by Ian Fleming
Rosy Budd was broad and hard-looking, with a square immobile poker player’s face in which pale eyes were buried deep under thin fair eyebrows. He was wearing a striped seersucker suit and a dark blue tie. He ate slowly and rarely looked up from his plate. When he had finished, he picked up a race programme and studied it, turning over the pages carefully. Without looking up, he gave a curt shake of the head when the maître d’hotel offered him the menu.
Pissaro picked his teeth until a mound of ice cream arrived, and then he bent his head again and started spooning the ice cream rapidly up into his small mouth.
Through his glasses, Bond examined the two men and wondered about them. What did these people amount to? Bond remembered cold, dedicated, chess-playing Russians; brilliant, neurotic Germans; silent, deadly, anonymous men from Central Europe; the people in his own Service – the double-firsts, the gay soldiers of fortune, the men who counted life well lost for a thousand a year. Compared with such men, Bond decided, these people were just teenage pillow-fantasies.
The results went up for the third race, and now there was only half an hour to go before The Perpetuities. Bond put down his glasses and picked up his programme, waiting for the big board on the other side of the track to start flickering as the money went on the tote and the odds began to move.
He took a final look at the details. ‘Second Day. August 4’, said the programme. ‘The Perpetuities Stakes. $25,000 added. 52nd Running. For Three-Year-Olds. By subscription of $50 each, to accompany the nomination. Starters to pay $250 additional. With the $25,000 added of which $5,000 to second, $2,500 to third and $1,250 to fourth. A trophy to be presented to the owner of the winner. One Mile and a Quarter.’ And then the list of twelve horses with owners, trainers and jockeys and the Morning Line forecast of the odds.
The joint favourites, No. 1, Mr C. V. Whitney’s ‘Come Again’, and No. 3, Mr William Woodward’s ‘Pray Action’, were both forecast at six to four on. Mr P. Pissaro’s ‘Shy Smile’, trainer R. Budd, jockey T. Bell, was forecast at 15 to 1, the bottom horse in the betting. His number was 10.
Bond turned his glasses on the restaurant enclosure. The two men had gone. Bond’s eyes followed on across the track to where the lights were flashing on the big board. The favourite was now No. 3, at 2 to 1 on. ‘Come Again’ had gone out to evens. ‘Shy Smile’ was quoted at 20 to 1, but he went down to 18s as Bond watched the board.
Another quarter of an hour to go. Bond sat back and lit a cigarette, going over again in his mind what Leiter had told him, wondering if it was going to work.
Leiter had tracked the jockey down to his rooming house and had flashed his private detective’s licence at him. And then he had quite calmly blackmailed him into throwing the race. If ‘Shy Smile’ won, Leiter would go to the Stewards, expose the Ringer, and Tingaling Bell would never ride again. But there was one chance for the jockey to save himself. If he took it, Leiter promised to say nothing about the Ringer. ‘Shy Smile’ must win the race but be disqualified. This could be achieved if, in the final sprint, the jockey interfered with the running of the horse closest to him so that it could be shown that he had prevented this other horse from being the winner. Then there would be an objection, which had to be upheld. It would be easy for Bell, at the last corner before the run in, to do this in such a way that he could argue to his employers that it had just been a bit of over-keen riding, that another horse had crowded him over to the left, that his horse had stumbled. There was no conceivable reason why he should not wish to win (Pissaro had promised him an extra $1000 if he did) and it was just one of those strokes of bad luck that happen in racing. And Leiter would now give Tingaling $1000 and there would be another $2000 for him if he did what he was told.
And Bell had bought it. Without any hesitation. And he had asked for the $2000 to be passed to him after the day’s racing in the ‘Acme Mud and Sulphur Baths’ where he went every evening to take a mud bath to keep his weight down. Six o’clock. And Leiter had promised that this would be done. And Bond now had the $2000 in his pocket and he had reluctantly agreed to help Leiter out by going to the Acme Baths to make the pay-off if ‘Shy Smile’ failed to win the race.
Would it work?
