Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

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Текущая страница: 172 (всего у книги 190 страниц)

‘Thanks, pal.’ Scaramanga’s hand went up to his face and covered his eyes. There came a drone of Latin which went on and on. Bond stood there in the sunshine, his gun lowered, watching Scaramanga, but at the same time not watching him, the edge of his focus dulled by the pain and the heat and the hypnotic litany that came from behind the shuttered face and the horror of what Bond was going to have to do – in one minute, perhaps two.

The fingers of Scaramanga’s right hand crawled imperceptibly sideways across his face, inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre. They got to his ear and stopped. The drone of the Latin prayer never altered its slow, lulling tempo.

And then the hand leaped behind the head and the tiny golden Derringer roared and James Bond spun round as if he had taken a right to the jaw and crashed to the ground.

At once Scaramanga was on his feet and moving forward like a swift cat. He snatched up the discarded knife and held it forward like a tongue of silver flame.

But James Bond twisted like a dying animal on the ground and the iron in his hand cracked viciously again and again – five times, and then fell out of his hand on to the black earth as his gun-hand went to the right side of his belly and stayed there, clutching at the terrible pain.

The big man stood for a moment and looked up at the deep blue sky. His fingers opened in a spasm and let go the knife. His pierced heart stuttered and limped and stopped. He crashed flat back and lay, his arms flung wide, as if someone had thrown him away.

After a while, the land crabs came out of their holes and began nosing at the scraps of the snake. The bigger offal could wait until the night.

16 | THE WRAP-UP

The extremely smart policeman from the wrecking squad on the railway came down the river bank at the normal, dignified gait of a Jamaican constable on his beat. No Jamaican policeman ever breaks into a run. He has been taught that this lacks authority. Felix Leiter, now put under with morphine by the doctor, had said that a good man was after a bad man in the swamp and that there might be shooting. Felix Leiter wasn’t more explicit than that, but, when he said he was from the F.B.I. – a legitimate euphemism – in Washington, the policeman tried to get some of the wrecking squad to come with him and, when he failed, sauntered cautiously off on his own, his baton swinging with assumed jauntiness.

The boom of the guns and the explosion of screeching marsh birds gave him an approximate fix. He had been born not far away, at Negril, and, as a boy, he had often used his gins and his slingshot in these marshes. They held no fears for him. When he came to the approximate point on the river bank, he turned left into the mangrove and, conscious that his black-and-blue uniform was desperately conspicuous, stalked cautiously from clump to clump into the morass. He was protected by nothing but his nightstick and the knowledge that to kill a policeman was a capital offence without the option. He only hoped that the good man and the bad man knew this too.

With all the birds gone, there was dead silence. The constable noticed that the tracks of bush rats and other small animals were running past him on a course that converged with his target area. Then he heard the rattling scuttle of the crabs and, in a moment, from behind a thick mangrove clump, he saw the glint of Scaramanga’s shirt. He watched and listened. There was no movement and no sound. He strolled, with dignity, into the middle of the clearing, looked at the two bodies and the guns and took out his nickel police whistle and blew three long blasts. Then he sat down in the shade of a bush, took out his report pad, licked his pencil and began writing in a laborious hand.

A week later, James Bond regained consciousness. He was in a green-shaded room. He was under water. The slowly revolving fan in the ceiling was the screw of a ship that was about to run him down. He swam for his life. But it was no good. He was tied down, anchored to the bottom of the sea. He screamed at the top of his lungs. To the nurse at the end of the bed it was the whisper of a moan. At once she was beside him. She put a cool hand on his forehead. While she took his pulse, James Bond looked up at her with unfocused eyes. So this was what a mermaid looked like! He muttered ‘You’re pretty,’ and gratefully swam back down into her arms.

The nurse wrote ninety-five on his sheet and telephoned down to the ward sister. She looked in the dim mirror and tidied her hair in preparation for the R.M.O. in charge of this apparently Very Important Patient.

