Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

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Текущая страница: 72 (всего у книги 190 страниц)

5 | FACTS AND FIGURES

‘He’ll get you…. He’ll get you…. He’ll get you, you bastards.’

The words were still ringing in Bond’s brain the next day as he sat on his balcony and ate a delicious breakfast and gazed out across the riot of tropical gardens to Kingston, five miles below him.

Now he was sure that Strangways and the girl had been killed. Someone had needed to stop them looking any further into his business, so he had killed them and destroyed the records of what they were investigating. The same person knew or suspected that the Secret Service would follow up Strangways’s disappearance. Somehow he had known that Bond had been given the job. He had wanted a picture of Bond and he had wanted to know where Bond was staying. He would be keeping an eye on Bond to see if Bond picked up any of the leads that had led to Strangways’s death. If Bond did so, Bond would also have to be eliminated. There would be a car smash or a street fight or some other innocent death. And how, Bond wondered, would this person react to their treatment of the Chung girl? If he was as ruthless as Bond supposed, that would be enough. It showed that Bond was on to something. Perhaps Strangways had made a preliminary report to London before he was killed. Perhaps someone had leaked. The enemy would be foolish to take chances. If he had any sense, after the Chung incident, he would deal with Bond and perhaps also with Quarrel without delay.

Bond lit his first cigarette of the day – the first Royal Blend he had smoked for five years – and let the smoke come out between his teeth in a luxurious hiss. That was his ‘Enemy Appreciation’. Now, who was this enemy?

Well, there was only one candidate, and a pretty insubstantial one at that, Doctor No, Doctor Julius No, the German Chinese who owned Crab Key and made his money out of guano. There had been nothing on this man in Records and a signal to the F.B.I. had been negative. The affair of the roseate spoonbills and the trouble with the Audubon Society meant precisely nothing except, as M. had said, that a lot of old women had got excited about some pink storks. All the same, four people had died because of these storks and, most significant of all to Bond, Quarrel was scared of Doctor No and his island. That was very odd indeed. Cayman Islanders, least of all Quarrel, did not scare easily. And why had Doctor No got this mania for privacy? Why did he go to such expense and trouble to keep people away from his guano island? Guano – bird dung. Who wanted the stuff? How valuable was it? Bond was due to call on the Governor at ten o’clock. After he had made his number he would get hold of the Colonial Secretary and try and find out all about the damned stuff and about Crab Key and, if possible, about Doctor No.

There was a double knock on the door. Bond got up and unlocked it. It was Quarrel, his left cheek decorated with a piratical cross of sticking-plaster. ‘Mornin’, cap’n. Yo said eight-tirty.’

‘Yes, come on in, Quarrel. We’ve got a busy day. Had some breakfast?’

‘Yes, tank you, cap’n. Salt fish an’ ackee an’ a tot of rum.’

‘Good God,’ said Bond. ‘That’s tough stuff to start the day on.’

‘Mos’ refreshin’,’ said Quarrel stolidly.

They sat down outside on the balcony. Bond offered Quarrel a cigarette and lit one himself. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘I’ll be spending most of the day at King’s House and perhaps at the Jamaica Institute. I shan’t need you till tomorrow morning, but there are some things for you to do downtown. All right?’

‘Okay, cap’n. Jes’ yo say.’

‘First of all, that car of ours is hot. We’ve got to get rid of it. Go down to Motta’s or one of the other hire people and pick up the newest and best little self-drive car you can find, the one with the least mileage. Saloon. Take it for a month. Right? Then hunt around the waterfront and find two men who look as near as possible like us. One must be able to drive a car. Buy them both clothes, at least for their top halves, that look like ours. And the sort of hats we might wear. Say we want a car taken over to Montego tomorrow morning – by the Spanish Town, Ocho Rios road. To be left at Levy’s garage there. Ring up Levy and tell him to expect it and keep it for us. Right?’

Quarrel grinned. ‘Yo want fox someone?’

‘That’s right. They’ll get ten pounds each. Say I’m a rich American and I want my car to arrive in Montego Bay driven by a respectable couple of men. Make me out a bit mad. They must be here at six o’clock tomorrow morning. You’ll be here with the other car. See they look the part and send them off in the Sunbeam with the roof down. Right?’

‘Okay, cap’n.’

‘What’s happened to that house we had on the North Shore last time – Beau Desert at Morgan’s Harbour? Do you know if it’s let?’

‘Couldn’t say, cap’n. Hit’s well away from de tourist places and dey askin’ a big rent for it.’

