?"

"007's here, sir."

"Send him in. And tell the Armourer to come up in five minutes."

M sat back. He put his pipe in his mouth and set a match to it. Through the smoke he watched the door to his secretary's

office. His eyes were very bright and watchful.

James Bond came through the door and shut it behind him.

He walked over to the chair across the desk from M and sat down.

"'Morning, 007."

"Good morning, sir."

There was silence in the room except for the rasping of M's pipe. It seemed to be taking a lot of matches to get it going. In

the background the fingernails of the sleet slashed against the two broad windows.

It was all just as Bond had remembered it through the months of being shunted from hospital to hospital, the weeks of dreary

convalescence, the hard work of getting his body back into shape. To him this represented stepping back into life. Sitting here

in this room opposite M was the symbol of normality he had longed for. He looked across through the smoke clouds into the

shrewd grey eyes. They were watching him. What was coming? A post-mortem on the shambles which had been his last case?

A curt relegation to one of the home sections for a spell of desk work? Or some splendid new assignment M had been keeping

on ice while waiting for Bond to get back to duty?

M threw the box of matches down on the red leather desk. He leant back and clasped his hands behind his head.

"How do you feel? Glad to be back?"

"Very glad, sir. And I feel fine."

"Any final thoughts about your last case? Haven't bothered you with it till you got well. You heard I ordered an inquiry. I

believe the Chief of Staff took some evidence from you. Anything to add?"

M's voice was businesslike, cold. Bond didn't like it. Something unpleasant was coming. He said, "No, sir. It was a mess. I

blame myself for letting that woman get me. Shouldn't have happened."

M took his hands from behind his neck and slowly leant forward and placed them flat on the desk in front of him. His eyes

were hard. "Just so." The voice was velvet, dangerous. "Your gun got stuck, if I recall. This Beretta of yours with the silencer.

Something wrong there, 007. Can't afford that sort of mistake if you're to carry an oo number. Would you prefer to drop it and

go back to normal duties?"

Bond stiffened. His eyes looked resentfully into M's. The licence to kill for the Secret Service, the double-o prefix, was a

great honour. It had been earned hardly. It brought Bond the only assignments he enjoyed, the dangerous ones. "No, I wouldn't,

sir."

"Then we'll have to change your equipment. That was one of the findings of the Court of Inquiry. I agree with it. D'you

understand?"

Bond said obstinately, "I'm used to that gun, sir. I like working with it. What happened could have happened to anyone. With

any kind of gun."

"I don't agree. Nor did the Court of Inquiry. So that's final. The only question is what you're to use instead." M bent forward

to the intercom. "Is the Armourer there? Send him in."

M sat back. "You may not know it, 007, but Major Booth-royd's the greatest small-arms expert in the world. He wouldn't be

here if he wasn't. We'll hear what he has to say."

The door opened. A short slim man with sandy hair came in and walked over to the desk and stood beside Bond's chair.

Bond looked up into his face. He hadn't often seen the man before, but he remembered the very wide apart clear grey eyes that

never seemed to flicker. With a non-committal glance down at Bond, the man stood relaxed, looking across at M. He said

"Good morning, sir," in a flat, unemotional voice.

"Morning, Armourer. Now I want to ask you some questions." M's voice was casual. "First of all, what do you think of the

Beretta, the -25?"

"Ladies' gun, sir."

M raised ironic eyebrows at Bond. Bond smiled thinly.

"Really! And why do you say that?"

"No stopping power, sir. But it's easy to operate. A bit fancy looking too, if you know what I mean, sir. Appeals to the

ladies."

"How would it be with a silencer?"

"Still less stopping power, sir. And I don't like silencers. They're heavy and get stuck in your clothing when you're in a hurry.

I wouldn't recommend anyone to try a combination like that, sir. Not if they were meaning business."

M said pleasantly to Bond, "Any comment, 007?"

Bond shrugged his shoulders. "I don't agree. I've used the .25 Beretta for fifteen years. Never had a stoppage and I haven't

missed with it yet. Not a bad record for a gun. It just happens that I'm used to it and I can point it straight. I've used bigger guns

when I've had to—the .45 Colt with the long barrel, for instance. But for close-up work and concealment I like the Beretta."

