by Ian Fleming
* * * *
Outside the sun blazed down on the gravel sweep. The interior of the Hillman Minx was a Turkish bath. Bond’s bruised hands cringed as they took the wheel.
Pleydell-Smith leant through the window. He said, “Ever heard the Jamaican expression ‘rarse’?”
“No.”
“‘Rarse, man’ is a vulgar expression meaning—er—’stuff it up.’ If I may say so, it would have been appropriate for you to have used the expression just now. However,” Pleydell-Smith gave a wave of his hand which apologized for his Chief and dismissed him, “is there anything else I can do for you? You really think you ought to go back to Beau Desert? They were quite definite at the hospital that they want to have you for a week.”
“Thanks,” said Bond shortly, “but I’ve got to get back. See the girl’s all right. Would you tell the hospital I’ll be back tomorrow? You got off that signal to my Chief?”
“Urgent rates.”
“Well, then,” Bond pressed the self-starter, “I guess that’s the lot. You’ll see the Jamaica Institute people about the girl, won’t you? She really knows the hell of a lot about the natural history side of the island. Not from books either. If they’ve got the right sort of job... Like to see her settled. I’ll take her up to New York myself and see her through the operation. She’d be ready to start in a couple of weeks after that. Incidentally,” Bond looked embarrassed, “she’s really the hell of a fine girl. When she comes back...if you and your wife... You know. Just so there’s someone to keep an eye on her.”
Pleydell-Smith smiled. He thought he had the picture. He said, “Don’t worry about that. I’ll see to it. Betty’s rather a hand at that sort of thing. She’ll like taking the girl under her wing. Nothing else? See you later in the week, anyway. That hospital’s the hell of a place in this heat. You might care to spend a night or two with us before you go ho—I mean to New York. Glad to have you—er—both.”
“Thanks. And thanks for everything else.” Bond put the car into gear and went off down the avenue of flaming tropical shrubbery. He went fast, scattering the gravel on the bends. He wanted to get the hell away from King’s House, and the tennis, and the kings and queens. He even wanted to get the hell away from the kindly Pleydell-Smith. Bond liked the man, but all he wanted now was to get back across the Junction Road to Beau Desert and away from the smooth world. He swung out past the sentry at the gates and on to the main road. He put his foot down.
The night voyage under the stars had been without incident. No one had come after them. The girl had done most of the sailing. Bond had not argued with her. He had lain in the bottom of the boat, totally collapsed, like a dead man. He had woken once or twice and listened to the slap of the sea against the hull and watched her quiet profile under the stars. Then the cradle of the soft swell had sent him back to sleep and to the nightmares that reached out after him from Crab Key. He didn’t mind them. He didn’t think he would ever mind a nightmare now. After what had happened the night before, it would have to be strong stuff that would ever frighten him again.
The crunch of a nigger-head against the hull had woken him. They were coming through the reef into Morgan’s Harbour. The first quarter moon was up, and inside the reef the sea was a silver mirror. The girl had brought the canoe through under sail. They slid across the bay to the little fringe of sand and the bows under Bond’s head sighed softly into it. She had had to help him out of the boat and across the velvet lawn and into the house. He had clung to her and cursed her softly as she had cut his clothes off him and taken him into the shower. She had said nothing when she had seen his battered body under the lights. She had turned the water full on and taken soap and washed him down as if he had been a horse. Then she led him out from under the water and dabbed him softly dry with towels that were soon streaked with blood. He had seen her reach for the bottle of Milton. He had groaned and taken hold of the washbasin and waited for it. Before she had begun to put it on him, she had come round and kissed him on the lips. She had said softly, “Hold tight, my darling. And cry. It’s going to hurt,” and as she splashed the murderous stuff over his body the tears of pain had run out of his eyes and down his cheeks without shame.
