Live and Let Die (James Bond - Extended Series Book 2)

by Ian Fleming

  Bond laughed. ‘What an organization!’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s all beautifully covered up and alibied. What a man! He certainly seems to have the run of this country. Just shows how one can push a democracy around, what with habeas corpus and human rights and all the rest. Glad we haven’t got him on our hands in England. Wooden truncheons wouldn’t make much of a dent in him. Well,’ he concluded, ‘that’s three times I’ve managed to get away with it. The pace is beginning to get a bit hot.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leiter thoughtfully. ‘Before you arrived over here you could have counted the mistakes Mr Big has ever made on one thumb. Now he’s made three all in a row. He won’t like that. We’ve got to put the heat on him while he’s still groggy and then get out, quick. Tell you what I’ve got in mind. There’s no doubt that gold gets into the States through this place. We’ve tracked the Secatur again and again and she just comes straight over from Jamaica to St Petersburg and docks at that worm and bait factory – Rubberus or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘Ourobouros,’ said Bond. ‘The Great Worm of mythology. Good name for a worm and bait factory.’ Suddenly a thought struck him. He hit the glass table-top with the flat of his hand. ‘Felix! Of course. Ourobouros – “The Robber” – don’t you see? Mr Big’s man down here. It must be the same.’

  Leiter’s face lit up. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course it’s the same. That Greek who’s supposed to own it, the man in Tarpon Springs that figures in the reports that blockhead showed us in New York, Binswanger. He’s probably just a figurehead. Probably doesn’t even know there’s anything phoney about it. It’s his manager here we’ve got to get after. “The Robber.” Of course that’s who it is.’

  Leiter jumped up.

  ‘C’mon. Let’s get going. We’ll go right along and look the place over. I was going to suggest it anyway, seeing the Secatur always docks at their wharf. She’s in Cuba now, by the way,’ he added, ‘Havana. Cleared from here a week ago. They searched her good and proper when she came in and when she left. Didn’t find a thing, of course. Thought she might have a false keel. Almost tore it off. She had to go into dock before she could sail again. Nix. Not a shadow of anything wrong. Let alone a stack of gold coins. Anyway, we’ll go and smell around. See if we can get a look at our Robber friend. I’ll just have to talk to Orlando and Washington. Tell ’em all we know. They must catch up quick with The Big Man’s fellow on the train. Probably too late by now. You go and see how Solitaire’s getting on. Tell her she’s not to move till we get back. Lock her in. We’ll take her out to dinner in Tampa. They’ve got the best restaurant on the whole coast, Cuban, “Los Novedades”. We’ll stop at the airport on the way and fix her flight for tomorrow.’

  Leiter reached for the telephone and asked for Long Distance. Bond left him to it.

  Ten minutes later they were on their way.

  Solitaire had not wanted to be left. She had clung to Bond. ‘I want to get away from here,’ she said, her eyes frightened. ‘I have a feeling…’ She didn’t end the sentence. Bond kissed her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’ll be back in an hour or so. Nothing can happen to you here. Then I shan’t leave you until you’re on the plane. We can even stay the night in Tampa and get you off at first light.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Solitaire anxiously. ‘I’d rather do that. I’m frightened here. I feel in danger.’ She put her arms round his neck. ‘Don’t think I’m being hysterical.’ She kissed him. ‘Now you can go. I just wanted to see you. Come back quickly.’

  Leiter had called and Bond had closed the door on her and locked it.

  He followed Leiter to his car on the Parkway feeling vaguely troubled. He couldn’t imagine that the girl could come to any harm in this peaceful, law-abiding place, or that The Big Man could conceivably have traced her to The Everglades, which was only one of a hundred similar beach establishments on Treasure Island. But he respected the extraordinary power of her intuitions and her attack of nerves made him uneasy.

  The sight of Leiter’s car put these thoughts out of his mind.

