The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  “No. We like her,” said Bond amiably, “but she wants to take a studio portrait of me and I don’t know if she’s worth the money. Would you call up the Gleaner and ask if they’ve got a photographer called Annabel Chung? If she really is one of their people she ought to be good enough.”

  “Sure, boss.” The man hurried away.

  Bond smiled at the girl. “Why didn’t you ask that man to rescue you?”

  The girl glowered at him.

  “I’m sorry to have to exert pressure,” said Bond, “but my export manager in London said that Kingston was full of shady characters. I’m sure you’re not one of them, but I really can’t understand why you’re so anxious to get my picture. Tell me why.”

  “What I told you,” said the girl sulkily. “It’s my job.”

  Bond tried other questions. She didn’t answer them.

  The Pus-Feller came up. “That’s right, boss. Annabel Chung. One of their freelance girls. They say she takes fine pictures. You’ll be okay with her.” He looked bland. Studio portrait! Studio bed, more like.

  “Thanks,” said Bond. The Negro went away. Bond turned back to the girl. “Freelance,” he said softly. “That still doesn’t explain who wanted my picture.” His face went cold. “Now give!”

  “No,” said the girl sullenly.

  “All right, Quarrel. Go ahead.” Bond sat back. His instincts told him that this was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If he could get the answer out of the girl he might be saved weeks of legwork.

  Quarrel’s right shoulder started to dip downwards. The girl squirmed towards him to ease the pressure, but he held her body away with his free hand. The girl’s face strained towards Quarrel’s. Suddenly she spat full in his eyes. Quarrel grinned and increased the twist. The girl’s feet kicked wildly under the table. She hissed out words in Chinese. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

  “Tell,” said Bond softly. “Tell and it will stop and we’ll be friends and have a drink.” He was getting worried. The girl’s arm must be on the verge of breaking.

  “—— you.” Suddenly the girl’s left hand flew up and into Quarrel’s face. Bond was too slow to stop her. Something glinted and there was a sharp explosion. Bond snatched at her arm and dragged it back. Blood was streaming down Quarrel’s cheek. Glass and metal tinkled on to the table. She had smashed the flashbulb on Quarrel’s face. If she had been able to reach an eye it would have been blinded.

  Quarrel’s free hand went up and felt his cheek. He put it in front of his eyes and looked at the blood. “Aha!” There was nothing but admiration and a feline pleasure in his voice. He said equably to Bond, “We get nuthin out of dis gal, cap’n. She plenty tough. You want fe me to break she’s arm?”

  “Good God, no.” Bond let go the arm he was holding. “Let her go.” He felt angry with himself for having hurt the girl and still failed. But he had learned something. Whoever was behind her held his people by a steel chain.

  Quarrel brought the girl’s right arm from behind her back. He still held on to the wrist. Now he opened the girl’s hand. He looked into her eyes. His own were cruel. “You mark me, Missy. Now I mark you.” He brought up his other hand and took the Mount of Venus, the soft lozenge of flesh in the palm below her thumb, between his thumb and forefinger. He began to squeeze it. Bond could see his knuckles go white with the pressure. The girl gave a yelp. She hammered at Quarrel’s hand and then at his face. Quarrel grinned and squeezed harder. Suddenly he let go. The girl shot to her feet and backed away from the table, her bruised hand at her mouth. She took her hand down and hissed furiously. “He’ll get you, you bastards!” Then, her Leica dangling, she ran off through the trees.

  Quarrel laughed shortly. He took a napkin and wiped it down his cheek and threw it on the ground and took up another. He said to Bond, “She’s Love Moun’ be sore long after ma face done get healed. Dat a fine piece of a woman, de Love Moun.’ When him fat like wit’ dat girl you kin tell her’ll be good in bed. You know dat, cap’n?”

  “No,” said Bond. “That’s new to me.”

  “Sho ting. Dat piece of da han’ most hindicative. Don’ you worry ’bout she,” he added, noticing the dubious expression on Bond’s face. “Hers got nuttin but a big bruise on she’s Love Moun.’ But boy, was dat a fat Love Moun’! I come back after dat girl sometime, see if ma teory is da troof.”