The Resident Medical Officer, a young Jamaican graduate from Edinburgh, arrived with the matron, a kindly dragon on loan from King Edward VII’s. He heard the nurse’s report. He went over to the bed and gently lifted Bond’s eyelids. He slipped a thermometer under Bond’s armpit and held Bond’s pulse in one hand and a pocket chronometer in the other and there was silence in the little room. Outside, the traffic tore up and down a Kingston road.

The doctor released Bond’s pulse and slipped the chronometer back into the trouser pocket under the white smock. He wrote figures on the chart. The nurse held the door open and the three people went out into the corridor. The doctor talked to the matron. The nurse was allowed to listen. ‘He’s going to be all right. Temperature well down. Pulse a little fast but that may have been the result of his waking. Reduce the antibiotics. I’ll talk to the floor sister about that later. Keep on with the intravenous feeding. Dr Macdonald will be up later to attend to the dressings. He’ll be waking again. If he asks for something to drink, give him fruit juice. He should be on soft foods soon. Miracle really. Missed the abdominal viscera. Didn’t even shave a kidney. Muscle only. That bullet was dipped in enough poison to kill a horse. Thank God that man at Sav’ La Mar recognized the symptoms of snake venom and gave him those massive anti-snake bite injections. Remind me to write to him, matron. He saved the man’s life. Now then, no visitors of course, for at least another week. You can tell the police and the High Commissioner’s Office that he’s on the mend. I don’t know who he is, but apparently London keep on worrying us about him. Something to do with the Ministry of Defence. From now on, put them and all other inquiries through to the High Commissioner’s Office. They seem to think they’re in charge of him.’ He paused. ‘By the way, how’s his friend getting on in Number Twelve? The one the American Ambassador and Washington have been on about. He’s not on my list, but he keeps on asking to see this Mr Bond.’

‘Compound fracture of the tibia,’ said the matron. ‘No complications.’ She smiled. ‘Except that he’s a bit fresh with the nurses. He should be walking with a stick in ten days. He’s already seen the police. I suppose it’s all to do with that story in the Gleaner about those American tourists being killed when the bridge collapsed near Green Island Harbour. But the Commissioner’s handling it all personally. The story in the Gleaner’s very vague.’

The doctor smiled. ‘Nobody tells me anything. Just as well. I haven’t got the time to listen to them. Well, thank you, matron. I must get along. Multiple crash at Halfway Tree. The ambulances’ll be here any minute.’ He hurried away. The matron went about her business. The nurse, excited by all this high-level talk, went softly back into the green-shaded room, tidied the sheet over the naked right shoulder of her patient where the doctor had pulled it down, and went back to her chair at the end of the bed and her copy of Ebony.

Ten days later, the little room was crowded. James Bond, propped up among extra pillows, was amused by the galaxy of officialdom that had been assembled. On his left was the Commissioner of Police, resplendent in his black uniform with silver insignia. On his right was a Judge of the Supreme Court in full regalia accompanied by a deferential clerk. A massive figure, to whom Felix Leiter, on crutches, was fairly respectful, had been introduced as ‘Colonel Bannister’ from Washington. Head of Station C, a quiet civil servant called Alec Hill, who had been flown out from London, stood near the door and kept his appraising eyes unwaveringly on Bond. Mary Goodnight, who was to take notes of the proceedings but also, on the matron’s strict instructions, watch for any sign of fatigue in James Bond and have absolute authority to close the meeting if he showed strain, sat demurely beside the bed with a shorthand pad on her knees. But James Bond felt no strain. He was delighted to see all these people and know that at last he was back in the great world again. The only matters that worried him were that he had not been allowed to see Felix Leiter before the meeting to agree their stories and that he had been rather curtly advised by the High Commissioner’s Office that legal representation would not be necessary.

