by Ian Fleming
He stood away and held her at arm’s length. For a moment they looked at each other, their eyes bright with desire. She was breathing fast, her lips parted so that he could see the glint of teeth. He said unsteadily, ‘Honey, get into that bath before I spank you.’
She smiled. Without saying anything she stepped down into the bath and lay at full length. She looked up. The fair hair on her body glittered up through the water like golden sovereigns. She said provocatively, ‘You’ve got to wash me. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to show me.’
Bond said desperately, ‘Shut up, Honey. And stop flirting. Just take the soap and the sponge and start scrubbing. Damn you! This isn’t the time for making love. I’m going to have breakfast.’ He reached for the door handle and opened the door. She said softly, ‘James!’ He looked back. She was sticking her tongue out at him. He grinned savagely back at her and slammed the door.
Bond went into the dressing-room and stood in the middle of the floor and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head to get rid of the thought of her.
To clear his mind he went carefully over both rooms looking for exits, possible weapons, microphones – anything that would add to his knowledge. There were none of these things. There was an electric clock on the wall which said eight-thirty and a row of bells beside the double bed. They said, Room Service, Coiffeur, Manicurist, Maid. There was no telephone. High up in a corner of both rooms was a small ventilator grille. Each was about two feet square. Useless. The doors appeared to be of some light metal, painted to match the walls. Bond threw the whole weight of his body against one of them. It didn’t give a millimetre. Bond rubbed his shoulder. The place was a prison – an exquisite prison. It was no good arguing. The trap had shut tight on them. Now the only thing for the mice to do was to make the most of the cheese.
Bond sat down at the breakfast table. There was a large tumbler of pineapple juice in a silver-plated bowl of crushed ice. He swallowed it down and lifted the cover off his individual hot-plate. Scrambled eggs on toast, four rashers of bacon, a grilled kidney and what looked like an English pork sausage. There were also two kinds of hot toast, rolls inside a napkin, marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. The coffee was boiling hot in a large Thermos decanter. The cream smelled fresh.
From the bathroom came the sound of the girl crooning ‘Marion’. Bond closed his ears to the sound and started on the eggs.
Ten minutes later, Bond heard the bathroom door open. He put down his toast and marmalade and covered his eyes with his hands. She laughed. She said, ‘He’s a coward. He’s frightened of a simple girl.’ Bond heard her rummaging in the cupboards. She went on talking, half to herself. ‘I wonder why he’s frightened. Of course if I wrestled with him I’d win easily. Perhaps he’s frightened of that. Perhaps he’s really not very strong. His arms and his chest look strong enough. I haven’t seen the rest yet. Perhaps it’s weak. Yes, that must be it. That’s why he doesn’t dare take his clothes off in front of me. H’m, now let’s see, would he like me in this?’ She raised her voice. ‘Darling James, would you like me in white with pale blue birds flying all over me?’
‘Yes, damn you,’ said Bond through his hands. ‘Now stop chattering to yourself and come and have breakfast. I’m getting sleepy.’
She gave a cry. ‘Oh, if you mean it’s time for us to go to bed, of course I’ll hurry.’
There was a flurry of feet and Bond heard her sit down opposite. He took his hands down. She was smiling at him. She looked ravishing. Her hair was dressed and combed and brushed to kill, with one side falling down the side of the cheek and the other slicked back behind her ear. Her skin sparkled with freshness and the big blue eyes were alight with happiness. Now Bond loved the broken nose. It had become part of his thoughts of her and it suddenly occurred to him that he would be sad when she was just an immaculately beautiful girl like other beautiful girls. But he knew it would be no good trying to persuade her of that. She sat demurely, with her hands in her lap below the end of a cleavage which showed half her breasts and a deep vee of her stomach.
Bond said severely, ‘Now, listen, Honey. You look wonderful, but that isn’t the way to wear a kimono. Pull it up right across your body and tie it tight and stop trying to look like a call girl. It just isn’t good manners at breakfast.’
‘Oh, you are a stuffy old beast.’ She pulled her kimono an inch or two closer. ‘Why don’t you like playing? I want to play at being married.’
