In London that morning the call from Chief of Staff had been a welcome interruption to the dull paper work that had been plaguing him since his last official assignment. The shock of the angry buzzing of the red telephone that meant “urgent” was a pleasant one.
“Anything on?” said the voice briskly.
“Lot of paper work.”
“We all have that. * wants you.”
“Any clue?”
“Station B.” Chief of Staff rang off.
B*nd was puzzled. Station B? Brazil? Bolivia? Bechuanaland? In minutes he was striding down the long corridor to *’s office. * was brief.
“Nice job last night, 007,” he said.
B*nd sat up. This was business.
“Call from Station B. Purely routine. Seems that Head of B was killed. Someone saw it. Girl who was with him, or something.” * sucked on his pipe with distaste. “The girl was hysterical, had her facts sort of mixed up. Said something about a huge purple crocodile.” He had looked narrowly at B*nd. “Funny thing. Crocodiles aren’t indigenous to Bermuda. Check it out, will you? Shouldn’t be much to it. You can get a bit of a vacation while you’re there. Oh, by the way, the White Cross appreciated that £424,000.” He smiled. The White Cross provided funds for the families of Secret Service agents killed in the line of duty. It was his favourite charity.
He threw a folder across the desk. B*nd fielded it neatly. It bore the top secret red star on its cover.
B*nd had stomped back to his office angrily. Did * think he was getting stale? This stuff was a job for routine investigation, not a man in the double O section. He kissed Lilly Postlethwaite, his beautiful but unobtainable secretary, on the forehead and slammed out the door.
Lilly was worried, he knew. He only kissed her when he went on an assignment, and she would be waiting tensely for his return. Some day, he thought . . .
And now he was in Bermuda. The B.O.A.C. flight to Kindley Field had been uneventful and immigration and customs had been quick and painless. The Walther PPK with the skeleton grip and silencer in the soft chamois holster beneath his left arm had gone unnoticed. The cipher machine in its leather case had easily passed as a portable radio.
B*nd looked at the guest house where Station B had rooms awaiting him. He had asked for a small, exclusive place where he would be less likely to run into the typical American tourist.
It was a grey two-storied affair, very unlike the usual low, pink Bermuda house. The front entrance was a large arched screen door which entered immediately on the bar. It was a long, fairly narrow room which then opened directly onto a swimming pool. Just beyond that the afternoon sun sparkled off the clear waters of Riddell’s Bay.
B*nd dropped his two suitcases and strode over to the bar itself, which was tucked in a corner. He stepped behind it and poured a double vodka. There was no one in evidence.
“Hello,” he called through the door behind the bar.
“Hello,” said a voice behind him.
B*nd whirled. A nattily dressed fellow in shorts, knee socks and a sport shirt stood looking at him curiously.
“My name’s B*nd,” said B*nd. “J*mes B*nd. I’m a writer.”
“Oh,” said the fellow.
“I have a room.”
“That’s right, so you do.”
“Where is it?”
“Upstairs.” The fellow gestured vaguely. “Would you like a drink?”
“I have one,” said B*nd shortly.
“So you do. You’d better put it on your tab.”
“Any one. Help yourself. They’re all empty. Want a bike?”
“What?”
“Little motor-assisted cycle. Single gear. Only way you’ll get around. I’ll order it.” The fellow wandered sleepily off.
B*nd loosened his tie, lit a cigarette, and made another drink.
By the time the man with the bikes had arrived in his little truck, B*nd had showered and changed to more comfortable clothes. He was dressed in a conservatively patterned blue sport shirt, military white Bermuda lengths, and natural tan knee socks. On his feet were soft, black leather, saddle-stitched sandals. A loosely tied green ascot lent a touch of colour to his dress. He chose a blue Mobylette, for, though slower than many others on the stretch, its power on the hilly Bermuda roadways would more than make up for that.
“Concierge!” he called.
“Out here,” came the sleepy voice.
B*nd strode through the barroom to the pool. The long handle of a scrubbing brush extended from its surface. The fellow was sitting on the edge leaning on the brush, his feet dangling in the water. He was staring moodily into the murky depths.
“Filter’s broken down,” he grunted.
“Which way to the Coral Beach Club?” B*nd asked.
