Alligator

by Michael K. Frith

  “I was given to understand that this was a respectable establishment,” he said disdainfully, “and what do I do but come down to breakfast and find the darned place full of riff-raff.”

  “You bastard,” B*nd finally gasped, smiling with delight at the man he had last seen as a bullet-riddled mass of torn flesh held together by a hundred yards of dirty gauze and the force of gravity, the American secret agent with whom he had worked so often in the past. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Ronson held up his good left hand. “You’re forgetting the order of things, old pardner. Breakfast first, talk later.” He skilfully plucked a little copper bell from the floor with his hook and tinkled it. The waitress stuck her head around the door and gasped at the mess.

  Ronson looked at her seriously. “My friend is prone to fits, seems to have destroyed his brek. One more of the same, and for me two poached eggs on a piece of beef. Brizzola’s, the best cut of that, straight cut across the bone. Roasted and then broiled. And two Grande Marnier Coronation and rum—Gosling’s overproof—with a slice of orange. No ice.”

  B*nd smiled at Ronson’s memory of one of his favourite drinks. Breakfast arrived and he ate slowly, relishing every delicious mouthful, occasionally squinting sideways at Ronson. They’d done a good job on him, he thought. Had to remake his face, of course, and he had considerable trouble eating. But his remaining eye was steady and undefeated, and he showed none of the cripple’s self-consciousness which B*nd loathed. He lit a cigarette and sipped his drink, savouring the warm liquid as it sang through his veins. Ronson sighed deeply and put down his fork. He gazed for a moment into his drink and turned to B*nd.

  “What’re you doing here,” he asked.

  B*nd neatly dodged the question. “I might ask you the same thing,” he said.

  “Well,” said Ronson, “in the first place I’ve quit the CIA. They didn’t have much use for a specimen such as me after the Florida caper.” He laughed shortly. “Though I’ve a plan which will get me back in if I can only get it to one of the higher-ups.” His face glowed with enthusiasm. “It’s to finish up this Cuban mess once and for all, and it can’t fail. If we just load up a squadron of bombers with pictures of naked girls and drop them all over the island, our troops could easily walk in and take over while their soldiers are running around picking up the pictures. There’d be nothing to it.”

  B*nd gasped. The plan was brilliant in its simplicity and would be sure to work. That this man was no longer working for the CIA was a typical example of American inability to recognise genius.

  “Anyway,” Ronson continued, “I went into the private detective business. Working for the Bronx Zoo right now. They lost a valuable alligator the other day and I’m down checking out a lead—apparently one was involved in a mess here, and I thought I’d look into it. Heard anything that might help?”

  B*nd shook his head. “No. Except that I did hear that it was a crocodile.”

  Ronson sipped his drink moodily. “Probably is. Just my luck. Well I’ve got one last possibility I’m going to try this morning. By the way, if you’re ever in need of a good local, there’s a fellow named Squabble, St David’s Islander, who’s done a lot of work for me. The best.” He finished the rum and brandy and ground out his cigarette. “Shall we get together tonight?”

  B*nd smiled. “Not tonight, old man. Got a bit of something on.

  His friend chuckled. “Blond or Brunette? You ought to settle down, J*mes. This hard life will end you yet. Look what it did to me.” B*nd laughed and lit a cigarette. The Texan stood up.

  “Guess we’ll meet again at breakfast,” he said. And with a cheery wave of his hook he limped out of the room.

  12. An American Chap

  B*ND and the governor had disliked each other immediately. It was the instinctive reaction of a man of peace to a man of action, each realizing the necessity of the other’s job, but disagreeing with the principle behind it. To B*nd the governor was a typical civil servant, holding on until he could retire on a nice pension to a little farm in the south of England and grow roses. To the governor B*nd was the sort of person who caused embarrassing incidents, and his job was to avoid embarrassment. The meeting had been brief. B*nd was assured of the full support and cooperation of government forces should he need them, and he in turn had assured the governor that there would be little likelihood of that. As he turned to leave a thought occurred to him.