Then there had been a wonderful breakfast as the dawn flared up across the bay, and then the ghastly drive over to Kingston to the white table of the surgery in the emergency ward. Pleydell-Smith had been summoned. No questions had been asked. Merthiolate had been put on the wounds and tannic ointment on the burns. The efficient Negro doctor had written busily in the duty report. What? Probably just ‘Multiple burns and contusions.’ Then, with promises to come into the private ward on the next day, Bond had gone off with Pleydell-Smith to King’s House and to the first of the meetings that had ended with the full-dress conference. Bond had enciphered a short signal to M via the Colonial Office which he had coolly concluded with: ’regret must again request sick leave stop surgeons report follows stop kindly inform armourer smith and wesson ineffective against flame-thrower endit.’
Now, as Bond swung the little car down the endless S-bends towards the North Shore, he regretted the gibe. M wouldn’t like it. It was cheap. It wasted cipher groups. Oh well! Bond swerved to avoid a thundering red bus with ‘Brownskin Gal’ on the destination plate. He had just wanted M to know that it hadn’t quite been a holiday in the sun. He would apologize when he sent in his written report.
Bond’s bedroom was cool and dark. There was a plate of sandwiches and a Thermos full of coffee beside the turned-down bed. On the pillow was a sheet of paper with big childish writing. It said, “You are staying with me tonight. I can’t leave my animals. They were fussing. And I can’t leave you. And you owe me slave-time. I will come at seven. Your H.”
In the dusk she came across the lawn to where Bond was sitting finishing his third glass of Bourbon-on-the-rocks. She was wearing a black and white striped cotton skirt and a tight sugar-pink blouse. The golden hair smelled of cheap shampoo. She looked incredibly fresh and beautiful. She reached out her hand and Bond took it and followed her up the drive and along a narrow well-trodden path through the sugar cane. It wound along for quite a way through the tall whispering sweet-scented jungle. Then there was a patch of tidy lawn up against thick broken stone walls and steps that led down to a heavy door whose edges glinted with light.
She looked up at him from the door. “Don’t be frightened. The cane’s high and they’re most of them out.”
Bond didn’t know what he had expected. He had vaguely thought of a flat earthen floor and rather damp walls. There would be a few sticks of furniture, a broken bedstead covered with rags, and a strong zoo smell. He had been prepared to be careful about hurting her feelings.
Instead it was rather like being inside a very large tidy cigar-box. The floor and ceiling were of highly polished cedar that gave out a cigar-box smell and the walls were panelled with wide split bamboo. The light came from a dozen candles in a fine silver chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling. High up in the walls there were three square windows through which Bond could see the dark blue sky and the stars. There were several pieces of good nineteenth-century furniture. Under the chandelier a table was laid for two with expensive-looking old-fashioned silver and glass.
Bond said, “Honey, what a lovely room. From what you said I thought you lived in a sort of zoo.”
She laughed delightedly. “I got out the old silver and things. It’s all I’ve got. I had to spend the day polishing it. I’ve never had it out before. It does look rather nice, doesn’t it? You see, generally there are a lot of little cages up against the wall. I like having them with me. It’s company. But now that you’re here...” She paused. “My bedroom’s in there,” she gestured at the other door. “It’s very small, but there’s room for both of us. Now come on. I’m afraid it’s cold dinner—just lobsters and fruit.”
Bond walked over to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the lips. He held her and looked down into the shining blue eyes
. “Honey, you’re a wonderful girl. You’re one of the most wonderful girls I’ve ever known. I hope the world’s not going to change you too much. D’you really want to have that operation? I love your face—just as it is. It’s part of you. Part of all this.”
She frowned and freed herself. “You’re not to be serious tonight. Don’t talk about these things. I don’t want to talk about them. This is my night with you. Please talk about love. I don’t want to hear about anything else. Promise? Now come on. You sit there.”
Bond sat down. He smiled up at her. He said, “I promise.”
She said, “Here’s the mayonnaise. It’s not out of a bottle. I made it myself. And take some bread and butter.” She sat down opposite him and began to eat, watching him. When she saw that he seemed satisfied she said, “Now you can start telling me about love. Everything about it. Everything you know.”