Bond picked up his glasses and swept them round the course. He noted the four thick posts at the quarter miles that held the automatic cameras that recorded the whole race and whose film was available to the Stewards within minutes of each finish. It was this last one near the winning post whose eye would see and record all that happened at the final bend. Bond felt a tingle of excitement. Five minutes to go and the starting-gate was being pulled into position a hundred yards up to his left. Once round the course, plus an extra furlong, and the winning post was just below him. He put his glasses on the big board. No change in the favourites or in ‘Shy Smile’s’ price. And now here came the horses, cantering easily down to the start. First came No.1, ‘Come Again’, the second favourite. A big black horse carrying the light blue and brown colours of the Whitney Stable. And there was a cheer for the favourite, ‘Pray Action’, a fast-looking grey carrying the Woodward white with red spots of the famous Belair Stud, and, at the tail of the field, there was the big chestnut with the blaze face and four white stockings, and the pale-faced jockey wearing a jacket of lavender silk with a big black diamond on chest and back.
The horse moved so well that Bond glanced across at the board and was not surprised to see his price come quickly back to 17s, then 16s. Bond went on watching the board. In a minute the big money would go on (all except the remains of Bond’s $1000 which would stay in his pocket) and the price would come down with a run. The loudspeaker was announcing the race. Away to the left the horses were being marshalled behind the starting-gate. Ping, ping, ping, the lights opposite No. 10 on the board started to wink and flash – 15,14,12,11, and finally 9 to 1. Then the lights stopped talking and the tote was closed. And how many more thousands had gone away by Western Union to harmless telegraphic addresses in Detroit, Chicago, New York, Miami, San Francisco and a dozen more off-the-course books throughout the States?
A handbell clanged sharply. There was an electric smell in the air, and a muting of the noise of the crowds. Then down thundered the ragged charging line towards the grandstand and past and away in a scud of hooves and flying earth and tanbark. There was a glimpse of sharp, pale faces half-hidden by goggles, a stream of pounding shoulders and hindquarters, a flash of wild white eyes and a confusion of numbers amongst which Bond caught only the vital No. 10 well to the fore and close in to the rails. And then the dust was settling and the brown-black mass was at the first corner and slowly streaming round the bottom straight and Bond felt the glasses slip in the sweat round his eyes.
No. 5, a black outsider, was leading by a length. Was this some unknown horse that was going to steal the show? But then there was No. 1 level with him and then No. 3. And No. 10 half a length behind the leaders. Just these four out in front and the rest bunched three lengths away. Round the corner and now No. 1 was in the lead. The Whitney black. And No. 10 was fourth. Down the long straight opposite and No. 3 was moving up – with Tingaling Bell on the chestnut at his heels. They both passed No. 5 and were well up with No. 1 who was still leading by half a length. And then the first top bend and the top straight, and No. 3 was leading with ‘Shy Smile’ second and No. 1 a length behind. And ‘Shy Smile’ was coming up level with the leader. He was level, and they were coming into the final corner. Bond held his breath. Now! Now! He could almost hear the whirr of the concealed camera in the big white post. No. 10 was ahead, right on the bend, but No. 3 was inside on the rails. And the crowd was howling for the favourite. Now Bell was inching towards the grey, his head well down on his horse’s neck on the outside, so that he could pretend that he couldn’t see the grey horse on the rails. Inch by inch the horses drew closer and, suddenly, ‘Shy Smile’s’ head hid No. 3’s head, then his quarters were in front and, yes, ‘Pray Action’s’ boy suddenly stood right up in his stirrups, forced to t
ake-up by the foul, and at once ‘Shy Smile’ was a length ahead.
There was an angry roar from the crowd. Bond lowered his glasses and sat back and watched as the foam-flecked chestnut thundered past the post below him with ‘Pray Action’ five lengths behind and ‘Come Again’ just failing to beat him into second place.
Not bad, thought Bond, as the crowd howled around him. Not bad at all.
And how brilliantly the jockey had done it! His head so well down that even Pissaro would have to admit Bell couldn’t see the other horse. The natural curve-in for the final straight. The head still well down as he passed the post and the whip flailing for the last few lengths as if Tingaling still thought himself only half a length ahead of No. 3.
