Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

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Текущая страница: 49 (всего у книги 190 страниц)

19 | SPECTREVILLE

The red Jaguar was outside the entrance, up against the wall of the enclosure. Bond let them take his gun and climbed in beside the driver.

‘No funny tricks if you want to keep your head on straight,’ said suet-face, climbing into the rumble seat beside the golf clubs. ‘There’s a gun on you.’

‘Nice little car you once had,’ said Bond. The shattered windshield had been lowered flat and a piece of chrome from the radiator stuck up like a pennant between the two wingless front tyres. ‘Where are we going in the remains?’

‘You’ll see,’ said the driver, a bony man with a cruel mouth and sideburns. He swung the car out on to the road and accelerated back towards the town, and they were soon in amongst the jungle of neon and then through it and going fast down a two-lane highway that ribboned away across the moonlit desert towards the mountains.

There was a big sign which said ‘95’ and Bond remembered what Ernie Cureo had told him and knew that he was on his way to Spectreville. He hunched down in his seat to protect his eyes from the dust and flies and thought about the immediate future and how to revenge his friend.

So these men and the other two in the Chevrolet had been sent to bring him to Mr Spang. Why had four men been necessary? Surely they were a rather heavy-weight answer to Bond’s defiance of his orders in the Casino?

The car lapped up the dead-straight road with the needle of the speedometer wavering around eighty. The telegraph poles shifted by with the click of a metronome.

Bond suddenly felt that he didn’t know quite enough of the answers.

Was he completely exposed as an enemy of the Spangled Mob? He could argue himself out of the game of roulette on the grounds that he hadn’t understood his orders, and if he had been a bit troublesome when the four men came for him, he could at least pretend that he had thought it was a tail from a rival mob. ‘If you wanted me, why didn’t you just call me in my room?’ Bond could hear himself saying in an injured tone of voice.

At least he had shown that he was tough enough for any job Mr Spang might offer him. And in any case, Bond reassured himself, he was just about to achieve his main objective – to get to the end of the pipeline and somehow link Seraffimo Spang with his brother in London.

Bond crouched, his eyes on the luminous dials in front of him, and concentrated on the interview ahead and on wondering how much useful evidence about the pipeline he could possibly extract from it. Later, he thought about Ernie Cureo and the revenge he owed him.

It was not in his make-up to worry about how he himself was going to get away once he had achieved these two objectives. His own safety gave him no concern. He still had no respect for these people. Only contempt and dislike.

Bond was still rehearsing imaginary conversations with Mr Spang when, after two hours’ driving, he felt the speed of the car coming down. He lifted his head above the dashboard. They were coasting up to a section of high wire fence with a gate in it and a big notice lit up by their single spotlight. It said: SPECTREVILLE. CITY LIMITS. DO NOT ENTER. DANGEROUS DOGS. The car drew up below the notice and beside an iron post embedded in concrete. On the post there was a bellpush and a small iron grill and, written in red: RING AND STATE YOUR BUSINESS.

Without leaving the wheel, sideburns reached out and pressed the button. There was a pause and then a metallic voice said ‘Yes?’

‘Frasso and McGonigle,’ said the driver, loudly.

‘Okay,’ said the voice. There was a sharp click. The high wire gate slowly opened. They drove through and over an iron strip in the narrow dirt road beyond. Bond looked back over his shoulder and saw the gate close behind them. He also noticed with pleasure that the face of, presumably, McGonigle, was plastered with dust and the blood of dead flies.

The dirt road continued for about a mile across the brutal, stony surface of the desert in which an occasional clump of gesticulating cactus was the only vegetation. Then there was a glow ahead and they rounded a spur of mountain and went down a hill and into a brightly lit straggling assembly of about twenty buildings. Beyond, the moon glinted on a single railway track which lanced off, straight as a die, towards the distant horizon.

They drew up among the grey clapboard houses and shops marked ‘drugs’, ‘barber’, ‘farmers bank’ and ‘wells fargo’, under a hissing gaslight outside a two-storey building which said in faded gold, ‘pink garter saloon’, and underneath, ‘Beers and Wines’.

From behind the traditional sawn-off swing-doors, yellow light streamed out on to the street and on to the sleek black and silver of a 1920 Stutz Bearcat roadster at the kerb. There was the sweet nasal twang of a honkey-tonk piano playing ‘I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now’, slightly flat. The music reminded Bond of sawdust floors, nursed drinks and girls’ legs in the widest mesh stockings. The whole scene was like something out of an exceptionally well-mounted ‘Western’.

