James Bond Anthology (143 page)

He sat for a while, luxuriously, letting the gin relax him. He ordered another and drank it down. It was seven-fifteen. He had arranged for Quarrel to pick him up at seven-thirty. They were going to have dinner together. Bond had asked Quarrel to suggest a place. After a moment of embarrassment, Quarrel had said that whenever he wanted to enjoy himself in Kingston he went to a waterfront nightspot called the Joy Boat. ‘Hit no great shakes, cap’n,’ he had said apologetically, ‘but da food an’ drinks an’ music is good and I got a good fren’ dere. Him owns de joint. Dey calls him “Pus-Feller” seein’ how him once fought wit’ a big hoctopus.’

Bond smiled to himself at the way Quarrel, like most West Indians, added an ‘h’ where it wasn’t needed and took it off when it was. He went into his room and dressed in his old dark blue tropical worsted suit, a sleeveless white cotton shirt and a black knitted tie, looked in the glass to see that the Walther didn’t show under his armpit and went down and out to where the car was waiting.

They swooped down quietly through the soft singing dusk into Kingston and turned to the left along the harbour side. They passed one or two smart restaurants and night clubs from which came the throb and twang of calypso music. There was a stretch of private houses that dwindled into a poor-class shopping centre and then into shacks. Then, where the road curved away from the sea, there was a blaze of golden neon in the shape of a Spanish galleon above green lettering that said ‘The Joy Boat’. They pulled into a parking place and Bond followed Quarrel through the gate into a small garden of palm trees growing out of lawn. At the end was the beach and the sea. Tables were dotted about under the palms, and in the centre was a small deserted cement dance floor to one side of which a calypso trio in sequined scarlet shirts was softly improvising on ‘Take her to Jamaica where the rum comes from’.

Only half the tables were filled, mostly by coloured people. There was a sprinkling of British and American sailors with their girls. An immensely fat negro in a smart white dinner jacket left one of the tables and came to meet them.

‘Hi, Mister Q. Long time no see. Nice table for two?’

‘That’s right, Pus-Feller. Closer to da kitchen dan da music.’

The big man chuckled. He led them down towards the sea and placed them at a quiet table under a palm tree that grew out of the base of the restaurant building. ‘Drinks gemmun?’

Bond ordered his gin and tonic with a lime, and Quarrel a Red Stripe beer. They scanned the menu and both decided on broiled lobster followed by a rare steak with native vegetables.

The drinks came. The glasses were dripping with condensation. The small fact reminded Bond of other times in hot climates. A few yards away the sea lisped on the flat sand. The three-piece began playing ‘Kitch’. Above them the palm fronds clashed softly in the night breeze. A gecko chuckled somewhere in the garden. Bond thought of the London he had left the day before. He said, ‘I like this place, Quarrel.’

Quarrel was pleased. ‘Him a good fren of mine, da Pus-Feller. Him knows mostly what goes hon hin Kingston case you got hany questions, cap’n. Him come from da Caymans. Him an’ me once share a boat. Then him go hoff one day catching boobies’ heggs hat Crab Key. Went swimmin’ to a rock for more heggs an’ dis big hoctopus get him. Dey mos’ly small fellers roun’ here but dey come bigger at da Crab seein’ how its alongside de Cuba Deep, da deepest waters roun’ dese parts. Pus-Feller have himself a bad time wit dis hanimal. Bust one lung cuttin’ hisself free. Dat scare him an’ him sell me his half of da boat an’ come to Kingston. Dat were ’fore da war. Now him rich man whiles I go hon fishin’.’ Quarrel chuckled at the quirk of fate.

‘Crab Key,’ said Bond. ‘What sort of a place is that?’

Quarrel looked at him sharply. ‘Dat a bad luck place now, cap’n,’ he said shortly. ‘Chinee gemmun buy hit durin’ da war and bring in men and dig bird-dirt. Don’ let nobody land dere and don’ let no one get hoff. We gives it a wide bert’ . ’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Him have plenty watchmen. An’ guns – machine guns. An’ a radar. An’ a spottin’ plane. Frens o’ mine have landed dere and him never been seen again. Dat Chinee keep him island plenty private. Tell da trut’, cap’n,’ Quarrel was apologetic, ‘dat Crab Key scare me plenty.’