Bond watched for the results to be posted. There was a chorus of whistles and cat-calls. ‘No. 10, “Shy Smile”, five lengths. No. 3, “Pray Action:, ½ length. No. 1, “Come Again”, three lengths. No. 7, “Pirandello”, three lengths.’
And the horses came cantering back for the weighing-in, and the crowd yelled for blood as Tingaling Bell, grinning all over his face, threw his whip to the valet and slipped off the sweating chestnut and carried his saddle to the scales.
And then there was a great burst of cheering. Opposite the name of ‘Shy Smile’ the word OBJECTION, white on black, had been slipped in, and the loudspeaker was saying: ‘Attention please. In this race there has been an objection lodged by Jockey T. Lucky on No. 3, “Pray Action”, against the riding of Jockey T. Bell on No. 10, “Shy Smile”. Do not destroy your tickets. I repeat, Do not destroy your tickets.’
Bond took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. He could imagine the scene in the projection room behind the judges’ box. Now they would be examining the film. Bell would be standing there looking hurt, and, beside him, No. 3’s jockey looking still more hurt. Would the owners be there? Would the sweat be running down Pissaro’s fat jowls into his collar? Would some of the other owners be there, pale and angry?
And then came the loudspeaker again and the voice saying:
‘Attention please. In this race, No. 10, “Shy Smile”, has been disqualified and No. 3, “Pray Action”, has been declared the winner. The result is now official.’
Amidst the thunder of the crowd, Bond got stiffly up from his seat and walked off in the direction of the bar. And now for the pay-off. Perhaps a Bourbon and branch-water would give him some ideas about getting the money to Tingaling Bell. He was uneasy about it. And yet the Acme Baths sounded an easy enough place. Nobody knew him in Saratoga. But after that he would have to stop working for Pinkertons. Call up Shady Tree and complain about not getting his five thousand. Worry him about his own payoff. It had been fun helping Leiter push these people around. Next would come Bond’s turn.
He pushed his way into the crowded bar.
13 ....... ACME MUD AND SULPHUR
IN THE small red bus there was only a negress with a withered arm and, beside the driver, a girl who kept her sick hands out of sight and whose head was completely shrouded in a thick black veil which fell to her shoulders, like a bee-keeper’s hat, without touching the skin of her face.
The bus, which said ‘Acme Mud and Sulphur Baths’ on its sides and ‘Every Hour on the Hour’ above the windscreen, went through the town without picking up any more customers and turned off the main road down a badly maintained gravel track through a plantation of young firs. After half a mile, it rounded a corner and went down a short hill towards a cluster of dingy grey clapboard buildings. A tall yellow-brick chimney stuck up out of the centre of the buildings and from it a thin wisp of black smoke rose straight up into the still air.
There was no sign of life in front of the Baths, but as the bus pulled up on the weedy gravel patch near what seemed to be the entrance, two old men and a limping coloured woman emerged through the wire-screened doors at the top of the steps and waited for the passengers to alight.
Outside the bus the smell of sulphur hit Bond with sickening force. It was a horrible smell, from somewhere down in the stomach of the world. Bond moved away from the entrance and sat down on a rough bench under a group of dead-looking firs. He sat there for a few minutes to steel himself for what was going to happen to him through the screen doors and to shake off his sense of oppression and disgust. It was partly, he decided, the reaction of a healthy body to the contact with disease, and it was partly the tall grim Belsen chimney with its plume of innocent smoke. But most of all it was the prospect of going in through those doors, buying the ticket, and then stripping his clean body and giving it over to the nameless things they did in this grisly ramshackle establishment.
The bus rattled off and he was alone. It was absolutely quiet. Bond noticed that the two side windows and the entrance door made two eyes and a mouth. The place seemed to be looking at him, watching him, waiting for him. Would he come in? Would they have him?
Bond moved impatiently inside his clothes. He got to his feet and walked straight across the gravel and up the wooden steps and the frame doors banged to behind him.