The Police Commissioner cleared his throat. He said, ‘Commander Bond, our meeting here today is largely a formality, but it is held on the Prime Minister’s instructions and with your doctor’s approval. There are many rumours running around the island and abroad and Sir Alexander Bustamante is most anxious to have them dispelled for the sake of justice and of the island’s good name. So this meeting is in the nature of a judicial inquiry having Prime Ministerial status. We very much hope that, if the conclusions of the meeting are satisfactory, there need be no more legal proceedings whatever. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Bond, who didn’t.

‘Now,’ the Commissioner spoke weightily. ‘The facts as ascertained are as follows. Recently there took place at the Thunderbird Hotel in the Parish of Westmoreland a meeting of what can only be described as foreign gangsters of outstanding notoriety, including representatives of the Soviet Secret Service, the Mafia, and the Cuban Secret Police. The objects of this meeting were, inter alia, sabotage of Jamaican installations in the cane industry, stimulation of illicit ganja-growing in the island and purchase of the crop for export, the bribery of a high Jamaican official with the object of installing gangster-run gambling in the island and sundry other malfeasances deleterious to law and order in Jamaica and to her international standing. Am I correct, Commander?’

‘Yes,’ said Bond, this time with a clear conscience.

‘Now.’ The Commissioner spoke with even greater emphasis. ‘The intentions of this subversive group became known to the Criminal Investigation Department of the Jamaican Police and the facts of the proposed assembly were placed before the Prime Minister in person by myself. Naturally the greatest secrecy was observed. A decision then had to be reached as to how this meeting was to be kept under surveillance and penetrated so that its intentions might be learned. Since friendly nations, including Britain and the United States, were involved, secret conversations took place with the representatives of the Ministry of Defence in Britain and of the Central Intelligence Agency in the United States. As a result, expert personnel in the shape of yourself, Mr Nicholson and Mr Leiter were generously made available, at no cost to the Jamaican Government, to assist in unveiling these secret machinations against Jamaica held on Jamaican soil.’ The Commissioner paused and looked round the room to see if he had stated the position correctly. Bond had noticed that Felix Leiter nodded his head vigorously with the others, but, in his case, in Bond’s direction.

Bond smiled. He had at last got the message. He also nodded his agreement.

‘Accordingly,’ continued the Commissioner, ‘and working throughout under the closest liaison and direction of the Jamaican C.I.D., Messrs Bond, Nicholson and Leiter carried out their duties in exemplary fashion. The true intentions of the gangsters were unveiled, but alas, in the process, the identity of at least one of the Jamaica-controlled agents was discovered and a battle royal took place during the course of which the following enemy agents – here there will be a list – were killed, thanks to the superior gunfire of Commander Bond and Mr Leiter, and the following – another list – by the destruction by Mr Leiter’s ingenious use of explosive of the Orange River Bridge on the Lucea–Green Island Harbour railway, now converted for tourist use. Unfortunately, two of the Jamaica-controlled agents received severe wounds from which they are now recovering in the Memorial Hospital. It remains to mention the names of Constable Percival Sampson of the Negril Constabulary who was first on the scene of the final battlefield, and Dr Lister Smith of Savannah La Mar who rendered vital first aid to Commander Bond and Mr Leiter. On the instructions of the Prime Minister, Sir Alexander Bustamante, a judicial inquiry was held this day at the bedside of Commander Bond and in the presence of Mr Felix Leiter to confirm the above facts. These, in the presence of Justice Morris Cargill of the Supreme Court, are now and hereby confirmed.’

The Commissioner was obviously delighted with his rendering of all this rigmarole. He beamed at Bond. ‘It only remains’, he handed Bond a sealed packet, a similar one to Felix Leiter and one to Colonel Bannister, ‘to confer on Commander Bond of Great Britain, Mr Felix Leiter of the United States and, in absentia, Mr Nicholas Nicholson of the United States, the immediate award of the Jamaican Police Medal for gallant and meritorious services to the Independent State of Jamaica.’

There was muted applause. Mary Goodnight went on clapping after the others had stopped. She suddenly realized the fact, blushed furiously and stopped.

