by Ian Fleming
After this inspired piece of sexual dumb crambo, the rest of the cabaret was an anti-climax. One of the girls, only after her G-string had been slashed off with a cutlass by the band leader, was able to squirm under a bamboo balanced just eighteen inches off the floor on the top of two beer bottles. The first girl, the one who had acted as an unwitting pineapple-tee to Bond’s William Tell act, came on and combined an acceptable strip-tease with a rendering of ‘Belly-Lick’ that got the audience straining its ears again, and then the whole team of six girls, less the Chinese beauty, came up to the audience and invited them to dance. Scaramanga and Hendriks refused with adequate politeness and Bond stood the two left-out girls glasses of champagne and learned that their names were Mabel and Pearl while he watched the four others being almost bent in half by the bear-like embraces of the four sweating hoods as they clumsily cha-cha’d round the room to the now riotous music of the half-drunk band. The climax to what could certainly class as an orgy was clearly in sight. Bond told his two girls that he must go to the men’s room and slipped away when Scaramanga was looking elsewhere, but, as he went, he noted that Hendriks’s gaze, as cool as if he had been watching an indifferent film, was firmly on him as he made his escape.
When Bond got to his room, it was midnight. His windows had been closed and the air-conditioning turned on. He switched it off and opened the windows half-way and then, with heartfelt relief, took a shower and went to bed. He worried for a while about having shown off with the gun, but it was an act of folly which he couldn’t undo and he soon went to sleep to dream of three black-cloaked men dragging a shapeless bundle through dappled moonlight towards dark waters that were dotted with glinting red eyes. The gnashing white teeth and the crackling bones resolved themselves into a persistent scrabbling noise that brought him suddenly awake. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It said 3.30. The scrabbling became a quiet tapping from behind the curtains. James Bond slid quietly out of bed, took his gun from under his pillow and crept softly along the wall to the edge of the curtains. He pulled them aside with one swift motion. The golden hair shone almost silver in the moonlight. Mary Goodnight whispered urgently, ‘Quick, James! Help me in!’
Bond cursed softly to himself. What the hell? He laid his gun down on the carpet and reached for her outstretched hands and half dragged, half pulled her over the sill. At the last moment, her heel caught in the frame and the window banged shut with a noise like a pistol shot. Bond cursed again, softly and fluently, under his breath. Mary Goodnight whispered penitently, ‘I’m terribly sorry, James.’
Bond shushed her. He picked up his gun and put it back under his pillow and led her across the room and into the bathroom. He turned on the light and, as a precaution, the shower, and, simultaneously with her gasp, remembered he was naked. He said, ‘Sorry, Goodnight,’ and reached for a towel and wound it round his waist and sat down on the edge of the bath. He gestured to the girl to sit down on the lavatory seat and said, with icy control, ‘What in hell are you doing here, Mary?’
Her voice was desperate. ‘I had to come. I had to find you somehow. I got on to you through the girl at that, er, dreadful place. I left the car in the trees down the drive and just sniffed about. There were lights on in some of the rooms and I listened and, er,’ she blushed crimson, ‘I gathered you couldn’t be in any of them and then I saw the open window and I just somehow knew you would be the only one to sleep with his window open. So I just had to take the chance.’
‘Well, we’ve got to get you out of here as quick as we can. Anyway, what’s the trouble?’
‘A “Most Immediate” in Triple-X came over this evening. I mean yesterday evening. It was to be passed to you at all costs. H.Q. thinks you’re in Havana. It said that one of the K.G.B. top men who goes under the name of Hendriks is in the area and that he’s known to be visiting this hotel. You’re to keep away from him. They know from “a delicate but sure source”’ (Bond smiled at the old euphemism for cypher-breaking) ‘that among his other jobs is to find you and, er, well, kill you. So I put two and two together, and, what with you being in this corner of the island and the questions you asked me, I guessed that you might be already on his track but that you might be walking into an ambush, sort of. Not knowing, I mean, that while you were after him, he was after you.’