  Appropriately the band started playing ‘Don’ touch me tomato.’ Bond said “Quarrel, it’s time you married and settled down. And you leave that girl alone or you’ll get a knife between your ribs. Now come on. We’ll get the check and go. It’s three o’clock in the morning in London where I was yesterday. I need a night’s sleep. You’ve got to start getting me into training. I think I’m going to need it. And it’s about time you put some plaster on that cheek of yours. She’s written her name and address on it.”

  Quarrel grunted reminiscently. He said with quiet pleasure, “Dat were some tough baby.” He picked up a fork and clanged it against his glass.

  Chapter 5

  Facts and Figures

  ‘He’ll get you.... He’ll get you.... He’ll get you, you bastards.’

  The words were still ringing in Bond’s brain the next day as he sat on his balcony and ate a delicious breakfast and gazed out across the riot of tropical gardens to Kingston, five miles below him.

  Now he was sure that Strangways and the girl had been killed. Someone had needed to stop them looking any further into his business, so he had killed them and destroyed the records of what they were investigating. The same person knew or suspected that the Secret Service would follow up Strangways’s disappearance. Somehow he had known that Bond had been given the job. He had wanted a picture of Bond and he had wanted to know where Bond was staying. He would be keeping an eye on Bond to see if Bond picked up any of the leads that had led to Strangways’s death. If Bond did so, Bond would also have to be eliminated. There would be a car smash or a street fight or some other innocent death. And how, Bond wondered, would this person react to their treatment of the Chung girl? If he was as ruthless as Bond supposed, that would be enough. It showed that Bond was on to something. Perhaps Strangways had made a preliminary report to London before he was killed. Perhaps someone had leaked. The enemy would be foolish to take chances. If he had any sense, after the Chung incident, he would deal with Bond and perhaps also with Quarrel without delay.

  Bond lit his first cigarette of the day—the first Royal Blend he had smoked for five years—and let the smoke come out between his teeth in a luxurious hiss. That was his ‘Enemy Appreciation.’ Now, who was this enemy?

  Well, there was only one candidate, and a pretty insubstantial one at that, Doctor No, Doctor Julius No, the German Chinese who owned Crab Key and made his money out of guano. There had been nothing on this man in Records and a signal to the FBI had been negative. The affair of the roseate spoonbills and the trouble with the Audubon Society meant precisely nothing except, as M had said, that a lot of old women had got excited about some pink storks. All the same, four people had died because of these storks and, most significant of all to Bond, Quarrel was scared of Doctor No and his island. That was very odd indeed. Cayman Islanders, least of all Quarrel, did not scare easily. And why had Doctor No got this mania for privacy? Why did he go to such expense and trouble to keep people away from his guano island? Guano—bird dung. Who wanted the stuff? How valuable was it? Bond was due to call on the Governor at ten o’clock. After he had made his number he would get hold of the Colonial Secretary and try and find out all about the damned stuff and about Crab Key and, if possible, about Doctor No.

  There was a double knock on the door. Bond got up and unlocked it. It was Quarrel, his left cheek decorated with a piratical cross of sticking-plaster. “Mornin,’ cap’n. Yo said eight-tirty.”

  “Yes, come on in, Quarrel. We’ve got a busy day. Had some breakfast?”

  “Yes, tank you, cap’n. Salt fish an’ ackee an’ a tot of rum.”

  “Good God,” said
Bond. “That’s tough stuff to start the day on.”

  “Mos’ refreshin,’” said Quarrel stolidly.

  They sat down outside on the balcony. Bond offered Quarrel a cigarette and lit one himself. “Now then,” he said. “I’ll be spending most of the day at King’s House and perhaps at the Jamaica Institute. I shan’t need you till tomorrow morning, but there are some things for you to do downtown. All right?”

  “Okay, cap’n. Jes’ yo say.”

  “First of all, that car of ours is hot. We’ve got to get rid of it. Go down to Motta’s or one of the other hire people and pick up the newest and best little self-drive car you can find, the one with the least mileage. Saloon. Take it for a month. Right? Then hunt around the waterfront and find two men who look as near as possible like us. One must be able to drive a car. Buy them both clothes, at least for their top halves, that look like ours. And the sort of hats we might wear. Say we want a car taken over to Montego tomorrow morning—by the Spanish Town, Ocho Rios road. To be left at Levy’s garage there. Ring up Levy and tell him to expect it and keep it for us. Right?”