Bond paused. He felt he should give way somewhere. "I'd' agree about the silencer, sir. They're a nuisance. But sometimes you

have to use them."

"We've seen what happens when you do," said M drily. "And as for changing your gun, it's only a question of practice.

You'll soon get the feel of a new one." M allowed a trace of sympathy to enter his voice. "Sorry, 007. But I've decided. Just

stand up a moment. I want the Armourer to get a look at your build."

Bond stood up and faced the other man. There was no warmth in the two pairs of eyes. Bond's showed irritation. Major

Boothroyd's were indifferent, clinical. He walked round Bond. He said "Excuse me" and felt Bond's biceps and forearms. He

came back in front of him and said, "Might I see your gun?"

Bond's hand went slowly into his coat. He handed over the taped Beretta with the sawn barrel. Boothroyd examined the gun

and weighed it in his hand. He put it down on the desk. "And your holster?"

Bond took off his coat and slipped off the chamois leather holster and harness. He put his coat on again.

With a glance at the lips of the holster, perhaps to see if they showed traces of snagging. Boothroyd tossed the holster down

beside the gun with a motion that sneered. He looked across at M. "I think we can do better than this, sir." It was the sort of

voice Bond's first expensive tailor had used.

Bond sat down. He just stopped himself gazing rudely at the ceiling. Instead he looked impassively across at M.

"Well, Armourer, what do you recommend?"

Major Boothroyd put on the expert's voice. "As a matter of fact, sir," he said modestly, "I've just been testing most of the

small automatics. Five thousand rounds each at twenty-five yards. Of all of them, I'd choose the Walther PPK 7.65 mm. It only

came fourth after the Japanese M-14, the Russian Tokarev and the Sauer M-38. But I like its light trigger pull and the

extension spur of the magazine gives a grip that should suit 007. It's a real stopping gun. Of course it's about a .32 calibre as

compared with the Beretta's .25, but I wouldn't recommend anything lighter. And you can get ammunition for the Walther

anywhere in the world. That gives it an edge on the Japanese and the Russian guns." M turned to Bond. "Any comments?"

"It's a good gun, sir," Bond admitted. "Bit more bulky than the Beretta. How does the Armourer suggest I carry it?"

"Berns Martin Triple-draw holster," said Major Boothroyd succinctly. "Best worn inside the trouser band to the left. But it's

all right below the shoulder. Stiff saddle leather. Holds the gun in with a spring. Should make for a quicker draw than that," he

gestured towards the desk. "Three-fifths of a second to hit a man at twenty feet would be about right."

"That's settled then." M's voice was final. "And what about something bigger?"

"There's only one gun for that, sir," said Major Boothroyd stolidly. "Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight. Revolver. •38

calibre. Hammerless, so it won't catch in clothing. Overall length of six and a half inches and it only weighs thirteen ounces.

To keep down the weight, the cylinder holds only five cartridges. But by the time they're gone," Major Boothroyd allowed

himself a wintry smile, "somebody's been killed. Fires the -38 S & W Special. Very accurate cartridge indeed. With standard

loading it has a .muzzle velocity of eight hundred and sixty feet per second and muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty foot-

pounds. There are various barrel lengths, three and a half inch, five inch…"

"All right, all right." M's voice was testy. "Take it as read. If you say it's the best I'll believe you. So it's the Walther and the

Smith & -Wesson. Send up one of each to 007. With the harness. And arrange for him to fire them in. Starting today. He's got

to be expert in a week. All right? Then thank you very much, Armourer. I won't detain you."

"Thank you, sir," said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly out of the room.

