Аннотация: In vain, the enemy believes that he managed to pick up the girl, who dares wins in battle - we will beat the enemies fiercely! And girls barefoot and in bikinis. It is very cool!
Chapter 1
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 things intact. 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 Audubon 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 20th. 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 Trueblood 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.
Chapter 4
Reception Committee
The sixty-eight tons deadweight of the Super Constellation 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."
"Sho ting, 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 soft air on his nakedness, unpacked his things and rang for the waiter.
Bond ordered a double gin and tonic and one whole green lime. When the drink came he cut the lime in half, dropped the two squeezed halves into the long glass, almost filled the glass with ice cubes and then poured in the tonic. He took the drink out on to the balcony, and sat and looked out across the spectacular view. He thought how wonderful it was to be away from headquarters, and from London, and from hospitals, and to be here, at this moment, doing what he was doing and knowing, as all his senses told him, that he was on a good tough case again.
He sat for a while, luxuriously, letting the gin relax him. He ordered another and drank it down. It was seven-fifteen. He had arranged for Quarrel to pick him up at seven-thirty. They were going to have dinner together. Bond had asked Quarrel to suggest a place. After a moment of embarrassment, Quarrel had said that whenever he wanted to enjoy himself in Kingston he went to a waterfront nightspot called the Joy Boat. "Hit no great shakes, cap"n," he had said apologetically, "but da food an" drinks an" music is good and I got a good fren" dere. Him owns de joint. Dey calls him "Pus-Feller" seein" how him once fought wit" a big hoctopus."
Bond smiled to himself at the way Quarrel, like most West Indians, added an "h" where it wasn"t needed and took it off when it was. He went into his room and dressed in his old dark blue tropical worsted suit, a sleeveless white cotton shirt and a black knitted tie, looked in the glass to see that the Walther didn"t show under his armpit and went down and out to where the car was waiting.
They swooped down quietly through the soft singing dusk into Kingston and turned to the left along the harbour side. They passed one or two smart restaurants and night clubs from which came the throb and twang of calypso music. There was a stretch of private houses that dwindled into a poor-class shopping centre and then into shacks. Then, where the road curved away from the sea, there was a blaze of golden neon in the shape of a Spanish galleon above green lettering that said "The Joy Boat." They pulled into a parking place and Bond followed Quarrel through the gate into a small garden of palm trees growing out of lawn. At the end was the beach and the sea. Tables were dotted about under the palms, and in the centre was a small deserted cement dance floor to one side of which a calypso trio in sequined scarlet shirts was softly improvising on "Take her to Jamaica where the rum comes from."
Only half the tables were filled, mostly by coloured people. There was a sprinkling of British and American sailors with their girls. An immensely fat Negro in a smart white dinner jacket left one of the tables and came to meet them.
"Hi, Mister Q. Long time no see. Nice table for two?"
"That"s right, Pus-Feller. Closer to da kitchen dan da music."
The big man chuckled. He led them down towards the sea and placed them at a quiet table under a palm tree that grew out of the base of the restaurant building. "Drinks gemmun?"
Bond ordered his gin and tonic with a lime, and Quarrel a Red Stripe beer. They scanned the menu and both decided on broiled lobster followed by a rare steak with native vegetables.
The drinks came. The glasses were dripping with condensation. The small fact reminded Bond of other times in hot climates. A few yards away the sea lisped on the flat sand. The three-piece began playing "Kitch." Above them the palm fronds clashed softly in the night breeze. A gecko chuckled somewhere in the garden. Bond thought of the London he had left the day before. He said, "I like this place, Quarrel."
Quarrel was pleased. "Him a good fren of mine, da Pus-Feller. Him knows mostly what goes hon hin Kingston case you got hany questions, cap"n. Him come from da Caymans. Him an" me once share a boat. Then him go hoff one day catching boobies" heggs hat Crab Key. Went swimmin" to a rock for more heggs an" dis big hoctopus get him. Dey mos"ly small fellers roun" here but dey come bigger at da Crab seein" how its alongside de Cuba Deep, da deepest waters roun" dese parts. Pus-Feller have himself a bad time wit dis hanimal. Bust one lung cuttin" hisself free. Dat scare him an" him sell me his half of da boat an" come to Kingston. Dat were "fore da war. Now him rich man whiles I go hon fishin."" Quarrel chuckled at the quirk of fate.