  “One last question, Your Excellency. Does the name Lacertus Alligator mean anything around here?”

  A momentary flush coloured the old gentleman’s face, and B*nd knew that he, too, had crossed paths with the man and his spray can.

  “An American chap,” the governor said finally. “Given us the deuce of a time. A year or so ago we put Ireland Island, the most westerly of the whole Bermuda island chain, up for sale. Used to be a dock yard for His Majesty’s ships, long in disuse. Alligator bought it—paid a pretty penny, I might add. Then he started to build. You’ve noticed the general uniformity of Bermuda architecture?”

  B*nd nodded. Practically every house on the island was topped by a stepped stone roof kept carefully whitewashed. Since the sole source of water is the rain, the roofs are of vital importance, for the water is caught on them and piped into underground tanks. There every drop is jealously treasured and sparingly used.

  The governor continued. “No one can build unless he first submits, and has passed, a plan of his house. The fellow’s a bit of an eccentric, of course. Soon after he bought the island he submitted plans for a mansion which at first glance seemed quite unacceptable. Didn’t even have a Bermuda roof! Building Authority turned it down, said it was impossible. We were all terribly embarrassed when he stormed in here and pointed out that it looked exactly like the British Houses of Parliament, even to Big Ben. Same size and everything. The Authority was a bit of a standing joke after that.” He sighed and stared out of the window across the spacious Government House lawns at the city of Hamilton nestling below and the busy harbour beyond it.

  “As soon as he had permission to build, he sealed off the island from all outsiders, imported his own workmen, and set to it. Very mysterious. Doesn’t let anyone in or out. I gather he’s through now, though he’s still just as secretive. I was out sailing yesterday and took a look at it. Rather a rum sight to see Parliament, right down to the last detail except that it’s painted purple, sitting on the tip of Bermuda. Almost sacrilegious in a way, if you know what I mean.”

  B*nd said that he knew what he meant, thanked him, and left. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. There was a strange dichotomy in this man who so openly expressed his contempt for everything British and yet modelled his mansion on the House of Parliament. He lit a cigarette, shrugged, and swung into the saddle of his mobylette.

  And now he was settled comfortably in his chair at the Long-tail bar, luxuriating in the sensual nearness of Anagram Le Galion. She was dressed in a black Bianchini, beautiful in its simplicity, and B*nd noticed that the alligator hide shoes had been replaced by exquisite black raw silk from I. Miller, cut high at the heel and low through the instep. Size eight, triple A, he thought. Instead of the amethyst she wore, a smaller, more delicate ruby and diamond in a simple, yet eloquent gold setting. Except for her Cartier watch she wore no other jewelry. She needed none.

  B*nd signalled to the waiter and looked inquiringly at Anagram.

  “Gin and tonic,” she smiled.

  B*nd turned to the waiter. “Make that six, doubles. And bring me half a dozen limes, a knife, and a bucket of ice. Also some Beluga caviar and toast, a lot of it, sliced very thin.”

  The waiter returned in a moment, and B*nd was pleasantly surprised at the size and texture of the Bermuda limes. He sliced them expertly and squeezed one into each tall glass, skimming the seeds off with his knife. He then filled two of the glasses almost to the top with ice and added a dash of tonic. Both the waiter and Anagram looked on with admiration. He handed one to her.

 
; “I hope it’s to your liking,” he said.

  “Delicious,” she exclaimed.

  B*nd sipped his drink and lit a cigarette, savouring the comfortable surroundings, the exhilarating tobacco, the delicious drink, and the beautiful girl. He leaned across the table.

  “Now,” he said, “some explanations are, perhaps, due.”

  “Oh,” she pouted mockingly. “Now?”

  “Now,” said B*nd.

  “There isn’t much to explain, really. He gives me a great deal of freedom while he’s working on his house.” She laughed. “If you can call it that. And I dress as I please when I’m not with him. But let’s save explanations for later.” She looked into his eyes, and B*nd felt the electric thrill of meaning in her gaze and voice. He lit a cigarette.