There was a moment's silence. The sleet tore at the windows. M swivelled his chair and watched the streaming panes. Bond

took the opportunity to glance at his watch. Ten o'clock. His eyes slid to the gun and holster on the desk. He thought of his

fifteen years' marriage to the ugly bit of metal. He remembered the times its single word had saved his life—and the times

when its threat alone had been enough. He thought of the days when he had literally dressed to kill—when he had dismantled

the gun and oiled it and packed the bullets carefully into the springloaded magazine and tried the action once or twice,

pumping the cartridges out on to the bedspread in some hotel bedroom somewhere round the world. Then the last wipe of a dry

rag and the gun into the little holster and a pause in front of the mirror to see that nothing showed. And then out of the door and

on his way to the rendezvous that was to end with either darkness or light. How many times had it saved his life? How many

death sentences had it signed? Bond felt unreasonably sad. How could one have such ties with an inanimate object, an ugly one

at that, and, he had to admit it, with a weapon that was not in the same class as the ones chosen by the Armourer? But he had

the ties and M was going to cut them.

M swivelled back to face him. "Sorry, James," he said, and there was no sympathy in his voice. "I know how you like that

bit of iron. But I'm afraid it's got to go. Never give a weapon a second chance—any more than a man. I can't afford to gamble

with the double-o section. They've got to be properly equipped. You understand that? A gun's more important than a hand or a

foot in your job."

Bond smiled thinly. "I know, sir. I shan't argue. I'm just sorry to see it go."

"All right then. We'll say no more about it. Now I've got some more news for you. There's a job come up. In Jamaica.

Personnel problem. Or that's what it looks like. Routine investigation and report. The sunshine'll do you good and you can

practise your new guns on the turtles or whatever they have down there. You can do with a bit of holiday. Like to take it on?"

Bond thought: He's got it in for me over the last job. Feels I let him down. Won't trust me with anything tough. Wants to see.

Oh well! He said: "Sounds rather like the soft life, sir. I've had almost too much of that lately. But if it's got to be done… If you

say so, sir…"

"Yes," said M. "I say so."

III

HOLIDAY TASK

It was getting dark. Outside the weather was thickening. M reached over and switched on the green-shaded desklight. The

centre of the room became a warm yellow pool in which the leather top of the desk glowed blood-red.

M pulled the thick file towards him. Bond noticed it for the first time. He read the reversed lettering without difficulty. What

had Strangways been up to? Who was Trueblood?

M pressed a button on his desk. "I'll get the Chief of Staff in on this," he said. "I know the bones of the case, but he can fill in

the flesh. It's a drab little story, I'm afraid."

The Chief of Staff came in. He was a colonel in the Sappers, a man of about Bond's age, but his hair was prematurely grey

at the temples from the endless grind of work and responsibility. He was saved from a nervous breakdown by physical

toughness and a sense of humour. He was Bond's best friend at headquarters. They smiled at each other.

"Bring up a chair, Chief of Staff. I've given 007 the Strangways case. Got to get the mess cleared up before we make a new

appointment there. 007 can be acting Head of Station in the meantime. I want him to leave in a week. Would you fix that with

the Colonial Office and the Governor? And now let's go over the case." He turned to Bond. "I think you knew Strangways,

007. See you worked with him on that treasure business about five years ago. What did you think of him?"

"Good man, sir. Bit highly strung. I'd have thought he'd have been relieved by now. Five years is a long time in the tropics."

M ignored the comment. "And his number two, this girl Trueblood, Mary Trueblood. Ever come across her?"

"No, sir."

"I see she's got a good record. Chief Officer WRNS and then came to us. Nothing against her on her Confidential Record.

Good-looker to judge from her photographs. That probably explains it. Would you say Strangways was a bit of a womanizer?"

"Could have been," said Bond carefully, not wanting to say anything against Strangways, but remembering the dashing good

looks. "But what's happened to them, sir?"

"That's what we want to find out," said M. "They've gone, vanished into thin air. Both went on the same evening about three

weeks ago. Left Strangways's bungalow burned to the ground—radio, codebooks, files. Nothing left but a few charred scraps.

The girl left all her thingsantact. Must have taken only what she stood up in. Even her passport was in her room. But it would

have been easy for Strangways to cook up two passports. He had plenty of blanks. He was Passport Control Officer for the

island. Any number of planes they could have taken—to Florida or South America or one of the other islands in his area.

Police are still checking the passenger lists. Nothing's come up yet, but they could always have gone to ground for a day or two

and then done a bunk. Dyed the girl's hair and so forth. Airport security doesn't amount to much in that part of the world. Isn't

that so, Chief of Staff?"