‘Well, go to Graham Associates and see if you can rent it for a month, or another bungalow near by. I don’t mind what you pay. Say it’s for a rich American, Mr James. Get the keys and pay the rent and say I’ll write and confirm. I can telephone them if they want more details.’ Bond reached into his hip pocket and brought out a thick wad of notes. He handed half of it to Quarrel. ‘Here’s two hundred pounds. That should cover all this. Get in touch if you want some more. You know where I’ll be.’

‘Tanks, cap’n,’ said Quarrel, awestruck by the big sum. He stowed it away inside his blue shirt and buttoned the shirt up to his neck. ‘Anyting helse?’

‘No, but take a lot of trouble about not being followed. Leave the car somewhere downtown and walk to these places. And watch out particularly for any Chinese near you.’ Bond got up and they went to the door. ‘See you tomorrow morning at six-fifteen and we’ll get over to the North Coast. As far as I can see that’s going to be our base for a while.’

Quarrel nodded. His face was enigmatic. He said ‘Okay, cap’n’ and went off down the corridor.

Half an hour later Bond went downstairs and took a taxi to King’s House. He didn’t sign the Governor’s book in the cool hall. He was put in a waiting room for the quarter of an hour necessary to show him that he was unimportant. Then the A.D.C. came for him and took him up to the Governor’s study on the first floor.

It was a large cool room smelling of cigar smoke. The Acting Governor, in a cream tussore suit and an inappropriate wing collar and spotted bow tie, was sitting at a broad mahogany desk on which there was nothing but the Daily Gleaner, the Times Weekly and a bowl of hibiscus blossoms. His hands lay flat on the desk in front of him. He was sixtyish with a red, rather petulant face and bright, bitter blue eyes. He didn’t smile or get up. He said, ‘Good morning, Mr – er – Bond. Please sit down.’

Bond took the chair across the desk from the Governor and sat down. He said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ and waited. A friend at the Colonial Office had told him his reception would be frigid. ‘He’s nearly at retiring age. Only an interim appointment. We had to find an Acting Governor to take over at short notice when Sir Hugh Foot was promoted. Foot was a great success. This man’s not even trying to compete. He knows he’s only got the job for a few months while we find someone to replace Foot. This man’s been passed over for the Governor Generalship of Rhodesia. Now all he wants is to retire and get some directorships in the City. Last thing he wants is any trouble in Jamaica. He keeps on trying to close this Strangways case of yours. Won’t like you ferreting about.’

The Governor cleared his throat. He recognized that Bond wasn’t one of the servile ones. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Just to make my number, sir,’ said Bond equably. ‘I’m here on the Strangways case. I think you had a signal from the Secretary of State.’ This was a reminder that the people behind Bond were powerful people. Bond didn’t like attempts to squash him or his Service.

‘I recall the signal. And what can I do for you? So far as we’re concerned here the case is closed.’

‘In what way “closed”, sir?’

The Governor said roughly, ‘Strangways obviously did a bunk with the girl. Unbalanced sort of fellow at the best of times. Some of your – er – colleagues, don’t seem to be able to leave women alone.’ The Governor clearly included Bond. ‘Had to bail the chap out of various scandals before now. Doesn’t do the Colony any good, Mr – er – Bond. Hope your people will be sending us a rather better type of man to take his place. That is,’ he added coldly, ‘if a Regional Control man is really needed here. Personally I have every confidence in our police.’

Bond smiled sympathetically. ‘I’ll report your views, sir. I expect my Chief will like to discuss them with the Minister of Defence and the Secretary of State. Naturally, if you would like to take over these extra duties it will be a saving in manpower so far as my Service is concerned. I’m sure the Jamaican Constabulary is most efficient.’

The Governor looked at Bond suspiciously. Perhaps he had better handle this man a bit more carefully. ‘This is an informal discussion, Mr Bond. When I have decided on my views I will communicate them myself to the Secretary of State. In the meantime, is there anyone you wish to see on my staff?’

‘I’d like to have a word with the Colonial Secretary, sir.’

‘Really? And why, pray?’

‘There’s been some trouble on Crab Key. Something about a bird sanctuary. The case was passed to us by the Colonial Office. My Chief asked me to look into it while I’m here.’

The Governor looked relieved. ‘Certainly, certainly. I’ll see that Mr Pleydell-Smith receives you straight away. So you feel we can leave the Strangways case to sort itself out? They’ll turn up before long, never fear.’ He reached over and rang a bell. The A.D.C. came in. ‘This gentleman would like to see the Colonial Secretary, A.D.C. Take him along, would you? I’ll call Mr Pleydell-Smith myself and ask him to make himself available.’ He got up and came round the desk. He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye then, Mr Bond. And I’m so glad we see eye to eye. Crab Key, eh? Never been there myself, but I’m sure it would repay a visit.’