"Crab Key," said Bond. "What sort of a place is that?"
Quarrel looked at him sharply. "Dat a bad luck place now, cap"n," he said shortly. "Chinee gemmun buy hit durin" da war and bring in men and dig bird-dirt. Don" let nobody land dere and don" let no one get hoff. We gives it a wide bert.""
"Why"s that?"
"Him have plenty watchmen. An" guns-machine guns. An" a radar. An" a spottin" plane. Frens o" mine have landed dere and him never been seen again. Dat Chinee keep him island plenty private. Tell da trut," cap"n," Quarrel was apologetic, "dat Crab Key scare me plenty."
Bond said thoughtfully, "Well, well."
The food came. They ordered another round of drinks and ate. While they ate, Bond gave Quarrel an outline of the Strangways case. Quarrel listened carefully, occasionally asking questions. He was particularly interested in the birds on Crab Key, and what the watchmen had said, and how the plane was supposed to have crashed. Finally he pushed his plate away. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He leant forward. "Cap"n," he said softly, "I no mind if hit was birds or butterflies or bees. If dey was on Crab Key and da Commander was stickin" his nose into da business, yo kin bet yo bottom dollar him been mashed. Him and him girl. Da Chinee mash dem for sho."
Bond looked carefully into the urgent grey eyes. "What makes you so certain?"
Quarrel spread his hands. To him the answer was simple. "Dat Chinee love him privacy. Him want be left alone. I know him kill ma frens order keep folk away from da Crab. Him a mos" powerful man. Him kill hanyone what hinterfere with him."
"Why?"
"Don" rightly know, cap"n," said Quarrel indifferently. "People dem want different tings in dis world. An" what dem want sufficient dem gits."
A glint of light caught the corner of Bond"s eye. He turned quickly. The Chinese girl from the airport was standing in the nearby shadows. Now she was dressed in a tight-fitting sheath of black satin slashed up one side almost to her hip. She had a Leica with a flash attachment in one hand. The other was in a leather case at her side. The hand came out holding a flashbulb. The girl slipped the base into her mouth to wet it and improve the contact and made to screw it into the reflector.
"Get that girl," said Bond quickly.
In two strides Quarrel was up with her. He held out his hand. "Evenin," missy," he said softly.
The girl smiled. She let the Leica hang on the thin strap round her neck. She took Quarrel"s hand. Quarrel swung her round like a ballet dancer. Now he had her hand behind her back and she was in the crook of his arm.
She looked up at him angrily. "Don"t. You"re hurting."
Quarrel smiled down into the flashing dark eyes in the pale, almond-shaped face. "Cap"n like you take a drink wit" we," he said soothingly. He came back to the table, moving the girl along with him. He hooked a chair out with his foot and sat her down beside him, keeping the grip on her wrist behind her back. They sat bolt upright, like quarrelling lovers.
Bond looked into the pretty, angry little face. "Good evening. What are you doing here? Why do you want another picture of me?"
"I"m doing the nightspots," the Cupid"s bow of a mouth parted persuasively. "The first picture of you didn"t come out. Tell this man to leave me alone."
"So you work for the Gleaner? What"s your name?"
"I won"t tell you."
Bond cocked an eyebrow at Quarrel.
Quarrel"s eyes narrowed. His hand behind the girl"s back turned slowly. The girl struggled like an eel, her teeth clenched on her lower lip. Quarrel went on twisting. Suddenly she said "Ow!" sharply and gasped, "I"ll tell!" Quarrel eased his grip. The girl looked furiously at Bond: "Annabel Chung."
Bond said to Quarrel, "Call the Pus-Feller."
Quarrel picked up a fork with his free hand and clanged it against a glass. The big Negro hurried up.