"Yes, sir." The Chief of Staff sounded dubious. "But I still can't understand that last radio contact." He turned to Bond. "You

see, they began to make their routine contact at eighteen-thirty Jamaican time. Someone, Radio Security thinks it was the girl,

acknowledged our WWW and then went off the air. We tried to regain contact but there was obviously something fishy and we

broke off. No answer to the Blue Call, or to the Red. So that was that. Next day Section III sent 258 down from Washington.

By that time the police had taken over and the Governor had already made up his mind and was trying to get the case hushed

up. It all seemed pretty obvious to him. Strangways has had occasional girl trouble down there. Can't blame the chap myself.

It's a quiet station. Not much to occupy his time. The Governor jumped to the obvious conclusions. So, of course, did the local

police. Sex and machete fights are about all they understand. 258 spent a week down there and couldn't turn up a scrap of

contrary evidence. He reported accordingly and we sent him back to Washington. Since then the police have been scraping

around rather ineffectually and getting nowhere." The Chief of Staff paused. He looked apologetically at M. "I know you're

inclined to agree with the Governor, sir, but that radio contact sticks in my throat. I just can't see where it fits into the runaway-

couple picture. And Strangways's friends at his club say he was perfectly normal. Left in the middle of a rubber of bridge—

always did, when he was getting close to his deadline. Said he'd be back in twenty minutes. Ordered drinks all round—again

just as he always did—and left the club dead on six-fifteen, exactly to schedule. Then he vanished into thin air. Even left his

car in front of the club. Now, why should he set the rest of his bridge four looking for him if he Wanted to skip with the girl?

Why not leave in the morning, or better still, late at night, after they'd made their radio call and tidied up their lives? It just

doesn't make sense to me."

M grunted non-committally. "People in—er—love do stupid things," he said gruffly. "Act like lunatics sometimes. And

anyway, what other explanation is there? Absolutely no trace of foul play—no reason for it that anyone can see. It's a quiet

station down there. Same routines every month—an occasional communist trying to get into the island from Cuba, crooks from

England thinking they can hide away just because Jamaica's so far from London. I don't suppose Strangways has had a big case

since 007 was there." He turned to Bond. "On what you've heard, what do you think, 007? There's not much else to tell you."

Bond was definite. "I just can't see Strangways flying off the handle like that, sir. I daresay he was having an affair with the

girl, though I wouldn't have thought he was a man to mix business with pleasure. But the Service was his whole life. He'd

never have let it down. I can see him handing in his papers, and the girl doing the same, and then going off with her after you'd

sent out reliefs. But I don't believe it was in him to leave us in the air like this. And from what you say of the girl, I'd say it

would be much the same with her. Chief Officers WRNS don't go out of their senses."

"Thank you, 007." M's voice was controlled. "These considerations had also crossed my mind. No one's been jumping to

conclusions without weighing all the possibilities. Perhaps you can suggest another solution."

M sat back and waited. He reached for his pipe and began filling it. The case bored him. He didn't like personnel problems,

least of all messy ones like this. There were plenty of other worries waiting to be coped with round the world. It was only to

give Bond the pretence of a job, mixed with a good rest, that he had decided to send him out to Jamaica to close the case. He

put the pipe in his mouth and reached for the matches. "Well?"

Bond wasn't going to be put off his stride. He had liked Strangways and he was impressed by the points the Chief of Staff

had made. He said: "Well, sir. For instance, what was the last case Strangways was working on? Had he reported anything, or

was there anything Section III had asked him to look into. Anything at all in the last few months?"

"Nothing whatsoever." M was definite. He took the pipe out of his mouth and cocked it at the Chief of Staff. "Right?"

"Right, sir," said the Chief of Staff. "Only that damned business about the birds."

"Oh that," said M contemptuously. "Some rot from the Zoo or somebody. Got wished on us by the Colonial Office. About

six weeks ago, wasn't it?"

"That's right, sir. But it wasn't the Zoo. It was some people in America called the Audubon Society. They protect rare birds

from extinction or something like that. Got on to our Ambassador in Washington, and the FO passed the buck to the Colonial

Office. They shoved it on to us. Seems these bird people are pretty powerful in America. They even got an atom bombing

range shifted on the West Coast because it interfered with some birds' nests."