He found himself in a dingy reception room. The sulphur fumes were stronger. There was a reception desk behind an iron grill. Framed testimonials hung on the walls, some of them with red paper seals below the signature, and there was a glass-fronted showcase full of packages in transparent wrapping. Above it a notice said, in badly handwritten capitals, ‘Take Home an Acme-Pak. Treat Yourself in Privacy.’ There was a list of prices pasted on to a card advertising a cheap deodorant. The slogan still showed. It said: ‘Let your Armpits be your Charm-pits.’
A faded woman with a screw of orange hair above a face like a sad cream-puff raised her head slowly and looked at him through the bars, keeping one finger on her place in True Love Stories.
‘Can I help you?’ It was the voice reserved for strangers, for people who didn’t know the ropes.
Bond looked through the bars with the cautious abhorrence she had expected. ‘I’d like a bath.’
‘Mud or Sulphur?’ She reached for the tickets with her free hand.
‘Mud.’
‘Would you care for a book of tickets? They’re cheaper.’
‘Just one, please.’
‘Dollar fifty.’ She pushed through a mauve ticket and kept a finger on it until Bond had put his money down.
‘Which way do I go?’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Follow the passage. Better leave your valuables.’ She slipped a large white envelope under the grill. ‘Write your name on it.’ She watched sideways as Bond put his watch and the contents of his pockets into the envelope and scribbled his name on it.
The twenty hundred-dollar bills were inside Bond’s shirt. He wondered about them. He pushed the envelope back. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
There was a low wicket at the back of the room and two white-painted wooden hands whose drooping index fingers pointed right and left. On one hand was written ‘MUD’ and on the other ‘SULPHUR’. Bond went through the wicket and turned to the right along a dank corridor with a cement floor which sloped downwards. He followed it and pushed through a swing door at the end and found himself in a long high room with a skylight in the roof and cabins along the walls.
It was hot and steamy and sulphurous in the room. Two youngish, soft-looking men, naked except for grey towels round their waists, were playing gin rummy at a deal table near the entrance. On the table were two ashtrays full of cigarette butts, and a kitchen plate piled with keys. The men looked up as Bond entered and one of them picked up a key from the plate and held it out. Bond walked over and took it.
‘Twelve,’ said the man. ‘Got ya ticket?’
Bond handed it over and the man made a gesture towards the cabins behind him. He jerked his head towards a door at the end of the room. ‘Baths through there.’ The two men went back to their game.
There was nothing in the frowzy cabin but a folded towel from which constant washing had removed all the nap. Bond undressed and tied the towel round his waist
. He folded the bulky packet of notes and stuffed them into the breast pocket of his coat under his handkerchief. He hoped it would be the last place that a petty thief would look in a quick search. He hung up his gun in the shoulder holster on a prominent hook and walked out and locked the door behind him.
Bond had no idea what he would see through the door at the end of the room. His first reaction was that he had walked into a morgue. Before he could collect his impressions, a fat bald negro with a down-turned straggling moustache came over and looked him up and down. ‘What’s wrong with you, Mister?’ he asked indifferently.
‘Nothing,’ said Bond shortly. ‘Just want to try a mud bath.’
‘Okay,’ said the negro. ‘Any heart trouble?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Over here.’ Bond followed the negro across the slippery concrete floor to a wooden bench alongside a pair of dilapidated shower cubicles in one of which a naked body hung with mud was being hosed down by a man with a cauliflower ear.
‘Be right with you,’ said the negro casually, his big feet slapping against the wet floor as he sauntered off about his business. Bond watched the huge rubbery man, and his skin cringed at the thought of putting his body into the dangling pudgy hands with their lined pink palms.
Bond had a natural affection for coloured people, but he reflected how lucky England was compared with America where you had to live with the colour problem from your schooldays up. He smiled as he remembered something Felix Leiter had said to him on their last assignment together in America. Bond had referred to Mr Big, the famous Harlem criminal, as ‘that damned nigger’. Leiter had picked him up. ‘Careful now, James,’ he had said. ‘People are so damn sensitive about colour around here that you can’t even ask a barman for a jigger of rum. You have to ask for a jegro.’