“Down Middle Road till you get to Cobb’s Hill. Turn right and straight ahead to the south shore. Members only. I’ll give you a card.” He gave the brush a couple of tentative pushes and stood up wearily.
In minutes B*nd was purring down the narrow road at a steady twenty miles per hour. Head of B had been killed on the stretch of beach just below this exclusive club. He would look over the area and then relax over a few drinks while he questioned the waiters.
As the fellow had said, the club was easy to find. B*nd twisted the accelerator grip sharply as he entered the private drive, pedalled a few times to gain momentum up the last, short steep hill, and drew to a stop in the small parking area. Ludicrous little machine, he thought, but efficient. He propped the bike in the rack with some fifty others and walked down the narrow path towards the entrance. A neat sign proclaimed that a row of dark holes set in a small embankment were once gun emplacements for cannon, a fort to defend Bermuda from Spanish marauders. They had, it said, never fired a shot.
He handed the card to the woman at the desk and she graciously accepted a dollar for a towel and locker key. B*nd was annoyed to find the American currency as much in use as British. He changed and walked down a flight of stone steps to the terrace which stood high above the beach. Tables shaded by beach umbrellas clustered along its rail, and sunburned men and women sat looking down at the milling, near-naked figures on the beach, catching the last rays of the late afternoon sun or splashing in the rolling surf. A busy stream of waiters was scurrying from the bar and the kitchen to the tables. B*nd seated himself at a far corner table where he could watch everyone on the terrace as well as the beach below. He lit a cigarette and turned to the waiter who stood at his elbow.
“A bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich,” he said. “The bacon must be crisp, not, however, overcooked. Lettuce from the inside please, but not the heart. The broad, pale leaves just under the outer covering are best. Do not peel the tomato but wash it thoroughly in very hot water, then chill it for at least seven minutes in a bowl of ice. Toast the bread lightly on one side. Hellman’s mayonnaise—a medium portion—on both pieces. And a bottle of Schlitz.”
The waiter beamed. “Yes sir,” he said, “it is my pleasure.” He hurried off towards the kitchen and B*nd lit a cigarette.
Suddenly he was alert, the muscles tense under his lean, brown skin. He stared in momentary disbelief at two people who were being seated at the far end of the terrace. Then slowly he stood up and walked with a measured, unhastened step to the table. A wry smile crossed his face. Completely ignoring Alligator, he looked directly at the girl.
“I believe we have met before, Miss Le Galion,” said B*nd.
10. A View from the Terrace
EVERY country in the world has its favourite bird, a creature which is pointed out with pride to foreigners and whose habits are followed lovingly by the natives. In Bermuda this bird is the long-tail, so called because nine-tenths of its twelve inches consist of two long, graceful, black-tipped, white feathers. High above the beautiful stretch of pink sand six of them whirled, their white bodies flashes of light in the now setting sun, their tails meteor trails behind them. Their soft mewing punctuated the sound of the waves as they dipped and soared ove
r the ebbing tide, their tiny bright eyes alert to the slightest movement indicating some hapless sea-creature left behind by the waves. Below them all but a few stragglers had left the beach.
Anagram Le Galion smiled at J*mes B*nd. This man was the last person she expected to see. She looked him up and down. His lean, brown body was pale compared to the other darkly tanned figures on the terrace, and here and there deep scars showed white against his skin. He was about six feet tall and somewhere in his middle thirties. He had hard, rather cruel good looks and very clear blue-grey eyes that were now observing her inspection sardonically. A particularly evil scar crossed his right cheek and there was something cold and ruthless about his mouth. An uncontrollable question mark of black hair dotted by the slash of his right eyebrow fell over his forehead, giving him a slightly quizzical look. He reminded her a bit of Hoagy Carmichael.
Alligator showed no surprise His shrill voice was clipped.
“Mr. Bland, this is an honour. Toots, I want you to say hello to a very rich man. Perhaps you would do well to know him better.” His voice had become a sneer.
B*nd looked at her carefully. Her eyes in the early evening light were very blue, bright, and disdainful, but, as they gazed into his with a touch to humour, he realized they contained some message for him personally. It quickly vanished as his own eyes answered.