Bond said thoughtfully, ‘Well, well.’

The food came. They ordered another round of drinks and ate. While they ate, Bond gave Quarrel an outline of the Strangways case. Quarrel listened carefully, occasionally asking questions. He was particularly interested in the birds on Crab Key, and what the watchmen had said, and how the plane was supposed to have crashed. Finally he pushed his plate away. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He leant forward. ‘Cap’n,’ he said softly, ‘I no mind if hit was birds or butterflies or bees. If dey was on Crab Key and da Commander was stickin’ his nose into da business, yo kin bet yo bottom dollar him been mashed. Him and him girl. Da Chinee mash dem for sho.’

Bond looked carefully into the urgent grey eyes. ‘What makes you so certain?’

Quarrel spread his hands. To him the answer was simple. ‘Dat Chinee love him privacy. Him want be left alone. I know him kill ma frens order keep folk away from da Crab. Him a mos’ powerful man. Him kill hanyone what hinterfere with him.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’ rightly know, cap’n,’ said Quarrel indifferently. ‘People dem want different tings in dis world. An’ what dem want sufficient dem gits.’

A glint of light caught the corner of Bond’s eye. He turned quickly. The Chinese girl from the airport was standing in the nearby shadows. Now she was dressed in a tight-fitting sheath of black satin slashed up one side almost to her hip. She had a Leica with a flash attachment in one hand. The other was in a leather case at her side. The hand came out holding a flashbulb. The girl slipped the base into her mouth to wet it and improve the contact and made to screw it into the reflector.

‘Get that girl,’ said Bond quickly.

In two strides Quarrel was up with her. He held out his hand. ‘Evenin’, missy,’ he said softly.

The girl smiled. She let the Leica hang on the thin strap round her neck. She took Quarrel’s hand. Quarrel swung her round like a ballet dancer. Now he had her hand behind her back and she was in the crook of his arm.

She looked up at him angrily. ‘Don’t. You’re hurting.’

Quarrel smiled down into the flashing dark eyes in the pale, almond-shaped face. ‘Cap’n like you take a drink wit’ we,’ he said soothingly. He came back to the table, moving the girl along with him. He hooked a chair out with his foot and sat her down beside him, keeping the grip on her wrist behind her back. They sat bolt upright, like quarrelling lovers.

Bond looked into the pretty, angry little face. ‘Good evening. What are you doing here? Why do you want another picture of me?’

‘I’m doing the nightspots,’ the Cupid’s bow of a mouth parted persuasively. ‘The first picture of you didn’t come out. Tell this man to leave me alone.’

‘So you work for the
Gleaner
? What’s your name?’

‘I won’t tell you.’

Bond cocked an eyebrow at Quarrel.

Quarrel’s eyes narrowed. His hand behind the girl’s back turned slowly. The girl struggled like an eel, her teeth clenched on her lower lip. Quarrel went on twisting. Suddenly she said ‘Ow!’ sharply and gasped, ‘I’ll tell!’ Quarrel eased his grip. The girl looked furiously at Bond: ‘Annabel Chung.’

Bond said to Quarrel, ‘Call the Pus-Feller.’

Quarrel picked up a fork with his free hand and clanged it against a glass. The big negro hurried up.

Bond looked up at him. ‘Ever seen this girl before?’

‘Yes, boss. She come here sometimes. She bein’ a nuisance? Want for me to send her away?’

‘No. We like her,’ said Bond amiably, ‘but she wants to take a studio portrait of me and I don’t know if she’s worth the money. Would you call up the
Gleaner
and ask if they’ve got a photographer called Annabel Chung? If she really is one of their people she ought to be good enough.’

‘Sure, boss.’ The man hurried away.

Bond smiled at the girl. ‘Why didn’t you ask that man to rescue you?’

The girl glowered at him.

‘I’m sorry to have to exert pressure,’ said Bond, ‘but my export manager in London said that Kingston was full of shady characters. I’m sure you’re not one of them, but I really can’t understand why you’re so anxious to get my picture. Tell me why.’

‘What I told you,’ said the girl sulkily. ‘It’s my job.’

