‘Who’s Betsy?’
‘She done run de lousiest brothel in town, cap’n.’ Quarrel spat emphatically out of the window. ‘Dis whiteman, he does de book-keepin’ . ’
Bond laughed. ‘So long as he can drive a car. I only hope they get to Montego all right.’
‘Don’ yo worry,’ Quarrel misunderstood Bond’s concern. ‘I say I tell de police dey stole de car if dey don’ . ’
They were at the saddleback at Stony Hill where the Junction Road dives down through fifty S-bends towards the North Coast. Bond put the little Austin A.30 into second gear and let it coast. The sun was coming up over the Blue Mountain peak and dusty shafts of gold lanced into the plunging valley. There were few people on the road – an occasional man going off to his precipitous smallholding on the flank of a hill, his three-foot steel cutlass dangling from his right hand, chewing at his breakfast, a foot of raw sugar cane held in his left, or a woman sauntering up the road with a covered basket of fruit or vegetables for Stony Hill market, her shoes on her head, to be donned when she got near the village. It was a savage, peaceful scene that had hardly changed, except for the surface of the road, for two hundred years or more. Bond almost smelled the dung of the mule train in which he would have been riding over from Port Royal to visit the garrison at Morgan’s Harbour in 1750.
Quarrel interrupted his thoughts. ‘Cap’n,’ he said apologetically, ‘beggin’ yo pardon, but kin yo tell me what yo have in mind for we? I’se bin puzzlin’ an’ Ah caint seem to figger hout yo game.’
‘I’ve hardly figured it out myself, Quarrel.’ Bond changed up into top and dawdled through the cool, beautiful glades of Castleton Gardens. ‘I told you I’m here because Commander Strangways and his secretary have disappeared. Most people think they’ve gone off together. I think they’ve been murdered.’
‘Dat so?’ said Quarrel unemotionally. ‘Who yo tink done hit?’
‘I’ve come to agree with you. I think Doctor No, that Chinaman on Crab Key, had it done. Strangways was poking his nose into this man’s affairs – something to do with the bird sanctuary. Doctor No has this mania for privacy. You were telling me so yourself. Seems he’ll do anything to stop people climbing over his wall. Mark you, it’s not more than a guess about Doctor No. But some funny things happened in the last twenty-four hours. That’s why I sent the Sunbeam over to Montego, to lay a false scent. And that’s why we’re going to hide out at the Beau Desert for a few days.’
‘Den what, cap’n?’
‘First of all I want you to get me absolutely fit – the way you trained me the last time I was here. Remember?’
‘Sho, cap’n. Ah kin do dat ting.’
‘And then I was thinking you and me might go and take a look at Crab Key.’
Quarrel whistled. The whistle ended on a downward note.
‘Just sniff around. We needn’t get too close to Doctor No’s end. I want to take a look at this bird sanctuary. See for myself what happened to the wardens’ camp. If we find anything wrong, we’ll get away again and come back by the front door – with some soldiers to help. Have a full-dress inquiry. Can’t do that until we’ve got something to go on. What do you think?’
Quarrel dug into his hip pocket for a cigarette. He made a fuss about lighting it. He blew a cloud of smoke through his nostrils and watched it whip out of the window. He said, ‘Cap’n, Ah tink yo’se plumb crazy to trespass hon dat island.’ Quarrel had wound himself up. He paused. There was no comment. He looked sideways at the quiet profile. He said more quietly, in an embarrassed voice, ‘Jess one ting, cap’n. Ah have some folks back in da Caymans. Would yo consider takin’ hout a life hinsurance hon me afore we sail?’
Bond glanced affectionately at the strong brown face. It had a deep cleft of worry between the eyes. ‘Of course, Quarrel. I’ll fix it at Port Maria tomorrow. We’ll make it big, say five thousand pounds. Now then, how shall we go? Canoe?’
‘Dat’s right, cap’n.’ Quarrel’s voice was reluctant. ‘We need a calm sea an’ a light wind. Come hin on de Nor-easterly Trades. Mus’ be a dark night. Dey startin’ right now. By end of da week we git da secon’ moon quarter. Where yo reckon to land, cap’n?’
‘South shore near the mouth of the river. Then we’ll go up the river to the lake. I’m sure that’s where the wardens’ camp was. So as to have fresh water and be able to get down to the sea to fish.’
Quarrel grunted without enthusiasm. ‘How long we stayin’, cap’n? Caint take a whole lot of food wit us. Bread, cheese, salt pork. No tobacco – caint risk da smoke an’ light. Dat’s mighty rough country, cap’n. Marsh an’ mangrove.’
Bond said: ‘Better plan for three days. Weather may break and stop us getting off for a night or two. Couple of good hunting knives. I’ll take a gun. You never can tell.’
‘No, sir,’ said Quarrel emphatically. He relapsed into a brooding silence which lasted until they got to Port Maria.
They went through the little town and on round the headland to Morgan’s Harbour. It was just as Bond remembered – the sugar-loaf of the Isle of Surprise rising out of the calm bay, the canoes drawn up beside the mounds of empty conch shells, the distant boom of the surf on the reef which had so nearly been his grave. Bond, his mind full of memories, took the car down the little side road and through the cane fields in the middle of which the gaunt ruin of the old Great House of Beau Desert Plantation stood up like a stranded galleon.
They came to the gate leading to the bungalow. Quarrel got out and opened the gate, and Bond drove through and pulled up in the yard behind the white single-storeyed house. It was very quiet. Bond walked round the house and across the lawn to the edge of the sea. Yes, there it was, the stretch of deep, silent water – the submarine path he had taken to the Isle of Surprise. It sometimes came back to him in nightmares.
Bond stood looking at it and thinking of Solitaire, the girl he had brought back, torn and bleeding, from that sea. He had carried her across the lawn to the house. What had happened to her? Where was she? Brusquely Bond turned and walked back into the house, driving the phantoms away from him.
It was eight-thirty. Bond unpacked his few things and changed into sandals and shorts. Soon there was the delicious smell of coffee and frying bacon. They ate their breakfast while Bond fixed his training routine – up at seven, swim a quarter of a mile, breakfast, an hour’s sunbathing, run a mile, swim again, lunch, sleep, sunbathe, swim a mile, hot bath and massage, dinner and asleep by nine.
After breakfast the routine began.
Nothing interrupted the grinding week except a brief story in the Daily Gleaner and a telegram from Pleydell-Smith. The Gleaner said that a Sunbeam Talbot, H. 2473, had been involved in a fatal accident on the Devil’s Racecourse, a stretch of winding road between Spanish Town and Ocho Rios – on the Kingston– Montego route. A runaway lorry, whose driver was being traced, had crashed into the Sunbeam as it came round a bend. Both vehicles had left the road and hurtled into the ravine below. The two occupants of the Sunbeam, Ben Gibbons of Harbour Street, and Josiah Smith, no address, had been killed. A Mr Bond, an English visitor, who had been lent the car, was asked to contact the nearest police station.
Bond burned that copy of the Gleaner. He didn’t want to upset Quarrel.
With only one day to go, the telegram came from Pleydell- Smith. It said:
EACH OBJECT CONTAINED ENOUGH CYANIDE TO KILL A HORSE STOP SUGGEST YOU CHANGE YOUR GROCER STOP GOOD LUCK SMITH
Bond also burned the telegram.
Quarrel hired a canoe and they spent three days sailing it. It was a clumsy shell cut out of a single giant cotton tree. It had two thin thwarts,