James Bond and Felix Leiter made stammered acknowledgments. Justice Cargill rose to his feet and, in solemn tones, asked Bond and Leiter in turn, ‘Is this a true and correct account of what occurred between the given dates?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Bond.

‘I’ll say it is, Your Honour,’ said Felix Leiter fervently.

The Judge bowed. All except Bond rose and bowed. Bond just bowed. ‘In that case, I declare this inquiry closed.’ The bewigged figure turned to Miss Goodnight. ‘If you will be kind enough to obtain all the signatures, duly witnessed, and send them round to my chambers? Thank you so much.’ He paused and smiled. ‘And the carbon, if you don’t mind?’

‘Certainly, my lord.’ Mary Goodnight glanced at Bond. ‘And now, if you will forgive me, I think the patient needs a rest. Matron was most insistent …’

Goodbyes were said. Bond called Leiter back. Mary Goodnight smelled private secrets. She admonished, ‘Now, only a minute!’ and went out and closed the door.

Leiter leant over the end of the bed. He wore his most quizzical smile. He said, ‘Well, I’ll be goddamned, James. That was the neatest wrap-up job I’ve ever lied my head off at. Everything clean as a whistle and we’ve even collected a piece of lettuce.’

Talking starts with the stomach muscles. Bond’s wounds were beginning to ache. He smiled, not showing the pain. Leiter was due to leave that afternoon. Bond didn’t want to say goodbye to him. Bond treasured his men friends and Felix Leiter was a great slice of his past. He said, ‘Scaramanga was quite a guy. He should have been taken alive. Maybe Tiffy really did put the hex on him with Mother Edna. They don’t come like that often.’

Leiter was unsympathetic. ‘That’s the way you limeys talk about Rommel and Dönitz and Guderian. Let alone Napoleon. Once you’ve beaten them, you make heroes out of them. Don’t make sense to me. In my book, an enemy’s an enemy. Care to have Scaramanga back? Now, in this room, with his famous golden gun on you – the long one or the short one? Standing where I am? One bets you a thousand you wouldn’t. Don’t be a jerk, James. You did a good job. Pest control. It’s got to be done by someone. Going back to it when you’re off the orange juice?’ Felix Leiter jeered at him. ‘Of course you are, lamebrain. It’s what you were put into the world for. Pest control, like I said. All you got to figure is how to control it better. The pests’ll always be there. God made dogs. He also made their fleas. Don’t let it worry your tiny mind. Right?’ Leiter had seen the sweat on James Bond’s forehead. He limped towards the door and opened it. He raised his hand briefly. The two men had never shaken hands in their lives. Leiter looked into the corridor. He said, ‘Okay, Miss Goodnight. Tell matron to take him off the danger list. And tell him to keep away from me for a week or two. Every time I see him a piece of me gets broken off. I don’t fancy myself as The Vanishing Man.’ Again he raised his only hand in Bond’s direction and limped out.

Bond shouted, ‘Wait, you bastard!’ But, by the time Leiter had limped back into the room, Bond, no effort left in him to fire off the volley of four-letter words that were his only answer to his friend, had lapsed into unconsciousness.

Mary Goodnight shooed the remorseful Leiter out of the room and ran off down the corridor to the floor sister.

17 | ENDIT

A week later, James Bond was sitting up in a chair, a towel round his waist, reading Allen Dulles on The Craft of Intelligence and cursing his fate. The hospital had worked miracles on him, the nurses were sweet, particularly the one he called ‘The Mermaid’, but he wanted to be off and away. He glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. Visiting time. Mary Goodnight would soon be there and he would be able to let off his pent-up steam on her. Unjust perhaps, but he had already tongue-lashed everyone in range in the hospital and, if she got into the field of fire, that was just too bad!

Mary Goodnight came through the door. Despite the Jamaican heat, she was looking fresh as a rose. Damn her! She was carrying what looked like a typewriter. Bond recognized it as the Triple-X deciphering machine. Now what?