Bond tried other questions. She didn’t answer them.

The Pus-Feller came up. ‘That’s right, boss. Annabel Chung. One of their freelance girls. They say she takes fine pictures. You’ll be okay with her.’ He looked bland. Studio portrait! Studio bed, more like.

‘Thanks,’ said Bond. The negro went away. Bond turned back to the girl. ‘Freelance,’ he said softly. ‘That still doesn’t explain who wanted my picture.’ His face went cold. ‘Now give!’

‘No,’ said the girl sullenly.

‘All right, Quarrel. Go ahead.’ Bond sat back. His instincts told him that this was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If he could get the answer out of the girl he might be saved weeks of legwork.

Quarrel’s right shoulder started to dip downwards. The girl squirmed towards him to ease the pressure, but he held her body away with his free hand. The girl’s face strained towards Quarrel’s. Suddenly she spat full in his eyes. Quarrel grinned and increased the twist. The girl’s feet kicked wildly under the table. She hissed out words in Chinese. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

‘Tell,’ said Bond softly. ‘Tell and it will stop and we’ll be friends and have a drink.’ He was getting worried. The girl’s arm must be on the verge of breaking.

‘—you.’ Suddenly the girl’s left hand flew up and into Quarrel’s face. Bond was too slow to stop her. Something glinted and there was a sharp explosion. Bond snatched at her arm and dragged it back. Blood was streaming down Quarrel’s cheek. Glass and metal tinkled on to the table. She had smashed the flashbulb on Quarrel’s face. If she had been able to reach an eye it would have been blinded.

Quarrel’s free hand went up and felt his cheek. He put it in front of his eyes and looked at the blood. ‘Aha!’ There was nothing but admiration and a feline pleasure in his voice. He said equably to Bond, ‘We get nuthen out of dis gal, cap’n. She plenty tough. You want fe me to break she’s arm?’

‘Good God, no.’ Bond let go the arm he was holding. ‘Let her go.’ He felt angry with himself for having hurt the girl and still failed. But he had learned something. Whoever was behind her held his people by a steel chain.

Quarrel brought the girl’s right arm from behind her back. He still held on to the wrist. Now he opened the girl’s hand. He looked into her eyes. His own were cruel. ‘You mark me, Missy. Now I mark you.’ He brought up his other hand and took the Mount of Venus, the soft lozenge of flesh in the palm below her thumb, between his thumb and forefinger. He began to squeeze it. Bond could see his knuckles go white with the pressure. The girl gave a yelp. She hammered at Quarrel’s hand and then at his face. Quarrel grinned and squeezed harder. Suddenly he let go. The girl shot to her feet and backed away from the table, her bruised hand at her mouth. She took her hand down and hissed furiously. ‘He’ll get you, you bastards!’ Then, her Leica dangling, she ran off through the trees.

Quarrel laughed shortly. He took a napkin and wiped it down his cheek and threw it on the ground and took up another. He said to Bond, ‘She’s Love Moun’ be sore long after ma face done get healed. Dat a fine piece of a woman, de Love Moun’. When him fat like wit’ dat girl you kin tell her’ll be good in bed. You know dat, cap’n?’

‘No,’ said Bond. ‘That’s new to me.’

‘Sho ting. Dat piece of da han’ most hindicative. Don’ you worry ’bout she,’ he added, noticing the dubious expression on Bond’s face. ‘Hers got nuttin but a big bruise on she’s Love Moun’. But boy, was dat a fat Love Moun’! I come back after dat girl sometime, see if ma teory is da troof.’

Appropriately the band started playing ‘Don’ touch me tomato’. Bond said, ‘Quarrel, it’s time you married and settled down. And you leave that girl alone or you’ll get a knife between your ribs. Now come on. We’ll get the check and go. It’s three o’clock in the morning in London where I was yesterday. I need a night’s sleep. You’ve got to start getting me into training. I think I’m going to need it. And it’s about time you put some plaster on that cheek of yours. She’s written her name and address on it.’

Quarrel grunted reminiscently. He said with quiet pleasure, ‘Dat were some tough baby.’ He picked up a fork and clanged it against his glass.

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.