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.
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,