Bond looked across into the flushed, golden face. The eyes were bright and soft in the candlelight, but with the same imperious glint they had held when he had first seen her on the beach and she had thought he had come to steal her shells. The full red lips were open with excitement and impatience. With him she had no inhibitions. They were two loving animals. It was natural. She had no shame. She could ask him anything and would expect him to answer. It was as if they were already in bed together, lovers. Through the tight cotton bodice the points of her breasts showed, hard and roused.
Bond said, “Are you a virgin?”
“Not quite. I told you. That man.”
“Well...” Bond found he couldn’t eat any more. His mouth was dry at the thought of her. He said, “Honey, I can either eat or talk love to you. I can’t do both.”
“You’re going over to Kingston tomorrow. You’ll get plenty to eat there. Talk love.”
Bond’s eyes were fierce blue slits. He got up and went down on one knee beside her. He picked up her hand and looked into it. At the base of the thumb the Mount of Venus swelled luxuriously. Bond bent his head down into the warm soft hand and bit softly into the swelling. He felt her other hand in his hair. He bit harder. The hand he was holding curled round his mouth. She was panting. He bit still harder. She gave a little scream and wrenched his head away by the hair.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes were wide and dark. She had gone pale. She dropped her eyes and looked at his mouth. Slowly she pulled his head towards her.
Bond put out a hand to her left breast and held it hard. He lifted her captive, wounded hand and put it round his neck. Their mouths met and clung, exploring.
Above them the candles began to dance. A big hawkmoth had come in through one of the windows. It whirred round the chandelier. The girl’s closed eyes opened, looked at the moth. Her mouth drew away. She smoothed the handful of his hair back and got up, and without saying anything took down the candles one by one and blew them out. The moth whirred away through one of the windows.
The girl stood away from the table. She undid her blouse and threw it on the floor. Then her skirt. Under the glint of moonlight she was a pale figure with a central shadow. She came to Bond and took him by the hand and lifted him up. She undid his shirt and slowly, carefully took it off. Her body, close to him, smelled of new-mown hay and sweet pepper. She led him away from the table and through a door. The filtering moonlight shone down on a single bed. On the bed was a sleeping-bag, its mouth laid open.
The girl let go his hand and climbed into the sleeping-bag. She looked up at him. She said, practically, “I bought this today. It’s a double one. It cost a lot of money. Take those off and come in. You promised. You owe me slave-time.”
“But...”
“Do as you’re told.”
GOLDFINGER
Originally published in 1959.
Dedication
TO MY GENTLE READER
WILLIAM PLOMER
PART 1
Happenstance
Chapter 1
Reflections in a Double Bourbon
James Bond, with two double bourbons inside him, sat in the final departure lounge of Miami Airport and thought about life and death.
It was part of his profession to kill people. He had never liked doing it and when he had to kill he did it as well as he knew how and forgot about it. As a secret agent who held the rare double-O prefix — the licence to kill in the Secret Service — it was his duty to be as cool about death as a surgeon. If it happened, it happened. Regret was unprofessional — worse, it was death-watch beetle in the soul.
And yet there had been something curiously impressive about the death of the Mexican. It wasn’t that he hadn’t deserved to die. He was an evil man, a man they call in Mexico a capungo. A capungo is a bandit who will kill for as little as forty pesos, which is about twenty-five shillings — though probably he had been paid more to attempt the killing of Bond — and, from the look of him, he had been an instrument of pain and misery all his life. Yes, it had certainly been time for him to die; but when Bond had killed him, less than twenty-four hours before, life had gone out of the body so quickly, so utterly, that Bond had almost seen it come out of his mouth as it does, in the shape of a bird, in Haitian primitives.
What an extraordinary difference there was between a body full of person and a body that was empty! Now there is someone, now there is no one. This had been a Mexican with a name and an address, an employment card and perhaps a driving licence. Then something had gone out of him, out of the envelope of flesh and cheap clothes, and had left him an empty paper bag waiting for the dustcart. And the difference, the thing that had gone out of the stinking Mexican bandit, was greater than all Mexico.