‘Out, Limey,’ said the driver. The three men climbed stiffly out of the car and on to the raised wooden sidewalk. Bond bent to massage a leg that had gone to sleep, watching the feet of the two men.

‘Come on, sissy,’ said McGonigle, giving him a nudge with his loosely held gun. Bond slowly straightened himself, measuring inches. He limped heavily as he followed the man to the door of the saloon. He paused as the swing doors flapped back into his face. He felt the prod of Frasso’s gun from behind.

Now! Bond straightened himself and leapt through the still-swinging door. McGonigle’s back was just in front of him and, beyond, there was a brightly lit empty bar-room in which an automatic piano was playing to itself.

Bond’s hands shot out and caught the man above the elbows. He lifted him off his feet and swung him round and into the swing doors and into Frasso, who was half-way through them. The whole clapboard house trembled as the two bodies met and Frasso fell back through the doors and crashed on to the sidewalk.

McGonigle catapulted back and twisted to face Bond. There was a rising gun in his hand. Bond’s left caught him on the shoulder. At the same time his open right hand slapped down hard on the gun. McGonigle went back on his heels against the door jamb. The gun clattered to the floor.

The snout of Frasso’s revolver appeared through the swing doors. It weaved quickly round towards Bond, like an aiming snake. As its blue-and-yellow tongue licked out, Bond, his blood singing with the battle, dived for the ground and for the gun at McGonigle’s feet. He got his hand on it and fired two quick shots upwards from the floor before McGonigle stamped on his firing hand and landed on top of him. As Bond went down, he caught a glimpse of Frasso’s gun arced up between the swing doors, pumping bullets into the ceiling. And this time the crash of the body on the planking outside sounded final.

Then McGonigle’s hands were at him and Bond was kneeling on the ground with his head down, trying to protect his eyes. The gun was still on the floor within reach of the first free hand.

For seconds they fought silently, like animals, and then Bond got to one knee and gave a great heave of his shoulders and lashed upwards at the glimpse of a face and the weight came off him and he rose to a crouch. As he did so, McGonigle’s knee came up like a piston under Bond’s chin and knocked him to his feet with a snap of the teeth that shook his skull.

Bond had no time to clear his head before the gangster gave a thick grunt and came for him head downwards with both arms flailing.

Bond twisted to protect his stomach and the gangster’s head hit him in the ribs and the two fists crashed into his body.

Bond’s breath whistled through his teeth with the pain, but he kept focus on McGonigle’s head below him and, with a twist of the body that put all his shoulder behind his hand, he whipped in a hard left, and, as the gangster’s head came up, he lashed out with his right to the chin.

The impact of the two blows straightened McGonigle and rocked him back on his feet. Bond was on him like a panther, crowding him and raining in blows to the body until the gangster began to sag. Bond grabbed at one weaving wrist and dived for an ankle and yanked it away from the floor. Then he put out all his strength, made almost a full turn to gather momentum, and slung the body sideways into the room.

There was a first twanging crash as the flying figure hit the upright pianola and then, with an explosion of metallic discords and breaking wood, the dying instrument toppled over and, with McGonigle spread-eagled across it, thundered to the floor.

Amidst the diminishing crescendo of echoes, Bond stood in the centre of the room, his legs braced with the last effort and the breath rasping in his throat. Slowly he lifted one bruised hand and ran it through his dripping hair.

‘Cut.’

It was a girl’s voice and it came from the direction of the bar.

Bond shook himself and turned slowly round.

Four people had come into the saloon. They were standing in line with their backs to the mahogany-and-brass bar behind which ranks of gleaming bottles rose to the ceiling. Bond had no idea how long they had been there.

A step in front of the other three stood the leading citizen of Spectreville, resplendent, motionless, dominant.

Mr Spang was dressed in full Western costume down to the long silver spurs on his polished black boots. The costume, and the broad leather chaps that covered his legs, were in black, picked out and embellished with silver. The big, quiet hands rested on the ivory butts of two long-barrelled revolvers which protruded from a holster down each thigh, and the broad black belt from which they hung was ribbed with ammunition.

Mr Spang should have looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. His big head was thrust slightly forward and his eyes were cold, fierce slits.

On Mr Spang’s right, with her hands on her hips, was Tiffany Case. In a Western dress of white and gold, she looked like something out of Annie Get Your Gun. She stood and watched Bond. Her eyes were shining. Her full red lips were slightly parted and she was panting as if she had been kissed.