M snorted. "Damned thing called a Whooping Crane. Read about in the papers."

Bond persisted. "Could you tell me about it, sir? What did the Audub.on people want us to do?"

M waved his pipe impatiently. He picked up the Strangways file and tossed it down in front of the Chief of Staff. "You tell

him, Chief of Staff," he said wearily. "It's all in there."

The Chief of Staff took the file and riffled through the pages towards the back. He found what he wanted and bent the file in

half. There was silence in the room while he ran his eye over three pages of typescript which Bond could see were headed with

the blue and white cipher of the Colonial Office. Bond sat quietly, trying not to feel M's coiled impatience radiating across the

desk.

The Chief of Staff slapped the file shut. He said, "Well, this is the story as we passed it to Strangways on January zoth. He

acknowledged receipt, but after that we heard nothing from him." The Chief of Staff sat back in his chair. He looked at Bond.

"It seems there's a bird called a Roseate Spoonbill. There's a coloured photograph of it in here. Looks like a sort of pink stork

with an ugly flat bill which it uses for digging for food in the mud. Not many years ago these birds were dying out. Just before

the war there were only a few hundred left in the world, mostly in Florida and thereabouts. Then somebody reported a colony

of them on an island called Crab Key between Jamaica and Cuba. It's British territory—a dependency of Jamaica. Used to be a

guano island, but the quality of the guano was too low for the cost of digging it. When the birds were found there, it had been

uninhabited for about fifty years. The Audubon people went there and ended up by leasing a corner as a sanctuary for these

spoonbills. Put two

wardens in charge and persuaded the airlines to stop flying over the island and disturbing the birds. The birds flourished and

at the last count there were about five thousand of them on the island. Then came the war. The price of guano went up and

some bright chap had the idea of buying the island and starting to work it again. He negotiated with the Jamaican Government

and bought the place for ten thousand pounds with the condition that he didn't disturb the lease of the sanctuary. That was in

1943. Well, this man imported plenty of cheap labour and soon had the place working at a profit and it's gone on making a

profit until recently. Then the price of guano took a dip and it's thought that he must be having a hard time making both ends

meet."

"Who is this man?"

"Chinaman, or rather half Chinese and half German. Got a daft name. Calls himself Doctor No—Doctor Julius No."

"No? Spelt like Yes?"

"That's right."

"Any facts about him?"

"Nothing except that he keeps very much to himself. Hasn't been seen since he made his deal with the Jamaican

Government. And there's no traffic with the island. It's his and he keeps it private. Says he doesn't want people disturbing the

guanay birds who turn out his guano. Seems reasonable. Well, nothing happened until just before Christmas when one of the

Audubon wardens, a Barbadian, good solid chap apparently, arrived on the north shore of Jamaica in a canoe. He was very

sick. He was terribly burned—died in a few days. Before he died he told some crazy story about their camp having been

attacked by a dragon with flames coming out of its mouth. This dragon had killed his pal and burned up the camp and gone

roaring off into the bird sanctuary belching fire among the birds and scaring them off to God knows where. He had been badly

burned but he'd escaped to the coast and stolen a canoe and sailed all one night to Jamaica. Poor chap was obviously off his

rocker. And that was that, except that a routine report had to be sent off to the Audubon Society. And they weren't satisfied.

Sent down two of their big brass in a Beechcraft from Miami to investigate. There's an airstrip on the island. This Chinaman's

got a Grumman Amphibian for bringing in supplies…"

M interjected sourly. "All these people seem to have a hell of a lot of money to throw about on their damned birds."

Bond and the Chief of Staff exchanged smiles. M had been trying for years to get the Treasury to give him an Auster for the

Caribbean Station.

The Chief of Staff continued: "And the Beechcraft crashed on landing and killed the two Audubon men. Well, that aroused

these bird people to a fury. They got a corvette from the US Training Squadron in the Caribbean to make a call on Doctor No.