Bond shook hands. ‘That was what I was thinking. Goodbye, sir.’

‘Goodbye, goodbye.’ The Governor watched Bond’s back retreating out of the door and himself returned well satisfied to his desk. ‘Young whippersnapper,’ he said to the empty room. He sat down and said a few peremptory words down the telephone to the Colonial Secretary. Then he picked up the Times Weekly and turned to the Stock Exchange prices.

The Colonial Secretary was a youngish shaggy-haired man with bright, boyish eyes. He was one of those nervous pipe smokers who are constantly patting their pockets for matches, shaking the box to see how many are left in it, or knocking the dottle out of their pipes. After he had gone through this routine two or three times in his first ten minutes with Bond, Bond wondered if he ever got any smoke into his lungs at all.

After pumping energetically at Bond’s hand and waving vaguely at a chair, Pleydell-Smith walked up and down the room scratching his temple with the stem of his pipe. ‘Bond. Bond. Bond! Rings a bell. Now let me see. Yes, by jove! You were the chap who was mixed up in that treasure business here. By jove, yes! Four, five years ago. Found the file lying around only the other day. Splendid show. What a lark! I say, wish you’d start another bonfire like that here. Stir the place up a bit. All they think of nowadays is Federation and their bloody self-importance. Self-determination indeed! They can’t even run a bus service. And the colour problem! My dear chap, there’s far more colour problem between the straight-haired and the crinkly-haired Jamaicans than there is between me and my black cook. However,’ Pleydell-Smith came to rest beside his desk. He sat down opposite Bond and draped one leg over the arm of his chair. Reaching for a tobacco jar with the arms of King’s College, Cambridge, on it, he dug into it and started filling his pipe. ‘I mean to say I don’t want to bore you with all that. You go ahead and bore me. What’s your problem? Glad to help. I bet it’s more interesting than this muck,’ he waved at the pile of papers in his In tray.

Bond grinned at him. This was more like it. He had found an ally, and an intelligent one at that. ‘Well,’ he said seriously, ‘I’m here on the Strangways case. But first of all I want to ask you a question that may sound odd. Exactly how did you come to be looking at that other case of mine? You say you found the file lying about. How was that? Had someone asked for it? I don’t want to be indiscreet, so don’t answer if you don’t want to. I’m just inquisitive.’

Pleydell-Smith cocked an eye at him. ‘I suppose that’s your job.’ He reflected, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Well, now I come to think of it I saw it on my secretary’s desk. She’s a new girl. Said she was trying to get up to date with the files. Mark you,’ the Colonial Secretary hastened to exonerate his girl, ‘there were plenty of other files on her desk. It was just this one that caught my eye.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Bond. ‘It was like that.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, but various people seem to be rather interested in me being here. What I really wanted to talk to you about was Crab Key. Anything you know about the place. And about this Chinaman, Doctor No, who bought it. And anything you can tell me about his guano business. Rather a tall order, I’m afraid, but any scraps will help.’

Pleydell-Smith laughed shortly through the stem of his pipe. He jerked the pipe out of his mouth and talked while he tamped down the burning tobacco with his matchbox. ‘Bitten off a bit more than you can chew on guano. Talk to you for hours about it. Started in the Consular before I transferred to the Colonial Office. First job was in Peru. Had a lot to do with their people who administer the whole trade – Compania Aministradora del Guano. Nice people.’ The pipe was going now and Pleydell-Smith threw his matchbox down on the table. ‘As for the rest, it’s just a question of getting the file.’ He rang a bell. In a minute the door opened behind Bond. ‘Miss Taro, the file on Crab Key, please. The one on the sale of the place and the other one on that warden fellow who turned up before Christmas. Miss Longfellow will know where to find them.’

A soft voice said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Bond heard the door close.

‘Now then, guano.’ Pleydell-Smith tilted his chair back. Bond prepared to be bored. ‘As you know, it’s bird dung. Comes from the rear end of two birds, the masked booby and the guanay. So far as Crab Key is concerned, it’s only the guanay, otherwise known as the green cormorant, same bird as you find in England. The guanay is a machine for converting fish into guano. They mostly eat anchovies. Just to show you how much fish they eat, they’ve found up to seventy anchovies inside one bird!’ Pleydell-Smith took out his pipe and pointed it impressively at Bond. ‘The whole population of Peru eats four thousand tons of fish a year. The sea birds of the country eat five hundred thousand tons!’

Bond pursed his lips to show he was impressed. ‘Really.’