She put out a tentative hand, as if for reassurance that she had done the right thing. Bond took it and patted it absent-mindedly while his mind chewed on this new complication. He said, ‘The man’s here all right. So’s a gunman called Scaramanga. You might as well know, Mary, that Scaramanga killed Ross. In Trinidad.’ She put her hand up to her mouth. ‘You can report it as a fact, from me. If I can get you out of here, that is. As for Hendriks, he’s here all right, but he doesn’t seem to have identified me for certain. Did H.Q. say whether he was given a description of me?’
‘You were simply described as “the notorious secret agent, James Bond”. But this doesn’t seem to have meant much to Hendriks because he asked for particulars. That was two days ago. He may get them cabled or telephoned here at any minute. You do see why I had to come, James?’
‘Yes, of course. And thanks, Mary. Now, I’ve got to get you out of that window and then you must just make your own way. Don’t worry about me. I think I can handle the situation all right. Besides, I’ve got help.’ He told her about Felix Leiter and Nicholson. ‘You just tell H.Q. you’ve delivered the message and that I’m here and about the two C.I.A. men. H.Q. can get the C.I.A. angles from Washington direct. Okay?’ He got to his feet.
She stood up beside him and looked up at him. ‘But you will take care?’
‘Sure, sure.’ He patted her shoulder. He turned off the shower and opened the bathroom door. ‘Now, come on. We must pray for a stroke of luck.’
A silken voice from the darkness at the end of the bed said, ‘Well, the Holy Man jes’ ain’t running for you today, Mister. Step forward both of you. Hands clasped behind the neck.’
11 ....... BALLCOCK, AND OTHER, TROUBLE
SCARAMANGA WALKED to the door and turned the lights on. He was naked save for his shorts and the holster below his left arm. The golden gun remained trained on Bond as he moved.
Bond looked at him incredulously, then to the carpet inside the door. The wedges were still there, undisturbed. He could not possibly have got through the window unaided. Then he saw that his clothes cupboard stood open and that light showed through into the next room. It was the simplest of secret doors – just the whole of the back of the cupboard, impossible to detect from Bond’s side of the wall and, on the other, probably, in appearance, a locked communicating door.
Scaramanga came back into the centre of the room and stood looking at them both. His mouth and eyes sneered. He said, ‘I didn’t see this piece of tail in the line-up. Where you been keeping it, buster? And why d’you have to hide it away in the bathroom? Like doing it under the shower?’
Bond said, ‘We’re engaged to be married. She works in the British High Commissioner’s Office in Kingston. Cypher clerk. She found out where I was staying from that place you and I met. She came out to tell me that my mother’s in hospital in London. Had a bad fall. Her name’s Mary Goodnight. What’s wrong with that and what do you mean coming busting into my room in the middle of the night waving a gun about? And kindly keep your foul tongue to yourself.’ Bond was pleased with his bluster and decided to take the next step towards Mary Goodnight’s freedom. He dropped his hands to his sides and turned to the girl. ‘Put your hands down, Mary. Mr Scaramanga must have thought there were burglars about when he heard that window bang. Now, I’ll get some clothes on and take you out to your car. You’ve got a long drive back to Kingston. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here for the rest of the night? I’m sure Mr Scaramanga could find us a spare room.’ He turned back to Mr Scaramanga. ‘It’s all right, Mr Scaramanga, I’ll pay for it.’