That's how powerful these people are. Seems they've got quite a lobby in Washington. The captain of the corvette reported that

he was received very civilly by Doctor No but was kept well away from the guano workings. He was taken to the airstrip and

examined the remains of the plane. Smashed to pieces, but nothing suspicious—came in to land too fast probably. The bodies

of the two men and the pilot had been reverently embalmed and packed in handsome coffins which were handed over with

quite a ceremony. The captain was very impressed by Doctor No's courtesy. He asked to see the wardens' camp and he was

taken out there and shown the remains of it. Doctor No's theory was that the two men had gone mad because of the heat and

the loneliness, or at any rate that one of them had gone mad and burned down the camp with the other inside it. This seemed

possible to the captain when he'd seen what a godforsaken bit of marsh the men had been living in for ten years or more. There

was nothing else to see and he was politely steered back to his ship and sailed away." The Chief of Staff spread his hands.

"And that's the lot except that the captain reported that he saw only a handful of roseate spoonbills. When his report got back to

the Audubon Society it was apparently the loss of their blasted birds that infuriated these people most of all, and ever since

then they've been nagging at us to have an inquiry into the whole business. Of course nobody at the Colonial Office or in

Jamaica's in the least interested. So in the end the whole fairy story was dumped in our lap." The Chief of Staff shrugged his

shoulders with finality. "And that's how this pile of bumf," he waved the file, "or at any rate the guts of it, got landed on

Strangways.'

M looked morosely at Bond. "See what I mean, 007? Just the sort of mares' nest these old women's societies are always

stirring up. People start preserving something—churches, old houses, decaying pictures, birds—and there's always a hullabaloo

of some sort. The trouble is these sort of people get really worked up about their damned birds or whatever it is. They get the

politicians involved. And somehow they all seem to have stacks of money. God knows where it comes from. Other old women,

I suppose. And then there comes a point when someone has to do something to keep them quiet. Like this case. It gets

shunted off on to me because the place is British territory. At the same time it's private land. Nobody wants to interfere

officially. So I'm supposed to do what? Send a submarine to the island? For what? To find out what's happened to a covey of

pink storks." M snorted. "Anyway, you asked about Strangways's last case and that's it." M leant forward belligerently. "Any

questions? I've got a busy day ahead."

Bond grinned. He couldn't help it. M's occasional outbursts of rage were so splendid. And nothing set him going so well as

any attempt to waste the time and energies and slim funds of the Secret Service. Bond got to his feet. "Perhaps if I could have

the file, sir," he said placatingly. "It just strikes me that four people seem to have died more or less because of these birds.

Perhaps two more did—Strangways and the True-blood girl. I agree it sounds ridiculous, but we've got nothing else to go on."

"Take it, take it," said M impatiently. "And hurry up and get your holiday over. You may not have noticed it, but the rest of

the world happens to be in a bit of a mess."

Bond reached across and picked up the file. He also made to pick up his Beretta and the holster. "No," said M sharply.

"Leave that. And mind you've got the hang of the other two guns by the time I see you again."

Bond looked across into M's eyes. For the first time in his life he hated the man. He knew perfectly well why M was being

tough and mean. It was deferred punishment for having nearly got killed on his last job. Plus getting away from this filthy

weather into the sunshine. M couldn't bear his men to have an easy time. In a way Bond felt sure he was being sent on this

cushy assignment to humiliate him. The old bastard.

With the anger balling up inside him like cats' fur, Bond said, "I'll see to it, sir," and turned and walked out of the room.

RECEPTION COMMITTEE

The sixty-eight tons deadweight of the Super-Constella-tion hurtled high above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba

and, with only another hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.

Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and the water below him turn from the dark blue of the

Cuba Deep to the azure and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North Shore, over its rash of millionaire

hotels, and crossing the high mountains of the interior. The scattered dice of small-holdings showed on the slopes and in

clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams. 'Xaymaca* the

Arawak Indians had called it—'The Land of Hills and Rivers'. Bond's heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile

islands in the world.

The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the

streets of Kingston, but, beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were still touched with the sun against which the

Port Royal lighthouse blinked ineffectually. Now the Constellation was getting its nose down into a wide sweep beyond the

harbour. There was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into position, and a shrill

hydraulic whine as the brake flaps slid out of the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great aircraft turned in again towards

the land and for a moment the setting sun poured gold into the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of the Blue

Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north-south runway. There was a glimpse of a road and telephone

wires. Then the concrete, scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane and there was the soft double thump

of a perfect landing and the roar of reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport buildings.