  Bond liked fast cars and he liked driving them. Most American cars bored him. They lacked personality and the patina of individual craftsmanship that European cars have. They were just ‘vehicles’, similar in shape and in colour, and even in the tone of their horns. Designed to serve for a year and then be turned in in part exchange for the next year’s model. All the fun of driving had been taken out of them with the abolition of a gear-change, with hydraulic-assisted steering and spongy suspension. All effort had been smoothed away and all of that close contact with the machine and the road that extracts skill and nerve from the European driver. To Bond, American cars were just beetle-shaped Dodgems in which you motored along with one hand on the wheel, the radio full on, and the power-operated windows closed to keep out the draughts.

  But Leiter had got hold of an old Cord, one of the few American cars with a personality, and it cheered Bond to climb into the low-hung saloon, to hear the solid bite of the gears and the masculine tone of the wide exhaust. Fifteen years old, he reflected, yet still one of the most modern-looking cars in the world.

  They swung on to the causeway and across the wide expanse of unrippled water that separates the twenty miles of narrow island from the broad peninsula sprawling with St Petersburg and its suburbs.

  Already as they idled up Central Avenue on their way across the town to the Yacht Basin and the main harbour and the big hotels, Bond caught a whiff of the atmosphere that makes the town the ‘Old Folks Home’ of America. Everyone on the sidewalks had white hair, white or blue, and the famous Sidewalk Davenports that Solitaire had described were thick with oldsters sitting in rows like the starlings in Trafalgar Square.

  Bond noted the small grudging mouths of the women, the sun gleaming on their pince-nez; the stringy, collapsed chests and arms of the men displayed to the sunshine in Truman shirts. The fluffy, sparse balls of hair on the women showing the pink scalp. The bony bald heads of the men. And, everywhere, a prattling camaraderie, a swapping of news and gossip, a making of folksy dates for the shuffleboard and the bridge-table, a handing round of letters from children and grandchildren, a tut-tutting about prices in the shops and the motels.

  You didn’t have to be amongst them to hear it all. It was all in the nodding and twittering of the balls of blue fluff, the back-slapping and hawk-an-spitting of the little old baldheads.

  ‘It makes you want to climb right into the tomb and pull the lid down,’ said Leiter at Bond’s exclamations of horror. ‘You wait till we get out and walk. If they see your shadow coming up the sidewalk behind them they jump out of the way as if you were the Chief Cashier coming to look over their shoulders in the bank. It’s ghastly. Makes me think of the bank clerk who went home unexpectedly at midday and found the President of the bank sleeping with his wife. He went back and told his pals in the ledger department and said, “Gosh, fellers, he nearly caught me!”’

  Bond laughed.

  ‘You can hear all the presentation gold watches ticking in their pockets,’ said Leiter. ‘Place is full of undertakers, and pawnshops stuffed with gold watches and masonic rings and bits of jet and lockets full of hair. Makes you shiver to think of it all. Wait till you go to “Aunt Milly’s Place” and see them all in droves mumbling over their corn-beef hash and cheeseburgers, trying to keep alive till ninety. It’ll frighten the life out of you. But they’re not all old down here. Take a look at that ad over there.’ He pointed towards a big hoarding on a deserted lot.

  It was an advertisement for maternity clothes. ‘STUTZHEIMER & BLOCK,’ it said, ‘IT’S NEW! OUR ANTICIPATION DEPARTMENT, AND AFTER! CLOTHES FOR CHIPS (1-4) AND TWIGS (4-8).’

  Bond groaned. ‘Let’s get away from here,’ he said. ‘This is really beyond the call of duty.’

  They came down to the waterfront and turned right until they came to the seaplane base and the coastguard station. The streets were free of oldsters and here there was the norm
al life of a harbour – wharves, warehouses, a ship’s chandler, some up-turned boats, nets drying, the cry of seagulls, the rather fetid smell coming in off the bay. After the teeming boneyard of the town the sign over the garage: ‘Drive-ur-Self. Pat Grady. The Smiling Irishman. Used cars,’ was a cheerful reminder of a livelier, bustling world.