Bond grunted surly answers to her inquiries after his health. He said, ‘What in hell’s that for?’

‘It’s an “Eyes Only”. Personal from M.,’ she said excitedly. ‘About thirty groups.’

‘Thirty groups! Doesn’t the old bastard know I’ve only got one arm that’s working? Come on, Mary. You get cracking. If it sounds really hot, I’ll take over.’

Mary Goodnight looked shocked. ‘Eyes Only’ was a top-sacred prefix. But Bond’s jaw was jutting out dangerously. Today was not a day for argument. She sat on the edge of the bed, opened the machine and took a cable form out of her bag. She laid her shorthand book beside the machine, scratched the back of her head with her pencil to help work out the setting for the day – a complicated sum involving the date and the hour of dispatch of the cable – adjusted the setting on the central cylinder and began cranking the handle. After each completed word had appeared in the little oblong window at the base of the machine, she recorded it in her book.

James Bond watched her expression. She was pleased. After a few minutes she read out: ‘M. PERSONAL FOR 007 EYES ONLY STOP YOUR REPORT AND DITTO FROM TOP FRIENDS [a euphemism for the C.I.A.] RECEIVED STOP YOU HAVE DONE WELL AND EXECUTED AYE DIFFICULT AND HAZARDOUS OPERATION TO MY ENTIRE REPEAT ENTIRE SATISFACTION STOP TRUST YOUR HEALTH UNIMPAIRED [Bond gave an angry snort] STOP WHEN WILL YOU BE REPORTING FOR FURTHER DUTY QUERY.’

Mary Goodnight smiled delightedly. ‘I’ve never seen him be so complimentary! Have you, James? That repeat of ENTIRE! It’s tremendous!’ She looked hopefully for a lifting of the black clouds from Bond’s face.

In fact Bond was secretly delighted, but he certainly wasn’t going to show it to Mary Goodnight. Today she was one of the wardresses confining him, tying him down. He said grudgingly, ‘Not bad for the old man. But all he wants is to get me back to that bloody desk. Anyway, it’s a lot of jazz so far. What comes next?’ He turned the pages of his book, pretending as the little machine whirred and clicked not to be interested.

‘Oh, James!’ Mary Goodnight exploded with excitement. ‘Wait! I’m almost finished. It’s tremendous!’

‘I know,’ commented Bond sourly. ‘Free luncheon vouchers every second Friday. Key to M. ’s personal lavatory. New suit to replace the one that’s somehow got full of holes.’ But he kept his eyes fixed on the flitting fingers, infected by Mary Goodnight’s excitement. What in hell was she getting so steamed up about? And all on his behalf! He examined her with approval. Perched there, immaculate in her white tussore shirt and tight beige skirt, one neat foot curled round the other in concentration, the golden face under the shortish fair hair incandescent with pleasure, she was, thought Bond, a girl to have around always. As a secretary? As what? Mary Goodnight turned, her eyes shining, and the question went, as it had gone for weeks, without an answer.

‘Now, just listen to this, James.’ She shook the notebook at him. ‘And for heaven’s sake stop looking so curmudgeonly.’

Bond smiled at the word. ‘All right, Mary. Go ahead. Empty the Christmas stocking on the floor. Hope it’s not going to bust any stitches.’ He put his book down on his lap.