She was dressed in two tiny scraps of mauve cloth from Cole of California which somehow passed for a bathing suit. B*nd’s pulses quickened as he realized that his estimate of this magnificent body had not been wrong. She watched his eyes on her and nonchalantly drew her forearms together in her lap so that the valley between her breasts deepened.
The message was unmistakable, and suddenly B*nd’s curiosity was aroused. Could he have been wrong about this girl? What hidden fear had made her act as she did?
She turned to Alligator. “Lacertus,” her voice was sweet, almost childish, “aren’t you going to ask Mr. B*nd to join us?”
B*nd felt the tiny pupils boring into his skull.
“Have a seat, chum,” Alligator seemed amused.
B*nd winced as the aerosol can hissed and he felt the purple dye spread over his face and shoulders.
Suddenly he was very angry. He had beaten this man once, hut somehow he knew that this was just a minor part of the game. Last night had simply been a matter of money, and to Alligator money was just a toy. Somewhere there was something bigger, and B*nd knew two things—one, it was evil, and, two, he would have to destroy it. A grim smile crossed his face as he sat down.
Alligator held up his hand and a waiter hurried over. He turned to the two mute Bulgars who stood behind him. They nodded eagerly.
“Three bourbon and grape juices, chum, and for you, my dear . . . ?”
“Vodka martini, double, very dry. Grain, not potato vodka, if you please.”
B*nd once again looked at her appreciatively. “Bring my sandwich over here, will you? And change that Schlitz to a triple dark rum with a touch of bitters and a slice of orange. Two ice cubes, or, if you have the little machine-made ones with holes in the middle, three.” The waiter bowed, frowned at Alligator, smiled at B*nd and the girl, and hurried away.
They talked at random over the drinks, mostly about the island, Alligator saying little or nothing, but concentrating on his drink. His steel teeth clinked dully against the glass with every sip. He finished it, clicked his teeth together once more, and looked at the girl. She paused in mid-sentence and the shadow of fear which B*nd had noticed before crossed her face.
Alligator made a small sign to her. The man turned his horrible smile on B*nd and heaved himself from his chair.
“Will you excuse me for a moment, chum? I have to go to the bathroom.”
He gave his mock-polite bow and turned on his heel, closely followed by the two Bulgars. B*nd watched the squat figure waddle away, ridiculous in the purple LaCoste shirt and tiny bathing suit. The legs, covered with wiry red fur, moved jerkily, like a puppet’s. Yet there was an undeniable power in this man. He would not be an easy marque.
B*nd turned back to the girl. He smiled cynically.
“Well, what’s it to be this time? Off into the night riding double on a chocolate-brown tandem-bike?”
She looked at him imploringly. “Please,” her voice was low, urgent. “You must believe me. It was for your own good. I had to.” Her voice trembled. “Tomorrow night. I’m staying at the Carlton Beach. Room 483.” She was on her feet and he looked in admiration at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She paused beside him, and the last rays of the sun picked out the infinitely small golden hairs on her thigh. Her hand rested briefly on his bare shoulder. “You must come. I will explain everything.”
B*nd looked up at her. The proud bosom rose and fell with emotion.
“Seven o’ clock,” he said. “Cocktails and dinner.” He saw a quick flash of the white, even teeth, and she was gone.
11. T.O.O.T.H.
B*ND awoke the next morning to a loud knock on his door.
“Cable just arrived,” said the sleepy voice. “Apparently it’s very urgent.”
B*nd picked up the small, pale yellow envelope bearing in blue ink the words, “Cable and Wireless, (B.W.I.) Ltd.”, that had appeared under his door, and tore it open. A series of meaningless letters in groups of four greeted his eyes. With an annoyed grunt he opened the door.
“Hold breakfast for an hour,” he called down the stairs. “Six scrambled eggs and four rashers of bacon. Fresh orange juice, a lot of it, very cold. Five pieces of light toast and a jar of Dundee orange marmalade. Pot of coffee, not instant, double strength. And bring me up two double scotches. Bell’s 25. No ice.”
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. What the hell could this be? The coloured girl who brought his drink stared open-mouthed at his naked body and scurried down the stairs.
B*nd smiled, sipped the drink, lit a cigarette, and set about the labourious business of deciphering the message.
Forty minutes later he looked at the finished product and lit another cigarette.