  “We’re eating upstairs in the Penthouse,” he said. “I hope you will enjoy your dinner. * I’m afraid I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the main course for you. Steak Diane flambee. Tender filets cooked at your table. First they present it to you, the very finest cuts of meat. Then the chef whips it with his spatula to about half its original thickness, and coats the sides with mustard. It’s seared in a frying pan, doused in cognac and lit. Served with the most delicious red wine and mushroom sauce ever created. And wild rice.” He looked at her for approval.

  She had hung on his every word. “It sounds wonderful,” she breathed.

  And it was, B*nd reflected as he sipped his coffee, perhaps the best meal he had ever eaten. Admirably set off by the company and the finest champagne in the world, Blanc de Blanc 1943. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “Where are you staying?” asked Anagram after a pause.

  “White Heron Inn, a little place on Riddell’s Bay.”

  “I’ve never been there,” she said, “though of course I’ve heard of it.”

  B*nd placed a small pile of five pound notes on the check and stood. He took her hand.

  “Come,” he said. “The pool is best by moonlight.”

  13. Things That Go Bump in the Night

  B*ND grinned. “So did I,” and he slipped out of both his white dinner jacket and shoulder holster in the one easy movement which he had perfected.

  The girl laughed, and in minutes she stood, dressed in the sheerest bra and pants, the moonlight casting dark the secret shadows of her white body. She laughed again, and dived cleanly into the deep end of the pool. B*nd was a pace behind her.

  He dived deep and lingered on the bottom, watching the quick kick of her feet that shot her to the surface in the shallow end. He followed her underwater, surfacing beside her. She was kneeling, her head and shoulders above water. He pulled her to him, cupping his hand over her left breast. The bright eyes said yes. He bent his head and kissed her hard on the half-open, waiting mouth.

  The soft lips held his and drew slowly away. Suddenly he realized that she was naked.

  “You’re naked,” he said.

  “Yes,” she answered breathlessly.

  “But I thought . . . It looked like . . .”

  She turned her head away. Her voice choked.

  “Alligator,” she said. “He never sprays me purple, but whenever we . . . he hypnotizes me and . . . he always paints my . . . purple.” She sobbed.

  B*nd cursed and forcibly turned her head so that she faced him again.

  “That bastard,” he said, and kissed her long and hard. After a few minutes she drew away and looked deep into his eyes, her arms tight around him.

  “Your room?”

  B*nd nodded and picked her up. He waded out of the pool, and, pausing to scoop up the pile of their clothes, quickly climbed the stairs to his room. He opened the door, placed her gently on her feet, and flicked on the lights. His keen eyes swept the room. Everything seemed in perfect order. Quickly he bent to examine the fine coating of talcum on the undersides of the bureau handles. Untouched. The hair which he had wedged in the closet was still there, and the six fine threads strung across the bathroom door were unbroken. He checked the level of the water in the pitcher at his bedside. The same. Satisfied, he turned off the light, sat on the edge of the bed, and held out his hands.

  She came to him in the moonlight, her arms outstretched, her body still glistening from the pool. She took his hands, his arms went around her, and then softly, softly, onto the bed, her hungry mouth craving his, her body responding to his touch.

  There was a sudden thrashing under the bedclothes and a series of pig-like grunts. B*nd threw the girl to the floor and dove for the lightswitch and his gun. He reached both almost simultaneously, rolled over on his back, and fired five times into the gaping jaws of a huge purple alligator whose head had appeared from under the bedspread. The beast roared in pain, and as the bullets thudded home, squirmed on its side, lashed its tail frantically, and died.

  B*nd gratefully thanked the hunch that had made him carry the Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight .38 calibre rather than the Walther PPK that night. He could have done it with the Walther, but the split second needed for the extra accuracy with the lighter gun might have meant death. God, he thought, what a fiendish plan. Had he just come home, undressed, and slipped into bed he wouldn’t have had a chance.

  A knock at the door broke the echoing silence.

  “Who is it,” he called.

  “Everything all right in there folks?” asked the sleepy voice. B*nd looked at Anagram. She was pale but composed.