Mary Goodnight chipped in. She had dropped her hands. She picked up her small bag from the bed where s
he had thrown it, opened it and began busying herself with her hair in a fussy, feminine way. She chattered, falling in well with Bond’s bland piece of very British ‘Now-look-here-my man-manship’. ‘No, honestly, darling, I really think I’d better go. I’d be in terrible trouble if I was late at the office and the Prime Minister, Sir Alexander Bustamante, you know he’s just had his eightieth birthday, well he’s coming to lunch and you know His Excellency always likes me to do the flowers and arrange the place cards and as a matter of fact,’ she turned charmingly towards Mr Scaramanga, ‘it’s quite a day for me. The party was going to make up thirteen so His Excellency has asked me to be the fourteenth. Isn’t that marvellous? But heaven knows what I’m going to look like after tonight. The roads really are terrible in parts aren’t they, Mr – er – Scramble. But there it is. And I do apologize for causing all this disturbance and keeping you from your beauty sleep.’ She went towards him like the Queen Mother opening a bazaar, her hand outstretched. ‘Now you run along off back to bed again and my fiancé’ (Thank God she hadn’t said James! The girl was inspired!) ‘’ll see me safely off the premises. Goodbye, Mr, er…’
James Bond was proud of her. It was almost pure Joyce Grenfell. But Scaramanga wasn’t going to be taken by any double talk, limey or otherwise. She almost had Bond covered from Scaramanga. He moved swiftly aside. He said, ‘Hold it, lady. And you, mister, stand where you are.’ Mary Goodnight let her hand drop to her side. She looked inquiringly at Scaramanga as if he had just rejected the cucumber sandwiches. Really! These Americans! The Golden Gun didn’t go for polite conversation. It held dead steady between the two of them. Scaramanga said to Bond, ‘Okay, I’ll buy it. Put her through the window again. Then I’ve got something to say to you.’ He waved his gun at the girl. ‘Okay, bimbo. Get going. And don’t come trespassing on other people’s lands again. Right? And you can tell His friggin’ Excellency where to shove his place cards. His writ don’t run over the Thunderbird. Mine does. Got the photo? Okay. Don’t bust your stays getting through the window.’
Mary Goodnight said icily, ‘Very good, Mr, er…I will deliver your message. I’m sure the High Commissioner will take more careful note than he has done of your presence on the island. And the Jamaican Government also.’
Bond reached out and took her arm. She was on the edge of overplaying her role. He said, ‘Come on, Mary. And please tell mother that I’ll be through here in a day or two and I’ll be telephoning her from Kingston.’ He led her to the window and helped, or rather bundled her out. She gave a brief wave and ran off across the lawn. Bond came away from the window with considerable relief. He hadn’t expected the ghastly mess to sort itself out so painlessly.
He went and sat down on his bed. He sat on the pillow. He was reassured to feel the hard shape of his gun against his thighs. He looked across at Scaramanga. The man had put his gun back in the shoulder holster. He leant up against the clothes cupboard and ran his finger reflectively along the black line of his moustache. He said, ‘High Commissioner’s Office. That also houses the local representative of your famous Secret Service. I suppose, Mister Hazard, that your real name wouldn’t be James Bond? You showed quite a turn of speed with the gun tonight. I seem to have read somewhere that this man Bond fancies himself with the hardware. I also have information to the effect that he’s somewhere in the Caribbean and that he’s looking for me. Funny coincidence department, eh?’
Bond laughed easily. ‘I thought the Secret Service packed up at the end of the war. Anyway, ’fraid I can’t change my identity to suit your book. All you’ve got to do in the morning is ring up Frome and ask for Mr Tony Hugill, the boss up there, and check on my story. And can you explain how this Bond chap could possibly have tracked you down to a brothel in Sav’ La Mar? And what does he want from you anyway?’
Scaramanga contemplated him silently for a while. Then he said, ‘Guess he may be lookin’ for a shootin’ lesson. Be glad to oblige him. But you’ve got something about Number 3½. That’s what I figgered when I hired you. But coincidence doesn’t come in that size. Mebbe I should have thought again. I said from the first I smelled cops. That girl may be your fiancée or she may not, but that ploy with the shower bath. That’s an old hood’s trick. Probably a Secret Service one too. Unless, that is, you were screwin’ her.’ He raised one eyebrow.