H.M. SECRET SERVICE—DIRECTIVE TO AGENT 007. TOP SECRET. BURN WHEN READ.
LAST NIGHT HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT STOLEN—UNDERMINED AND FLOATED DOWN THAMES TO SEA. HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN, THE PRIME MINISTER, LORD SNOWDON, THE CABINET, AND GREATER PART OF MEMBERSHIP OF BOTH COMMONS AND LORDS ABOARD AT THE TIME. FOLLOWING NOTE FOUND IN HER MAJESTY’s BEDROOM:
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF T.O.O.T.H.
DEAR QUEEN, IF YOU VALUE THE SAFETY OF YOUR COUNTRY PLEASE COME TO PARLIAMENT TONIGHT AT 11:45 ALONE WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
YOURS SINCERELY T.O.O.T.H.
(THE ORGANIZATION ORGANIZED TO HATE)
ALL VERY MYSTERIOUS. WE HAVE NOTHING ON T.O.O.T.H. IN RECORDS. H.M. THE QUEEN OF COURSE WENT, THE SAFETY OF HER COUNTRY BEING AT STAKE. LORD SNOWDON WAS COVERING SESSION FOR SUNDAY TIMES.
BOTH THE DUKE AND PRINCESS VERY UPSET, FORMER INTERRUPTED POLO MATCH JUST TO CALL ME. REVOLUTION THREATENED UNLESS GOVERNMENT CAN BE RESTORED. VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN FOR CLUES.
RANSOM NOTE FOR £100,000,000 RECEIVED, BUT NO HINT OF SENDER. VERY COMPLICATED PAYOFF SCHEME. MUST BE PAID BY SATURDAY NOON G.M.T. OR ALL WILL BE DESTROYED.
HAVE BEEN TRYING TO CONTACT ALLEN DULLES AT CIA FOR HELP, BUT AS YET NO RESPONSE. HAVE MADE APPOINTMENT WITH BERMUDA GOVERNOR FOR YOU AT 2:00 P.M. TODAY. HE ALONE INFORMED OF FULL FACTS. ANY LUCK WITH THE CROCODILE CASE?
B*nd whistled softly and picked up the second drink. This was the crime of the century, and here he was, soaking up sun, looking for a bloody crocodile. He dragged hard on his cigarette and hissed the smoke out angrily between his teeth. He read the message once more, lit a match, and touched it to the paper. How very like *, he thought with a smile. The respect for the Queen in his explanation of her action, the use of the nautical terms as soon as the House was afloat, and his reference to Allen Dulles. He had always called Allen Dulles whenever there was a difficult situation and it w
as difficult to convince him that Allen Dulles was no longer in charge of the CIA.
B*nd lit a cigarette and scribbled out a reply to the cable. It was addressed to “World-Wide Import and Export, Ltd., Regents Park, London.” It read:
HAVE NOT SEEN GOVERNMENT MEN OR BAKER STATION CLIENT. BUSINESS VERY SLOW.
MR. J*MES
He finished his drink and thought of the scene in his office as Chief of Staff explained the wire to Lil. “B*nd hasn’t any lead on the Parliament theft,” he would say. “Hasn’t come up with anything on the death of Head of Station B either. Things aren’t going very well.”
In fifteen minutes he had shaved, showered, and dressed. He walked into the dining room and sat down just as his breakfast arrived. As he lifted his fork he felt a hand on his left arm and there was a low voice in his ear.
“Don’t move 007. This is a police special in the small of your back.”
B*nd moved instinctively. With one smooth motion he jerked his left arm up, pinning the hand between his forearm and bicep, and jumped to his feet. He knew the man would be thrown off his balance and he quickly applied Move #467 from the handbook, twisting his body savagely to the right. He felt the hand wrenched from his arm as the body was flung from him and there was crash of silver and crockery as it smashed into the table and hit the floor. As he wheeled to face his attacker he heard a weak laugh.
“I say, J*mes, needn’t be so rough with an old friend.”
B*nd stared in disbelief.
“Ronson, Felix Ronson.”
The tall Texan struggled to his feet, brushing the scrambled egg from his clothes with the hook that was his right hand. He looked at B*nd and his lean, hawklike face broke into a broad grin. He shook the mop of straw-coloured hair out of his eyes.
Alligator Page 4