The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond's face as he left the aircraft and walked over to Health and Immigration.

He knew that by the time he had got through Customs he would be sweating. He didn't mind. After the rasping cold of

London, the stuffy, velvet heat was easily bearable.

Bond's passport described him as 'Import and Export Merchant'.

"What company, sir?"

"Universal Export."

"Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?"

"Pleasure."

"I hope you enjoy your stay, sir." The Negro immigration officer handed Bond his passport with indifference.

"Thank you."

Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall brown-skinned man against the barrier. He was wearing the

same old faded blue shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been wearing when Bond first met him five years

before.

"Quarrel!"

From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute

of the West Indians. "How you, cap'n?" he called delightedly.

"I'm fine," said Bond. "Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the car?"

"Sure, cap'n."

The Customs officer who, like most men from the waterfront, knew Quarrel, chalked Bond's bag without opening it and

Bond picked it up and went out through the barrier. Quarrel took it from him and held out his right hand. Bond took the warm

dry calloused paw and looked into the dark grey eyes that showed descent from a Cromwellian soldier or a pirate of Morgan's

time. "You haven't changed, Quarrel," he said affectionately. "How's the turtle fishing?"

"Not so bad, cap'n, an' not so good. Much de same as always." He looked critically at Bond. "Yo been sick, or somepun?"

Bond was surprised. "As a matter of fact I have. But I've been fit for weeks. What made you say that?"

Quarrel was embarrassed. "Sorry, cap'n," he said, thinking he might have offended Bond. "Dere some pain lines in yo face

since de las' time."

"Oh well," said Bond. "It was nothing much. But I could do with a spell of your training. I'm not as fit as I ought to be."

"Shooting, cap'n."

They were moving towards the exit when there came the sharp crack and flash of a Press camera. A pretty Chinese girl in

Jamaican dress was lowering her Speed Graphic. She came up to them. She said with synthetic charm, "Thank you, gentlemen.

I am from the Daily Gleaner." She glanced down at a list in her hand. "Mister Bond, isn't it? And how long will you be with

us, Mister Bond?"

Bond was offhand. This was a bad start. "In transit," he said shortly. "I think you'll find there were more interesting people

on the plane."

"Oh no, I'm sure not, Mister Bond. You look very important. And what hotel will you be staying at?"

Damn, thought Bond. He said "Myrtle Bank" and moved on.

"Thank you, Mister Bond," said the tinkling voice. "I hope you'll enjoy…"

They were outside. As they walked towards the parking place Bond said, "Ever seen that girl at the airport before?"

Quarrel reflected. "Reck'n not, cap'n. But de Gleaner have plenty camera gals."

Bond was vaguely worried. There was no earthly reason why his picture should be wanted by the Press. It was five years

since his last adventures on the island, and anyway his name had been kept out of the papers.

They got to the car. It was a black Sunbeam Alpine. Bond looked sharply at it and then at the number plate. Strangways's

car. What the hell? "Where did you get this, Quarrel?"

"ADC tell me fe to take him, cap'n. Him say hit de only spare car dey have. Why, cap'n? Him no good?"

"Oh, it's all right, Quarrel," said Bond resignedly. "Come on, let's get going."

Bond got into the passenger seat. It was entirely his fault. He might have guessed at the chance of getting this car. But it

would certainly put the finger on him and on what he was doing in Jamaica if anyone happened to be interested.

They moved off down the long cactus-fringed road towards the distant lights of Kingston. Normally, Bond would have sat

and enjoyed the beauty of it all—the steady zing of the crickets, the rush of warm, scented air, the ceiling of stars, the necklace

of yellow lights shimmering across the harbour—but now he was cursing his carelessness and knowing what he shouldn't have

done.