‘I was. Anything wrong with that? What have you been doing with the Chinese girl? Playing mah-jongg?’ Bond got to his feet. He stitched impatience and outrage on his face in equal quantities. ‘Now look here, Mr Scaramanga. I’ve had just about enough of this. Just stop leaning on me. You go around waving that damned gun of yours and acting like God Almighty and insinuating a lot of tommy-rot about the Secret Service and you expect me to kneel down and lick your boots. Well, my friend, you’ve come to the wrong address. If you’re dissatisfied with the job I’m doing, just hand over the thousand dollars and I’ll be on my way. Who in hell d’you think you are anyway?’
Scaramanga smiled his thin, cruel smile. ‘You may be getting wise to that sooner than you think, shamus.’ He shrugged. ‘Okay, okay. But just you remember this, mister. If it turns out you’re not who you say you are, I’ll blow you to bits. Get me? And I’ll start with the little bits and go on to the bigger ones. Just so it lasts a heck of a long time. Right? Now you’d better get some shut-eye. I’ve got a meeting with Mr Hendriks at ten in the conference room. And I don’t want to be disturbed. After that the whole party goes on an excursion on the railroad I was tellin’ you about. It’ll be your job to see that that gets properly organized. Talk to the manager first thing. Right? Okay, then. Be seeing ya.’ Scaramanga walked into the clothes cupboard, brushed Bond’s suit aside and disappeared. There came a decisive click from the next room. Bond got to his feet. He said ‘Phew!’ at the top of his voice and walked off into the bathroom to wash the last two hours away in the shower.
He awoke at 6.30, by arrangement with that curious extrasensory alarm clock that some people keep in their heads and that always seems to know the exact time. He put on his bathing trunks and went out to the beach and did his long swim again. When at 7.15 he saw Scaramanga come out of the East Wing followed by the boy carrying his towel, he made for the shore. He listened for the twanging thump of the trampoline and then, keeping well out of sight of it, entered the hotel by the main entrance and moved quickly down the corridor to his room. He listened at his window to make sure the man was still exercising, then he took the master key Nick Nicholson had given him and slipped across the corridor to No. 20 and was quickly inside. He left the door on the latch. Yes, there was his target, lying on the dressing-table. He strode across the room, picked up the gun and slipped out the round in the cylinder that would next come up for firing. He put the gun down exactly as he had found it, got back to the door, listened, and then was out and across the corridor and into his own room. He went back to the window and listened. Yes, Scaramanga was still at it. It was an amateurish ploy that Bond had executed, but it might gain him just that fraction of a second that, he felt it in his bones, was going to be life or death for him in the next twenty-four hours. In his mind, he smelled that slight whiff of smoke that indicated that his cover was smouldering at the edges. At any moment ‘Mark Hazard of the Transworld Consortium’ might go up in flames like some clumsy effigy on Guy Fawkes Night and James Bond would stand there, revealed, with nothing between him and a possible force of six other gunmen but his own quick hand and the Walther PPK. So every shade of odds that he could shift to his side of the board would be worthwhile. Undismayed by the prospect, in fact rather excited by it, he ordered a large breakfast, consumed it with relish and after pulling the connecting pin out of the ballcock in his lavatory he went along to the manager’s office.
Felix Leiter was on duty. He gave a thin managerial smile and said, ‘Good morning, Mr Hazard. Can I help you?’ Leiter’s eyes were looking beyond Bond, over his right shoulder. Mr Hendriks materialized at the desk before Bond could answer.
Bond s
aid, ‘Good morning.’
Mr Hendriks replied with his little Germanic bow. He said to Leiter, ‘The telephone operator is saying that there is a long-distance call from my office in Havana. Where is the most private place to take it, pliss?’
‘Not in your bedroom, sir?’
‘Is not sufficiently private.’
Bond guessed that he too had bowled out the microphone.