Mary Goodnight’s face became portentous. She said seriously, ‘Just listen to this!’ She read very carefully: ‘IN VIEW OF THE OUTSTANDING NATURE OF THE SERVICES REFERRED TO ABOVE AND THEIR ASSISTANCE TO THE ALLIED CAUSE COMMA WHICH IS PERHAPS MORE SIGNIFICANT THAN YOU IMAGINE COMMA THE PRIME MINISTER PROPOSES TO RECOMMEND TO HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH THE IMMEDIATE GRANT OF A KNIGHTHOOD STOP THIS TO TAKE THE FORM OF THE ADDITION OF A KATIE AS PREFIX TO YOUR CHARLIE MICHAEL GEORGE. [James Bond uttered a defensive, embarrassed laugh. ‘Good old cypherines. They wouldn’t think of just putting KCMG – much too easy! Go ahead, Mary. This is good!’] IT IS COMMON PRACTICE TO INQUIRE OF PROPOSED RECIPIENT WHETHER HE ACCEPTS THIS HIGH HONOUR BEFORE HER MAJESTY PUTS HER SEAL UPON IT STOP WRITTEN LETTER SHOULD FOLLOW YOUR CABLED CONFIRMATION OF ACCEPTANCE PARAGRAPH THIS AWARD NATURALLY HAS MY SUPPORT AND ENTIRE APPROVAL AND EYE SEND YOU MY PERSONAL CONGRATULATIONS ENDIT MAILEDFIST.’

James Bond again hid himself behind the throw-away line. ‘Why in hell does he always have to sign himself “Mailedfist” for “M.”? There’s a perfectly good English word “Em”. It’s a measure used by printers. But of course it’s not dashing enough for the Chief. He’s a romantic at heart like all the silly bastards who get mixed up with the Service.’

Mary Goodnight lowered her eyelashes. She knew that Bond’s reflex concealed his pleasure – a pleasure he wouldn’t for the life of him have displayed. Who wouldn’t be pleased, proud? She put on a businesslike expression. ‘Well, would you like me to draft something for you to send? I can be back with it at six and I know they’ll let me in. I can check up on the right sort of formula with the High Commissioner’s staff. I know it begins with “I present my humble duty to Her Majesty”. I’ve had to help with the Jamaica honours at New Year and her birthday. Everyone seems to want to know the form.’

James Bond wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Of course he was pleased! But above all pleased with M. ’s commendation. The rest, he knew, was not in his stars. He had never been a public figure and he did not wish to become one. He had no prejudice against letters after one’s name, or before it. But there was one thing above all he treasured. His privacy. His anonymity. To become a public person, a person, in the snobbish world of England, of any country, who would be called upon to open things, lay foundation stones, make after-dinner speeches, brought the sweat to his armpits. ‘James Bond’! No middle name. No hyphen. A quiet, dull, anonymous name. Certainly he was a Commander in the Special Branch of the R.N.V.R., but he rarely used the rank. His C.M.G. likewise. He wore it perhaps once a year, together with his two rows of ‘lettuce’, because there was a dinner for the ‘Old Boys’ – the fraternity of ex-Secret Service men that went under the name of ‘The Twin Snakes Club’ – a grisly reunion held in the banqueting hall at Blades that gave enormous pleasure to a lot of people who had been brave and resourceful in their day but now had old men’s and old women’s diseases and talked about dusty triumphs and tragedies which, since they would never be recorded in the history books, must be told again that night, over the Cockburn ’12, when ‘The Queen’ had been drunk, to some next-door neighbour such as James Bond who was only interested in what was going to happen tomorrow. That was when he wore his ‘lettuce’ and the C.M.G. below his black tie – to give pleasure and reassurance to the ‘Old Children’ at their annual party. For the rest of the year, until May polished them up for the occasion, the medals gathered dust in some secret repository where May kept them.

So now James Bond said to Mary Goodnight, avoiding her eyes, ‘Mary, this is an order. Take down what follows and send it tonight. Right? Begins, quote MAILEDFIST EYES ONLY [Bond interjected, I might have said PROMONEYPENNY. When did M. last touch a cypher machine?] YOUR [Put in the number, Mary] ACKNOWLEDGED AND GREATLY APPRECIATED STOP AM INFORMED BY HOSPITAL AUTHORITIES THAT EYE SHALL BE RETURNED LONDONWARDS DUTIABLE IN ONE MONTH STOP REFERRING YOUR REFERENCE TO AYE HIGH HONOUR EYE BEG YOU PRESENT MY HUMBLE DUTY TO HER MAJESTY AND REQUEST THAT EYE MAY BE PERMITTED COMMA IN ALL HUMILITY COMMA TO DECLINE THE SIGNAL FAVOUR HER MAJESTY IS GRACIOUS ENOUGH TO PROPOSE TO CONFER UPON HER HUMBLE AND OBEDIENT SERVANT BRACKET TO MAILEDFIST PLEASE PUT THIS IN THE APPROPRIATE WORDS TO THE PRIME MINISTER STOP MY PRINCIPAL REASON IS THAT EYE DONT WANT TO PAY MORE AT HOTELS AND RESTAURANTS BRACKET.’