  “Of course,” said B*nd. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering,” said the voice. “Have a message for you. Your friend Ronson is dead. They found him over at the Coral Beach Club all chewed up. Before he died he mentioned your name and something about an alligator.” The footsteps trudged off down the stairs.

  B*nd looked again at the girl. Her eyes were wide with fear and she was trembling.

  “Alligator,” she gasped.

  “What is it?” asked B*nd, and then added, “Just a minute.”

  He walked over to the bed and rolled the dead reptile onto the floor. Only the bottom sheet was bloodstained and he jerked it off. He turned the mattress over and spread the remaining sheet over it. He picked up the girl, placed her on it, and covered her with the bedspread. Then he turned off the light and slid in beside her. There was a brief flare as he lit two cigarettes. As he gently put one between her trembling lips he caught a whiff of her fragrance. L’Heure Bleue by Guerlain. Her voice was soft and clear in the darkness.

  “You asked for explanations,” she said, drawing deeply on the cigarette, “and you deserve them. But why do you carry a gun?”

  “Line of work,” said B*nd gently. “I’m sort of a policeman, Scotland Yard or something like that.”

  “Oh,” there was a pause. “Then I suppose you’re after Lacertus?”

  “If he’s connected with this,” B*nd answered. “You and Alligator, are you . . .?”

  “I loathe him!” B*nd had never heard such hatred in a voice. Her cigarette glowed for an instant, and then she spoke calmly.

  “I had best begin at the beginning. My mother was an itinerant Irish mud-wrestler, my father a French playboy. She met him at an exhibition match in Switzerland and gave up wrestling, at least with women, for a couple of weeks. Then he left her and she gave up wrestling with anything except her conscience for nine months. That was my advent into this fair world.” Her eyes searched B*nd’s face for disapproval. Reassured, she continued.

  “My early years were pretty miserable; neither my mother nor the neighbors let me forget my origins. But we lived well. My father had married a wealthy French woman, and rather than destroy his source of income he sent my mother a generous cheque each month. I was schooled in England, America, and France. It was in France that I fell in love and had my first affair. He was a British civil servant of some kind, never talked much about his job. But it must have been pretty important, because he was captured by the Russians and held by an organization called SMERSH.”

  B*nd gave a start and for a moment his blood ran c
old. SMERSH, short or Smyert Spionam—Death to Spies—the Soviet organization of vengeance and death. Until Khrushchev disbanded it, it was the most powerful organization in Russia and B*nd’s most deadly enemy. His right hand still carried the scars of the skin graft that covered the dread initials carved into it by a SMERSH agent. He had vowed then and there to devote his life to the destruction of SMERSH and all that it stood for.

  She was looking at him keenly. “Does SMERSH mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” he replied shortly. “Go on.”

  “Well,” she continued, “apparently it’s some sort of spy ring. They told me that they had Roger and that they would be asking me to do little jobs for them. Unless I complied, they said, they would torture and kill him. Nothing happened for a couple of months, then, one day, he, Alligator, sent for me. He said that SMERSH had given my loved one to him, and that I was now in his employ. The man is absolutely mad. He trains alligators to be man-eaters. Starves them for days and feeds them human flesh. My job was to lure victims into his trap. If I failed he said he would feed Roger to them, and I couldn’t have stood that. We would go into night clubs or bars, he would pick out a man and get him to the table. If he then decided that this was the right sort of person he would give me the signal and leave. The signal was the words ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’ You were to be just such a victim.”

  She was silent for a moment and B*nd lit two more cigarettes. She inhaled gratefully.

  “I couldn’t go through with it, not after I met you. I told him that you had changed your mind, refused to come with me. The next day he sent word to have Roger fed to the alligators.

  “I thought that he had no more hold on me, I wanted to find you and explain everything. But he said he would tell my part in the deaths of those poor people if I ever left him or told anyone. I couldn’t get out. An Englishman got suspicious of him and started poking around. Alligator let Heinrich, that’s his favourite, chew him for a while and left him on the beach. And now your friend Mr. Ronson . . .”