  Quarrel grinned. “Yo want fox someone?”

  “That’s right. They’ll get ten pounds each. Say I’m a rich American and I want my car to arrive in Montego Bay driven by a respectable couple of men. Make me out a bit mad. They must be here at six o’clock tomorrow morning. You’ll be here with the other car. See they look the part and send them off in the Sunbeam with the roof down. Right?”

  “Okay, cap’n.”

  “What’s happened to that house we had on the North Shore last time—Beau Desert at Morgan’s Harbour? Do you know if it’s let?”

  “Couldn’t say, cap’n. Hit’s well away from de tourist places and dey askin’ a big rent for it.”

  “Well, go to Graham Associates and see if you can rent it for a month, or another bungalow near by. I don’t mind what you pay. Say it’s for a rich American, Mr James. Get the keys and pay the rent and say I’ll write and confirm. I can telephone them if they want more details.” Bond reached into his hip pocket and brought out a thick wad of notes. He handed half of it to Quarrel. “Here’s two hundred pounds. That should cover all this. Get in touch if you want some more. You know where I’ll be.”

  “Tanks, cap’n,” said Quarrel, awestruck by the big sum. He stowed it away inside his blue shirt and buttoned the shirt up to his neck. “Anyting helse?”

  “No, but take a lot of trouble about not being followed. Leave the car somewhere downtown and walk to these places. And watch out particularly for any Chinese near you.” Bond got up and they went to the door. “See you tomorrow morning at six-fifteen and we’ll get over to the North Coast. As far as I can see that’s going to be our base for a while.”

  Quarrel nodded. His face was enigmatic. He said “Okay, cap’n” and went off down the corridor.

  Half an hour later Bond went downstairs and took a taxi to King’s House. He didn’t sign the Governor’s book in the cool hall. He was put in a waiting room for the quarter of an hour necessary to show him that he was unimportant. Then the ADC came for him and took him up to the Governor’s study on the first floor.

  It was a large cool room smelling of cigar smoke. The Acting Governor, in a cream tussore suit and an inappropriate wing collar and spotted bow tie, was sitting at a broad mahogany desk on which there was nothing but the Daily Gleaner, the Times Weekly and a bowl of hibiscus blossoms. His hands lay flat on the desk in front of him. He was sixtyish with a red, rather petulant face and bright, bitter blue eyes. He didn’t smile or get up. He said, “Good morning, Mr—er—Bond. Please sit down.”

  Bond took the chair across the desk from the Governor and sat down. He said, “Good morning, sir,” and waited. A friend at the Colonial Office had told him his reception would be frigid. ‘He’s nearly at retiring age. Only an interim appointment. We had to find an Acting Governor to take over at short notice when Sir Hugh Foot was promoted. Foot was a great success. This man’s not even trying to compete. He knows he’s only got the job for a few months while we find someone to replace Foot. This man’s been passed over for the Governor Generalship of Rhodesia. Now all he wants is to retire and get some directorships in the City. Last thing he wants is any trouble in Jamaica. He keeps on trying to close this Strangways case of yours. Won’t like you ferreting about.’

  The Governor cleared his throat. He recognized that Bond wasn’t one of the servile ones. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Just to make my number, sir,” said Bond equably. “I’m here on the Strangways case. I think you had a signal from the Secretary of State.” This was a reminder that the people behind Bond were powerful people. Bond didn’t like attempts to squash him or his Service.

  “I recall the signal. And what can I do for you? So far as we’re concerned here the case is closed.”

  “In what way ‘closed,’ sir?”

  The Governor said roughly, “Strangways obviously did a bunk with the girl. Unbalanced sort of fellow at the best of times. Some of your—er—colleagues don’t seem to be able to leave women alone.” The Governor clearly included Bond. “Had to bail the chap out of various scandals before now. Doesn’t do the Colony any good, Mr—er—Bond. Hope your people will be sending us a rather better type of man to take his place. That is,” he added coldly, “if a Regional Control man is really needed here. Personally I have every confidence in our police.”

  Bond smiled sympathetically. “I’ll report your views, sir. I expect my Chief will like to discuss them with the Minister of Defence and the Secretary of State. Naturally, if you would like to take over these extra duties it will be a saving in manpower so far as my Service is concerned. I’m sure the Jamaican Constabulary is most efficient.”