The other half of the quartette was the two men in black hoods from Saratoga. Each of them held a .38 Police Positive trained on Bond’s heaving stomach.

Bond slowly took out a handkerchief and wiped his face with it. He was feeling light-headed and the scene in the brilliantly lit saloon, with its brass fittings and its homely advertisements for long-vanished beers and whiskies, was suddenly macabre.

Mr Spang broke the silence. ‘Bring him over.’ The hard jaws that operated the sharp thin lips separated and cut off each word as cleanly as a meat-slice. ‘And tell someone to call Detroit and tell the boys they’re suffering from delusions of adequacy up there. And tell ’em to send down two more. And tell ’em they got to be better than the last lot. And tell someone else to clean up this mess. ’Kay?’

There was a faint jingle of spurs on the wooden floor as Mr Spang left the room. With a last look at Bond, a look that held some message that was more than the obvious warning, the girl followed him.

The two men came up to Bond and the big one said ‘You heard.’ Bond walked slowly after the girl and the two men lined up behind him.

There was a door behind the bar. Bond pushed through it and found himself in a station waiting-room with benches and old-fashioned notices about trains and warning you not to spit on the floor. ‘Right,’ said one of the men and Bond turned through a sawn-off swing-door and on to a plank station platform.

And then Bond stopped in his tracks and hardly noticed a sharp prod in the ribs from a gun barrel.

It was probably the most beautiful train in the world. The engine was one of the old locomotives of the ‘Highland Light’ class of around 1870 which Bond had heard called the handsomest steam locomotives ever built. Its polished brass handrails and the fluted sand-dome and heavy warning bell above the long gleaming barrel of the boiler glittered under the hissing gaslights of the station. A wisp of steam came from the towering balloon smoke-stack of the old wood-burner. The great sweeping cow-catcher was topped by three massive brass lights – a bulging pilot beam at the base of the smoke-stack and two storm lanterns below. Above the two tall driving wheels, in fine early Victorian gold capitals, was written ‘The Cannonball’, and the name was repeated along the side of the black-and-gold painted tender, piled with birch logs, behind the tall, square driver’s cabin.

Coupled to the tender was a maroon coloured state Pullman. Its arched windows above the narrow mahogany panels were picked out in cream. An oval plaque amidships said ‘The Sierra Belle’. Above the windows and below the slightly jutting barrel roof ‘Tonopah and Tidewater R.R.’ was written in cream capitals on dark blue.

‘Guess you never seen nuthen like that, Limey,’ said one of the guards proudly. ‘Now git goin’. ’ His voice was muffled by the black silk hood.

Bond walked slowly across and stepped up on to the brass-railed observation platform with the shining brakeman’s wheel in the centre. For the first time in his life he saw the point of being a millionaire and suddenly, and also for the first time, he thought that there might be more to this man Spang than he had reckoned with.

The interior of the Pullman glittered with Victorian luxury. The light from small crystal chandeliers in the roof shone back from polished mahogany walls and winked off silver fittings and cut-glass vases and lamp-stands. The carpets and swagged curtains were wine-red and the domed ceiling, broken at intervals by oval-framed paintings of garlanded cherubs and wreathed flowers against a background of sky and clouds, was cream, as were the slats of the drawn venetian blinds.

First came a small dining-room with the remains of a supper for two – a basket of fruit and an open bottle of champagne in a silver bucket – and then a narrow corridor from which three doors led, Bond assumed, to the bedrooms and lavatory. Bond was still thinking about this arrangement as, with the guards at his heels, he pushed open the door into the state room.

At the far end of the state room, with his back to a small open fireplace flanked by bookshelves gleaming richly with gold tooled leather bindings, stood Mr Spang. In a red leather armchair near a small writing-desk half way down the car Tiffany Case sat bolt upright. Bond didn’t care for the way she was holding her cigarette. It was nervous and artificial. It looked frightened.

Bond took a few steps down the car to a comfortable chair. He turned it round to face them both and sat down and crossed one knee over the other. He took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette and swallowed a deep lungful of smoke and let the smoke come out between his teeth with a long relaxed hiss.

Mr Spang had an unlighted cigar jutting from the exact centre of his mouth. He took it out. ‘Stay here, Wint. Kidd, get along and do what I said.’ The strong teeth bit the words off like inches of celery. ‘Now you,’ his eyes glittered angrily at Bond, ‘who are you and what’s going on?’

‘I shall need a drink if we’re going to talk,’ said Bond.

Mr Spang eyed him coldly. ‘Get him a drink, Wint.’