‘Not at breakfast time,’ said Bond firmly. ‘Come on and eat up. It’s delicious. And anyway, I’m filthy. I’m going to shave and have a bath.’ He got up and walked round the table and kissed the top of her head. ‘And as for playing, as you call it, I’d rather play with you than anyone in the world. But not now.’ Without waiting for her answer he walked into the bathroom and shut the door.
Bond shaved and had a bath and a shower. He felt desperately sleepy. Sleep came to him in waves so that from time to time he had to stop what he was doing and bend his head down between his knees. When he came to brush his teeth he could hardly do it. Now he recognized the signs. He had been drugged. In the coffee or in the pineapple juice? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. All he wanted to do was lie down on the tiled floor and shut his eyes. Bond weaved drunkenly to the door. He forgot that he was naked. That didn’t matter either. Anyway the girl had finished her breakfast. She was in bed. He staggered over to her, holding on to the furniture. The kimono was lying in a pile on the floor. She was fast asleep, naked under a single sheet.
Bond gazed dreamily at the empty pillow beside her head. No! He found the switches and turned out the lights. Now he had to crawl across the floor and into his room. He got to his bed and pulled himself on to it. He reached out an arm of lead and jabbed at the switch on the bed-light. He missed it. The lamp crashed to the floor and the bulb burst. With a last effort Bond turned on his side and let the waves sweep over his head.
The luminous figures on the electric clock in the double room said nine-thirty.
At ten o’clock the door of the double room opened softly. A very tall thin figure was silhouetted against the lighted corridor. It was a man. He must have been six feet six tall. He stood on the threshold with his arms folded, listening. Satisfied, he moved slowly into the room and up to the bed. He knew the way exactly. He bent down and listened to the quiet breathing of the girl. After a moment he reached up to his chest and pressed a switch. A flashlight with a very broad diffused beam came on. The flashlight was attached to him by a belt that held it above the breast bone. He bent forward so that the soft light shone on the girl’s face.
The intruder examined the girl’s face for several minutes. One of his hands came up and took the sheet at her chin and softly drew the sheet down to the end of the bed. The hand that drew down the sheet was not a hand. It was a pair of articulated steel pincers at the end of a metal stalk that disappeared into a black silk sleeve. It was a mechanical hand.
The man gazed for a long time at the naked body, moving his chest to and fro so that every corner of the body came under the light. Then the claw came out again and delicately lifted a corner of the sheet from the bottom of the bed and drew it back over the girl. The man stood for another moment gazing down at the sleeping face, then he switched off the torch on his chest and moved quietly away across the room to the open door through which Bond was sleeping.
The man spent longer beside Bond’s bed. He scrutinized every line, every shadow on the dark, rather cruel face that lay drowned, almost extinct, on the pillow. He watched the pulse in the neck and counted it and, when he had pulled down the sheet, he did the same with the area round the heart. He gauged the curve of the muscles on Bond’s arms and thighs and looked thoughtfully at the hidden strength in the flat stomach. He even bent down close over the outflung open right hand and examined its life and fate lines.
Finally, with infinite care, the steel claw drew the sheet back up to Bond’s neck. For another min
ute the tall figure stood over the sleeping man, then it swished softly away and out into the corridor and the door closed with a click.
14 ....... COME INTO MY PARLOUR
THE ELECTRIC clock in the cool dark room in the heart of the mountain showed four-thirty.
Outside the mountain, Crab Key had sweltered and stunk its way through another day. At the eastern end of the island, the mass of birds, Louisiana herons, pelicans, avocets, sandpipers, egrets, flamingoes and the few roseate spoonbills, went on with building their nests or fished in the shallow waters of the lake. Most of the birds had been disturbed so often that year that they had given up any idea of building. In the past few months they had been raided at regular intervals by the monster that came at night and burned down their roosting places and the beginnings of their nests. This year many would not breed. There would be vague movements to migrate and many would die of the nervous hysteria that seizes bird colonies when they no longer have peace and privacy.