‘Well, now,’ continued the Colonial Secretary, ‘every day each one of these hundreds of thousands of guanays eat a pound or so of fish and deposit an ounce of guano on the guanera – that’s the guano island.’

Bond interrupted, ‘Why don’t they do it in the sea?’

‘Don’t know.’ Pleydell-Smith took the question and turned it over in his mind. ‘Never occurred to me. Anyway they don’t. They do it on the land and they’ve been doing it since before Genesis. That makes the hell of a lot of bird dung – millions of tons of it on the Pescadores and the other guanera. Then, around 1850 someone discovered it was the greatest natural fertilizer in the world – stuffed with nitrates and phosphates and what have you. And the ships and the men came to the guaneras and simply ravaged them for twenty years or more. It’s a time known as the “Saturnalia” in Peru. It was like the Klondyke. People fought over the muck, hi-jacked each other’s ships, shot the workers, sold phoney maps of secret guano islands – anything you like. And people made fortunes out of the stuff.’

‘Where does Crab Key come in?’ Bond wanted to get down to cases.

‘That was the only worthwhile guanera so far north. It was worked too, God knows who by. But the stuff had a low nitrate content. Water’s not as rich round here as it is down along the Humboldt Current. So the fish aren’t so rich in chemicals. So the guano isn’t so rich either. Crab Key got worked on and off when the price was high enough, but the whole industry went bust, with Crab Key and the other poor-quality deposits in the van, when the Germans invented artificial chemical manure. By this time Peru had realized that she had squandered a fantastic capital asset and she set about organizing the remains of the industry and protecting the guanera. She nationalized the industry and protected the birds, and slowly, very slowly, the supplies built up again. Then people found that there were snags about the German stuff, it impoverishes the soil, which guano doesn’t do, and gradually the price of guano improved and the industry staggered back to its feet. Now it’s going fine, except that Peru keeps most of the guano to herself, for her own agriculture. And that was where Crab Key came in again.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes,’ said Pleydell-Smith, patting his pockets for the matches, finding them on the desk, shaking them against his ear, and starting his pipe-filling routine, ‘at the beginning of the war, this Chinaman, who must be a wily devil, by the way, got the idea that he could make a good thing out of the old guanera on Crab Key. The price was about fifty dollars a ton on this side of the Atlantic and he bought the island from us, for about ten thousand pounds as I recall it, brought in labour and got to work. Been working it ever since. Must have made a fortune. He ships direct to Europe, to Antwerp. They send him a ship once a month. He’s installed the latest crushers and separators. Sweats his labour, I daresay. To make a decent profit, he’d have to. Particularly now. Last year I heard he was only getting about thirty-eight to forty dollars a ton c.i.f. Antwerp. God knows what he must pay his labour to make a profit at that price. I’ve never been able to find out. He runs that place like a fortress – sort of forced labour camp. No one ever gets off it. I’ve heard some funny rumours, but no one’s ever complained. It’s his island, of course, and he can do what he likes on it.’

Bond hunted for clues. ‘Would it really be so valuable to him, this place? What do you suppose it’s worth?’

Pleydell-Smith said, ‘The guanay is the most valuable bird in the world. Each pair produces about two dollars’ worth of guano in a year without any expense to the owner. Each female lays an average of three eggs and raises two young. Two broods a year. Say they’re worth fifteen dollars a pair, and say there are one hundred thousand birds on Crab Key, which is a reasonable guess on the old figures we have. That makes his birds worth a million and a half dollars. Pretty valuable property. Add the value of the installations, say another million, and you’ve got a small fortune on that hideous little place. Which reminds me,’ Pleydell-Smith pressed the bell, ‘what the hell has happened to those files? You’ll find all the dope you want in them.’

The door opened behind Bond.

Pleydell-Smith said irritably, ‘Really, Miss Taro. What about those files?’

‘Very sorry, sir,’ said the soft voice. ‘But we can’t find them anywhere.’

‘What do you mean “can’t find them”? Who had them last?’

‘Commander Strangways, sir.’

‘Well, I remember distinctly him bringing them back to this room. What happened to them then?’

‘Can’t say, sir,’ the voice was unemotional. ‘The covers are there but there’s nothing inside them.’

Bond turned in his chair. He glanced at the girl and turned back. He smiled grimly to himself. He knew where the files had gone. He also knew why the old file on himself had been out on the Secretary’s desk. He also guessed how the particular significance of ‘James Bond, Import and Export Merchant’ seemed to have leaked out of King’s House, the only place where the significance was known.

Like Doctor No, like Miss Annabel Chung, the demure, efficient-looking little secretary in the horn-rimmed glasses was a Chinese.