Bond half turned his head. ‘Bourbon and branch-water,’ he said. ‘Half and half.’

There was an angry grunt and Bond heard the woodwork creak as the heavy man walked back down the Pullman.

Bond didn’t much like Mr Spang’s question. He went back over his story. It still looked all right. He sat and smoked and looked at Mr Spang, weighing him up.

The drink came and the guard thrust it into his hand so that some of it slopped on to the carpet. ‘Thank you, Wint,’ said Bond. He took a deep swallow. It was strong and good. He took another. Then he put the glass down on the floor beside him.

He looked up again into the tense, hard face. ‘I just don’t like being leant on,’ he said easily. ‘I did my job and got paid. If I chose to gamble with the money, that was my affair. I could have lost. And then a lot of your men started breathing down my neck and I got impatient. If you wanted to talk to me, why didn’t you just call me on the telephone? Putting that tail on was unfriendly. And when they got rude and started shooting I thought it was time to do some leaning of my own.’

The black-and-white face against the coloured books didn’t yield. ‘You don’t get the message, feller,’ Mr Spang said softly. ‘Mebbe I better bring you up to date. Gotta coded signal yesterday from London.’ His hand went to the breast pocket of his black Western shirt and he slowly pulled out a piece of paper, holding Bond’s eyes with his.

Bond knew the piece of paper was bad news, really bad news, just as surely as you do when you read the word ‘deeply’ at the beginning of a telegram.

‘This is from a good friend in London,’ said Mr Spang. He slowly released Bond’s eyes and looked down at the piece of paper. ‘It says “Reliably informed Peter Franks held by police on unspecified charge. Endeavour at all costs hold substitute carrier ascertain if operations endangered eliminate him and report”. ’

There was silence in the car. Mr Spang’s eyes rose from the paper and glittered redly down on Bond. ‘Well, Mister Whosis, this looks like a good year for something horrible to happen to you.’

Bond knew he was for it and part of his mind slowly digested the knowledge, wondering how it was going to be done. But at the same time another part told him that he had discovered what he wanted to know, what he had come to America to find out. The two Spangs did represent the beginning and the end of the diamond pipeline. At this moment, he had completed the job he had set out to do. He knew the answers. Now, somehow, he must get the answers back to M.

Bond reached down for his drink. The ice rattled hollowly as he took the last deep swallow and put the glass down. He looked candidly up at Mr Spang. ‘I took the job from Peter Franks. He didn’t like the look of it and I needed the money.’

‘Don’t give me that crap,’ said Mr Spang flatly. ‘You’re a cop or a private eye of some sort and I’m going to find out who you are, and who you work for, and what you know – what you were doing in the Acme Baths alongside that crooked jock; why you carry a gun and where you learnt to handle it; how come you’re tied in with Pinkertons in the shape of that phoney cab-driver. Things like that. You look like an eye and you behave like one and,’ he turned with sudden anger on Tiffany Case, ‘how you fell for him, you silly bitch, I just can’t figure.’

‘The hell you can’t,’ flared Tiffany Case. ‘I get handed the guy by A B C and he acts okay. You think maybe I should have told A B C to try again. Not me, brother. I know my place in this outfit. And don’t think you can push me around. And for all you know this guy may be telling the truth.’ Her angry eyes swept over Bond and he caught the glint of fear, fear for him, behind them.

‘Well, we’re going to find out,’ said Mr Spang, ‘and go on finding out until the guy croaks, and if he thinks he can take it, he’s got another think coming.’ He looked over Bond’s head at the guard. ‘Wint, get Kidd and come back with the boots.’

The boots?

Bond sat silent, gathering his strength and his courage. It would be a waste of time to argue with Mr Spang or to try to escape, fifty miles out in the desert. He had got out of worse jams. So long as they didn’t intend to kill him yet. So long as he gave nothing away. There was Ernie Cureo and there was Felix Leiter. There might just possibly be Tiffany Case. He looked across at her. Her head was bent. She was looking carefully at her fingernails.

Bond heard the two guards come up behind him.

‘Take him out on the platform,’ said Mr Spang. Bond saw the corner of his tongue come out and slightly touch the thin lips. ‘Brooklyn stomping. Eighty percenter. ’Kay?’

‘Okay, Boss.’ It was the voice belonging to Wint. It sounded greedy.

The two hooded men came up and sat down side by side on a dark red chaise longue that ran down the car opposite Bond. They put football boots down on the thick carpet beside them and started to unlace their shoes.