Bond looked down at the weapon that had done it. The cutting edge of his right hand was red and swollen. It would soon show a bruise. Bond flexed the hand, kneading it with his left. He had been doing the same thing at intervals through the quick plane trip that had got him away. It was a painful process, but if he kept the circulation moving the hand would heal more quickly. One couldn’t tell how soon the weapon would be needed again. Cynicism gathered at the corners of Bond’s mouth.
‘National Airlines, “Airline of the Stars,” announces the departure of their flight NA 106 to La Guardia Field, New York. Will all passengers please proceed to gate number seven. All aboard, please.’
The Tannoy switched off with an echoing click. Bond glanced at his watch. At least another ten minutes before Transamerica would be called. He signalled to a waitress and ordered another double bourbon on the rocks. When the wide, chunky glass came, he swirled the liquor round for the ice to blunt it down and swallowed half of it. He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and sat, his chin resting on his left hand, and gazed moodily across the twinkling tarmac to where the last half of the sun was slipping gloriously into the Gulf.
The death of the Mexican had been the finishing touch to a bad assignment, one of the worst — squalid, dangerous and without any redeeming feature except that it had got him away from headquarters.
A big man in Mexico had some poppy fields. The flowers were not for decoration. They were broken down for opium which was sold quickly and comparatively cheaply by the waiters at a small café in Mexico City called the ‘Madre de Cacao.’ The Madre de Cacao had plenty of protection. If you needed opium you walked in and ordered what you wanted with your drink. You paid for your drink at the caisse and the man at the caisse told you how many noughts to add to your bill. It was an orderly commerce of no concern to anyone outside Mexico. Then, far away in England, the Government, urged on by the United Nations’ drive against drug smuggling, announced that heroin would be banned in Britain. There was alarm in Soho and also among respectable doctors who wanted to save their patients agony. Prohibition is the trigger of crime. Very soon the routine smuggling channels from China, Turkey and Italy were run almost dry by the illicit stock-piling in England. In Mexico City, a pleasant-spoken Import and Export merchant called Blackwell had a sister in England who was a heroin addict. He loved her and was sorry for her and, when she wrote th
at she would die if someone didn’t help, he believed that she wrote the truth and set about investigating the illicit dope traffic in Mexico. In due course, through friends and friends of friends, he got to the Madre de Cacao and on from there to the big Mexican grower. In the process, he came to know about the economics of the trade, and he decided that if he could make a fortune and at the same time help suffering humanity he had found the Secret of Life. Blackwell’s business was in fertilizers. He had a warehouse and a small plant and a staff of three for soil testing and plant research. It was easy to persuade the big Mexican that, behind this respectable front, Blackwell’s team could busy itself extracting heroin from opium. Carriage to England was swiftly arranged by the Mexican. For the equivalent of a thousand pounds a trip, every month one of the diplomatic couriers of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs carried an extra suitcase to London. The price was reasonable. The contents of the suitcase, after the Mexican had deposited it at the Victoria Station left-luggage office and had mailed the ticket to a man called Schwab, c/o Boox-an-Pix, Ltd, W.C.1, were worth twenty thousand pounds.
Unfortunately Schwab was a bad man, unconcerned with suffering humanity. He had the idea that if American juvenile delinquents could consume millions of dollars’ worth of heroin every year, so could their Teddy boy and girl cousins. In two rooms in Pimlico, his staff watered the heroin with stomach powder and sent it on its way to the dance halls and amusement arcades.
Schwab had already made a fortune when the C.I.D. Ghost Squad got on to him. Scotland Yard decided to let him make a little more money while they investigated the source of his supply. They put a close tail on Schwab and in due course were led to Victoria Station and thence to the Mexican courier. At that stage, since a foreign country was concerned, the Secret Service had had to be called in and Bond was ordered to find out where the courier got his supplies and to destroy the channel at source.