Mary Goodnight broke in, horrified. ‘James. The rest is your business, but you really can’t say that last bit.’

Bond nodded. ‘I was only trying it on you, Mary. All right, let’s start again at the last stop. Right, EYE AM A SCOTTISH PEASANT AND EYE WILL ALWAYS FEEL AT HOME BEING A SCOTTISH PEASANT AND EYE KNOW COMMA SIR COMMA THAT YOU WILL UNDERSTAND MY PREFERENCE AND THAT EYE CAN COUNT ON YOUR INDULGENCE BRACKET LETTER CONFIRMING FOLLOWS IMMEDIATELY ENDIT OHOHSEVEN.’

Mary Goodnight closed her book with a snap. She shook her head. The golden hair danced angrily. ‘Well really, James! Are you sure you don’t want to sleep on it? I knew you were in a bad mood today. You may have changed your mind by tomorrow. Don’t you want to go to Buckingham Palace and see the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh and kneel and have your shoulder touched with a sword and the Queen to say “Arise, Sir Knight” or whatever it is she does say?’

Bond smiled. ‘I’d like all those things. The romantic streak of the S.I.S. – and of the Scot, for the matter of that. I just refuse to call myself Sir James Bond. I’d laugh at myself every time I looked in the mirror to shave. It’s just not my line, Mary. The thought makes me positively shudder. I know M.’ll understand. He thinks much the same way about these things as I do. Trouble was, he had to more or less inherit his K with the job. Anyway, there it is and I shan’t change my mind so you can buzz that off and I’ll write M. a letter of confirmation this evening. Any other business?’

‘Well there is one thing, James.’ Mary Goodnight looked down her pretty nose. ‘Matron says you can leave at the end of the week, but that there’s got to be another three weeks’ convalescence. Had you got any plans where to go? You have to be in reach of the hospital.’

‘No ideas. What do you suggest?’

‘Well, er, I’ve got this little villa up by Mona dam, James.’ Her voice hurried. ‘It’s got quite a nice spare room looking out over Kingston harbour. And it’s cool up there. And if you don’t mind sharing a bathroom.’ She blushed. ‘I’m afraid there’s no chaperone, but you know, in Jamaica, people don’t mind that sort of thing.’

‘What sort of thing?’ said Bond, teasing her.

‘Don’t be silly, James. You know, unmarried couples sharing the same house and so on.’

‘Oh, that sort of thing! Sounds pretty dashing to me. By the way, is your bedroom decorated in pink, with white jalousies, and do you sleep under a mosquito net?’

She looked surprised. ‘Yes. How did you know?’ When he didn’t answer, she hurried on. ‘And James, it’s not far from the Liguanea Club and you can go there and play bridge, and golf when you get better. There’ll be plenty of people for you to talk to. And then of course I can cook and sew buttons on for you and so on.’

Of all the doom-fraught graffiti a woman can write on the wall, those are the most insidious, the most deadly.

James Bond, in the full possession of his senses, with his eyes wide open, his feet flat on the linoleum floor, stuck his head blithely between the mink-lined jaws of the trap. He said, and meant it, ‘Goodnight. You’re an angel.’

At the same time, he knew, deep down, that love from Mary Goodnight, or from any other woman, was not enough for him. It would be like taking ‘a room with a view’. For James Bond, the same view would always pall.

THE END