What he had done was to send one signal through the Colonial Office to the Governor. In it he had first asked that the ADC

should get Quarrel over from the Cayman Islands for an indefinite period on a salary of ten pounds a week. Quarrel had been

with Bond on his last adventure in Jamaica. He was an invaluable handyman with all the fine seaman's qualities of the Cayman

Islander, and he was a passport into the lower strata of coloured life which would otherwise be closed to Bond. Everybody

loved him and he was a splendid companion. Bond knew that Quarrel was vital if he was to get anywhere on the Strangways

case—whether it was a case or just a scandal. Then Bond had asked for a single room and shower at the Blue Hills Hotel, for

the loan of a car and for Quarrel to meet him with the car at the airport. Most of this had been wrong. In particular Bond should

have taken a taxi to his hotel and made contact with Quarrel later. Then he would have seen the car and had a chance to change

it. As it was, reflected Bond, he might just as well have advertised his visit and its purpose in the Gleaner. He sighed. It was the

mistakes one made at the beginning of a case that were the worst. They were the irretrievable ones, the ones that got you off on

the wrong foot, that gave the enemy the first-game. But was there an enemy? Wasn't he being over-cautious? On an impulse

Bond turned in his seat. A hundred yards behind were two dim sidelights. Most Jamaicans drive with their headlights full on.

Bond turned back. He said, "Quarrel. At the end of the Palisadoes, where the left fork goes to Kingston and right to Morant, I

want you to turn quickly down the ' Morant road and stop at once and turn your lights off. Right? And now go like hell."

"Okay, cap'n." Quarrel's voice sounded pleased. He put his foot down to the floorboards. The little car gave a deep growl and

tore off down the white road.

Now they were at the end of the straight. The car skidded round the curve where the corner of the harbour bit into the land.

Another five hundred yards and they would be at the intersection. Bond looked back. There was no sign of the other car. Here

was the signpost. Quarrel did a racing change and hurled the car round on a tight lock. He pulled in to the side and dowsed his

lights. Bond turned and waited. At once he heard the roar of a big car at speed. Lights blazed on, looking for them. Then the

car was past and tearing on towards Kingston. Bond had time to notice that it was a big American type taxicab and that there

was no one in it but the driver. Then it was gone.

The dust settled slowly. They sat for ten minutes saying nothing. Then Bond told Quarrel to turn the car and take the

Kingston road. He said, "I think that car was interested in us, Quarrel. You don't drive an empty taxi back from the airport. It's

an expensive run. Keep a watch out. He may find we've fooled him and be waiting for us."

"Sho ting, cap'n," said Quarrel happily. This was just the sort of life he had hoped for when he got Bond's message.

They came into the stream of Kingston traffic—buses, cars, horse-drawn carts, pannier-laden donkeys down from the hills,

and the hand-drawn barrows selling violent coloured drinks. In the crush it was impossible to say if they were being followed.

They turned off to the right and up towards the hills. There were many cars behind them. Any one of them could have been the

American taxi. They drove for a quarter of an hour up to Halfway Tree and then on to the Junction Road, the main road across

the island. Soon there was a neon sign of a green palm tree and underneath 'Blue Hills. THE hotel'. They drove in and up the

drive lined with neatly rounded bushes of bougainvillaea.

A hundred yards higher up the road the black taxi waved the following drivers on and pulled in to the left. It made a U-turn

in a break in the traffic and swept back down the hill towards Kingston.

The Blue Hills was a comfortable old-fashioned hotel with modern trimmings. Bond was welcomed with deference because

his reservation had been made by King's House. He was shown to a fine corner room with a balcony looking out over the

distant sweep of Kingston harbour. Thankfully he" took off his London clothes, now moist with perspiration, and went into the

glass-fronted shower and turned the cold water full on and stood under it for five minutes during which he washed his hair to

remove the last dirt of big-city life. Then he pulled on a pair of Sea Island cotton shorts and, with sensual pleasure at the warm

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1IIHEARYOULOUDANDCLEARPunctuallyatsixo'clockthesunsetwithalastyellowflashbehindtheBlueMountains,awaveofvioletshadowpoureddownRichmondRoad,andthecricketsandtreefrogsinthefinegardensbegantozingandtinkle.Apartfromthebackgroundnoiseoftheinsects,thewideemptystreetwasquiet.Thewealthyownersofthebig,withdra...

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Fleming, Ian - Bond 06 - (1958) Dr No

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