At the other end of the island, on the guanera that gave the mountain its snow-covered look, the vast swarm of cormorants had passed their usual day of gorging themselves with fish and paying back the ounce of precious manure to their owner and protector. Nothing had interfered with their nesting season. Now they were noisily fiddling with the untidy piles of sticks that would be their nests – each pile at exactly sixty centimetres from the next, for the guanay is a quarrelsome bird and this sixty-centimetre ring represents their sparring space. Soon the females would be laying the three eggs from which their master’s flock would be increased by an average of two young cormorants.
Below the peak, where the diggings began, the hundred or so negro men and women who were the labour force were coming to the end of the day’s shift. Another fifty cubic yards of guano had been dug out of the mountainside and another twenty yards of terrace had been added to the working level. Below, the mountainside looked like terraced vineyards in Upper Italy, except that here there were no vines, only deep barren shelves cut in the mountainside. And here, instead of the stink of marsh gas on the rest of the island, there was a strong ammoniac smell, and the ugly hot wind that kept the diggings dry blew the freshly turned whitish-brown dust into the eyes and ears and noses of the diggers. But the workers were used to the smell and the dust, and it was easy, healthy work. They had no complaints.
The last iron truck of the day started off on the Decauderville Track that snaked down the mountainside to the crusher and separator. A whistle blew and the workers shouldered their clumsy picks and moved lazily down towards the high-wired group of Quonset huts that was their compound. Tomorrow, on the other side of the mountain, the monthly ship would be coming in to the deep-water quay they had helped to build ten years before, but which, since then, they had never seen. That would mean fresh stores and fresh goods and cheap jewellery at the canteen. It would be a holiday. There would be rum and dancing and a few fights. Life was good.
Life was good, too, for the senior outside staff – all Chinese negroes like the men who had hunted Bond and Quarrel and the girl. They also stopped work in the garage and the machine shops and at the guard posts and filtered off to the ‘officers’ ’ quarters. Apart from watch and loading duties, tomorrow would also be a holiday for most of them. They too would have their drinking and dancing, and there would be a new monthly batch of girls from ‘inside’. Some ‘marriages’ from the last lot would continue for further months or weeks according to the taste of the ‘husband’, but for the others there would be a fresh choice. There would be some of the older girls who had had their babies in the creche and were coming back for a fresh spell of duty ‘outside’, and there would be a sprinkling of young ones who had come of age and would be ‘coming out’ for the first time. There would be fights over these and blood would be shed, but in the end the officers’ quarters would settle down for another month of communal life, each officer with his woman to look after his needs.
Deep down in the cool heart of the mountain, far below this well-disciplined surface life, Bond awoke in his comfortable bed. Apart from a slight nembutal headache he felt fit and rested. Lights were on in the girl’s room and he could hear her moving about. He swung his feet to the ground and, avoiding the fragments of glass from the broken lamp, walked softly over to the clothes cupboard and put on the first kimono that came to his hand. He went to the door. The girl had a pile of kimonos out on the bed and was trying them on in front of the wall mirror. She had on a very smart one in sky-blue silk. It looked wonderful against the gold of her skin. Bond said, ‘That’s the one.’
She whirled round, her hand at her mouth. She took it down. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ She smiled at him. ‘I thought you’d never wake up. I’ve been to look at you several times. I’d made up my mind to wake you at five. It’s half-past four and I’m hungry. Can you get us something to eat?’
‘Why not.’ Bond walked across to her bed. As he passed her he put his arm round her waist and took her with him. He examined the bells. He pressed the one marked ‘Room Service’. He said, ‘What about the others? Let’s have the full treatment.’
She giggled. ‘But what’s a manicurist?’
‘Someone who does your nails. We must look our best for Doctor No.’ At the back of Bond’s mind was the urgent necessity to get his hands on some kind of weapon – a pair of scissors would be better than nothing. Anything would do.