  The Governor looked at Bond suspiciously. Perhaps he had better handle this man a bit more carefully. “This is an informal discussion, Mr Bond. When I have decided on my views I will communicate them myself to the Secretary of State. In the meantime, is there anyone you wish to see on my staff?”

  “I’d like to have a word with the Colonial Secretary, sir.”

  “Really? And why, pray?”

  “There’s been some trouble on Crab Key. Something about a bird sanctuary. The case was passed to us by the Colonial Office. My Chief asked me to look into it while I’m here.”

  The Governor looked relieved. “Certainly, certainly. I’ll see that Mr Pleydell-Smith receives you straight away. So you feel we can leave the Strangways case to sort itself out? They’ll turn up before long, never fear.” He reached over and rang a bell. The ADC came in. “This gentleman would like to see the Colonial Secretary, ADC. Take him along, would you? I’ll call Mr Pleydell-Smith myself and ask him to make himself available.” He got up and came round the desk. He held out his hand. “Goodbye, then Mr Bond. And I’m so glad we see eye to eye. Crab Key, eh? Never been there myself, but I’m sure it would repay a visit.”

  Bond shook hands. “That was what I was thinking. Goodbye, sir.”

  “Goodbye, goodbye.” The Governor watched Bond’s back retreating out of the door and himself returned well satisfied to his desk. “Young whippersnapper,” he said to the empty room. He sat down and said a few peremptory words down the telephone to the Colonial Secretary. Then he picked up the Times Weekly and turned to the Stock Exchange prices.

  The Colonial Secretary was a youngish shaggy-haired man with bright, boyish eyes. He was one of those nervous pipe smokers who are constantly patting their pockets for matches, shaking the box to see how many are left in it, or knocking the dottle out of their pipes. After he had gone through this routine two or three times in his first ten minutes with Bond, Bond wondered if he ever got any smoke into his lungs at all.

  After pumping energetically at Bond’s hand and waving vaguely at a chair, Pleydell-Smith walked up and down the room scratching his temple with the stem of his pipe. “Bond. Bond. Bond! Rings a bell. Now let me see. Yes, by jove! You were the chap who was mixed up in that treasure business h
ere. By jove, yes! Four, five years ago. Found the file lying around only the other day. Splendid show. What a lark! I say, wish you’d start another bonfire like that here. Stir the place up a bit. All they think of nowadays is Federation and their bloody self-importance. Self-determination indeed! They can’t even run a bus service. And the colour problem! My dear chap, there’s far more colour problem between the straight-haired and the crinkly-haired Jamaicans than there is between me and my black cook. However—” Pleydell-Smith came to rest beside his desk. He sat down opposite Bond and draped one leg over the arm of his chair. Reaching for a tobacco jar with the arms of King’s College, Cambridge, on it, he dug into it and started filling his pipe—“I mean to say I don’t want to bore you with all that. You go ahead and bore me. What’s your problem? Glad to help. I bet it’s more interesting than this muck,” he waved at the pile of papers in his In tray.

  Bond grinned at him. This was more like it. He had found an ally, and an intelligent one at that. “Well,” he said seriously, “I’m here on the Strangways case. But first of all I want to ask you a question that may sound odd. Exactly how did you come to be looking at that other case of mine? You say you found the file lying about. How was that? Had someone asked for it? I don’t want to be indiscreet, so don’t answer if you don’t want to. I’m just inquisitive.”

  Pleydell-Smith cocked an eye at him. “I suppose that’s your job.” He reflected, gazing at the ceiling. “Well, now I come to think of it I saw it on my secretary’s desk. She’s a new girl. Said she was trying to get up to date with the files. Mark you,” the Colonial Secretary hastened to exonerate his girl, “there were plenty of other files on her desk. It was just this one that caught my eye.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Bond. “It was like that.” He smiled apologetically. “Sorry, but various people seem to be rather interested in me being here. What I really wanted to talk to you about was Crab Key. Anything you know about the place. And about this Chinaman, Doctor No, who bought it. And anything you can tell me about his guano business. Rather a tall order, I’m afraid, but any scraps will help.”