  ‘Better get out and walk,’ said Leiter. ‘The Robber’s place is in the next block.’

  They left the car beside the harbour and sauntered along past a timber warehouse and some oil storage tanks. Then they turned left again towards the sea.

  The side-road ended at a small weather-beaten wooden jetty that reached out twenty feet on barnacled piles into the bay. Right up against its open gate was a long low corrugated iron warehouse. Over its wide double doors was painted, black on white, ‘Ourobouros Inc. Live Worm and Bait Merchants. Coral, Shells, Tropical Fish. Wholesale only.’ In one of the double doors there was a smaller door with a gleaming Yale lock. On the door was a sign: ‘Private. Keep Out.’

  Against this a man sat on a kitchen chair, its back tilted so that the door supported his weight. He was cleaning a rifle, a Remington 30 it looked like to Bond. He had a wooden toothpick sticking out of his mouth and a battered baseball cap on the back of his head. He was wearing a stained white singlet that revealed tufts of black hair under his arms, and slept-in white canvas trousers and rubber-soled sneakers. He was around forty and his face was as knotted and seamed as the mooring posts on the jetty. It was a thin, hatchet face, and the lips were thin too, and bloodless. His complexion was the colour of tobacco dust, a sort of yellowy-beige. He looked cruel and cold, like the bad man in a film about poker-players and gold mines.

  Bond and Leiter walked past him and on to the pier. He didn’t look up from his rifle as they went past but Bond sensed that his eyes were following them.

  ‘If that isn’t The Robber,’ said Leiter, ‘it’s a blood relation.’

  A pelican, grey with a pale yellow head, was hunched on one of the mooring posts at the end of the jetty. He let them get very close, then reluctantly gave a few heavy beats of his wings and planed down towards the water. The two men stood and watched him flying slowly along just above the surface of the harbour. Suddenly he crashed clumsily down, his long bill snaking out and down in front of him. It came up clutching a small fish which he moodily swallowed. Then the heavy bird got up again and went on fishing, flying mostly into the sun so that its big shadow would give no warning. When Bond and Leiter turned to walk back down the jetty it gave up fishing and glided back to its post. It settled with a clatter of wings and resumed its thoughtful consideration of the late afternoon.

  The man was still bent over his gun, wiping the mechanism with an oily rag.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Leiter. ‘You the manager of this wharf?’

  ‘Yep,’ said the man without looking up.

  ‘Wondered if there was any chance of mooring my boat here. Basin’s pretty crowded.’

  ‘Nope.’

  Leiter took out his notecase. ‘Would twenty talk?’

  ‘Nope.’ The man gave a rattling hawk in his throat and spat directly between Bond and Leiter.

  ‘Hey,’ said Leiter. ‘You want to watch your manners.’

  The man deliberated. He looked up at Leiter. He had small, close-set eyes as cruel as a painless dentist’s.

  ‘What’s a name of your boat?’

  ‘The Sybil,’ said Leiter.

  ‘Ain’t no sich boat in the Basin,’ said the man. He clicked the breech shut on his rifle. It lay casually on his lap pointing down the approach to the warehouse, away from the sea.

  ‘You’re blind,’ said Leiter. ‘Been there a week. Sixty-foot twin-screw Diesel. White with a green awning. Rigged for fishing.’

  The rifle started to move lazily in a low arc. The man’s left hand was at the trigger, his right just in front of the trigger-guard, pivoting the gun.

  They stood still.

  The man sat lazily looking down at the breech, his chair still tilted against the small door with the yellow Yale lock.

  The gun slowly traversed Leiter’s stomach, then Bond’s. The two men stood like statues, not risking a move of the hand. The gun stopped pivoting. It was pointing down the wharf. The Robber looked briefly up, narrowed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The pelican gave a faint squawk and they heard its heavy body crash into the water. The echo of the shot boomed across the harbour.

  ‘What the hell d’you do that for?’ asked Bond furiously.

  ‘Practice,’ said the man, pumping another bullet into the breech.