He pressed two more bells. He let her go and looked round the room. Someone had come while they were asleep and taken away the breakfast things. There was a drink tray on a sideboard against the wall. Bond went over and examined it. It had everything. Propped among the bottles were two menus, huge double-folio pages covered with print. They might have been from the Savoy Grill, or the ‘21’, or the Tour d’Argent. Bond ran his eye down one of them. It began with Caviar double de Beluga and ended with Sorbet à la Champagne. In between was every dish whose constituents would not be ruined by a deep freeze. Bond tossed it down. One certainly couldn’t grumble about the quality of the cheese in the trap!
There was a knock on the door and the exquisite May came in. She was followed by two other twittering Chinese girls. Bond brushed aside their amiabilities, ordered tea and buttered toast for Honeychile and told them to look after her hair and nails. Then he went into the bathroom and had a couple of Aspirins and a cold shower. He put on his kimono again, reflected that he looked idiotic in it, and went back into the room. A beaming May asked if he would be good enough to select what he and Mrs Bryce could care to have for dinner. Without enthusiasm, Bond ordered caviar, grilled lamb cutlets and salad, and angels on horseback for himself. When Honeychile refused to make any suggestions, he chose melon, roast chicken à l’Anglaise and vanilla icecream with hot chocolate sauce for her.
May dimpled her enthusiasm and approval. ‘The Doctor asks if seven forty-five for eight would be convenient.’
Bond said curtly that it would.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Bryce. I will call for you at seven forty-four.’
Bond walked over to where Honeychile was being ministered to at the dressing table. He watched the busy delicate fingers at work on her hair and her nails. She smiled at him excitedly in the mirror. He said gruffly, ‘Don’t let them make too much of a monkey out of you,’ and went to the drink tray. He poured himself out a stiff Bourbon and soda and took it into his own room. So much for his idea of getting hold of a weapon. The scissors and files and probes were attached to the manicurist’s waist by a chain. So were the scissors of the hairdresser. Bond sat down on his rumpled bed and lost himself in drink and gloomy reflections.
The women went. The girl looked in at him. When he didn’t lift his head she went back into her room and left him alone. In due course Bond came into her room to get himself another drink. He said perfunctorily, ‘Honey, you look wonderful.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall and went back and drank his drink and put on another of the idiotic kimonos, a plain black one.
In due course there came the soft kn
ock on the door and the two of them went silently out of the room and along the empty, gracious corridor. May stopped at the lift. Its doors were held open by another eager Chinese girl. They walked in and the doors shut. Bond noticed that the lift was made by Waygood Otis. Everything in the prison was de luxe. He gave an inward shudder of distaste. He noticed the reaction. He turned to the girl. ‘I’m sorry, Honey. Got a bit of a headache.’ He didn’t want to tell her that all this luxury play-acting was getting him down, that he hadn’t the smallest idea what it was all about, that he knew it was bad news, and that he hadn’t an inkling of a plan of how to get them out of whatever situation they were in. That was the worst of it. There was nothing that depressed Bond’s spirit so much as the knowledge that he hadn’t one line of either attack or defence.
The girl moved closer to him. She said, ‘I’m sorry, James. I hope it will go away. You’re not angry with me about anything?’
Bond dredged up a smile. He said, ‘No, darling. I’m only angry with myself.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Now, about this evening. Just leave the talking to me. Be natural and don’t be worried by Doctor No. He may be a bit mad.’
She nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll do my best.’
The lift sighed to a stop. Bond had no idea how far down they had gone – a hundred feet, two hundred? The automatic doors hissed back and Bond and the girl stepped out into a large room.
It was empty. It was a high-ceilinged room about sixty feet long, lined on three sides with books to the ceiling. At first glance, the fourth wall seemed to be made of solid blue-black glass. The room appeared to be a combined study and library. There was a big paper-strewn desk in one corner and a central table with periodicals and newspapers. Comfortable club chairs, upholstered in red leather, were dotted about. The carpet was dark green, and the lighting, from standard lamps, was subdued. The only odd feature was that the drink tray and sideboard were up against the middle of the long glass wall, and chairs and occasional tables with ashtrays were arranged in a semi-circle round it so that the room was centred in front of the empty wall.