  ‘Guess there’s a branch of the A.S.P.C.A. in this town,’ said Leiter. ‘Let’s get along there and report this guy.’

  ‘Want to be prosecuted for trespass?’ asked The Robber, getting slowly up and shifting the gun under his arm. ‘This is private property. Now,’ he spat the words out, ‘git the hell out of here.’ He turned and yanked the chair away from the door, opened the door with a key and turned with one foot on the threshold. ‘You both got guns,’ he said. ‘I kin smell ’em. You come aroun’ here again and you follow the boid ’n I plead self-defence. I’ve had a bellyful of you lousy dicks aroun’ here lately breathin’ down my neck. Sybil my ass!’ He turned contemptuously through the door and slammed it so that the frame rattled.

  They looked at each other. Leiter grinned ruefully and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Round One to The Robber,’ he said.

  They moved off down the dusty sideroad. The sun was setting and the sea behind them was a pool of blood. When they got to the main road, Bond looked back. A big arc light had come on over the door and the approach to the warehouse was stripped of shadows.

  ‘No good trying anything from the front,’ said Bond. ‘But there’s never been a warehouse with only one entrance.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Leiter. ‘We’ll save that for the next visit.’

  They got into the car and drove slowly home across Central Avenue.

  On their way home Leiter asked a string of questions about Solitaire. Finally he said casually: ‘By the way, hope I fixed the rooms like you want them.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Bond cheerfully.

  ‘Fine,’ said Leiter. ‘Just occurred to me you two might be hyphenating.’

  ‘You read too much Winchell,’ said Bond.

  ‘It’s just a delicate way of putting it,’ said Leiter. ‘Don’t forget the walls of those cottages are pretty thin. I use my ears for hearing with – not for collecting lipstick.’

  Bond grabbed for a handkerchief. ‘You lousy, goddam sleuth,’ he said furiously.

  Leiter watched him scrubbing at himself out of the corner of his eye. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked innocently. ‘I wasn’t for a moment suggesting the colour of your ears was anything but a natural red. However…’ He put a wealth of meaning into the word.

  ‘If you find yourself dead in your bed tonight,’ laughed Bond, ‘you’ll know who did it.’

  They were still chaffing each other when they arrived at The Everglades and they were laughing when the grim Mrs Stuyvesant greeted them on the lawn.

  ‘Pardon me, Mr Leiter,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t allow music here. I can’t have the other guests disturbed at all hours.’

  They looked at her in astonishment. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stuyvesant,’ said Leiter. ‘I don’t quite get you.’

  ‘That big radiogram you had sent round,’ said Mrs Stuyvesant. ‘The men could hardly get the packing-case through the door.’

  14 ....... ‘HE DISAGREED WITH SOMETHING THAT ATE HIM’

  THE GIRL had not put up much of a struggle.

  When Leiter and Bond, leaving the manageress gaping on the lawn, raced down to the end cottage, they found her room untouched and the bedclothes barely rumpled.

  The lock of her room had been forced with one swift wrench of a jemmy and then the two men must have just stood there with guns in their hands.

  ‘G
et going, Lady. Get your clothes on. Try any tricks and we’ll let the fresh air into you.’

  Then they must have gagged her or knocked her out and doubled her into the packing-case and nailed it up. There were tyre marks at the back of the cottage where the truck had stood. Almost blocking the entrance hall was a huge old-fashioned radiogram. Second-hand it must have cost them under fifty bucks.

  Bond could see the expression of blind terror on Solitaire’s face as if she was standing before him. He cursed himself bitterly for leaving her alone. He couldn’t guess how she had been traced so quickly. It was just another example of The Big Man’s machine.

  Leiter was talking to the F.B.I. headquarters at Tampa. ‘Airports, railroad terminals and the highways,’ he was saying. ‘You’ll get blanket orders from Washington just as soon as I’ve spoken to them. I guarantee they’ll give this top priority. Thanks a lot. Much appreciated. I’ll be around. Okay.’