The Man with the Golden Gun

Part Two of the final novel

Synopsis: The girl at the switchboard at the Ministry of Defense flicked the switch to hold and said to her neighbor, "It's another nut who says he's James Bond. Even knows his code number. Says he wants to speak to M personally."

The other girl shrugged. The switchboard had had quite a few calls since Bond's death on a mission to Japan had been announced to the press. But this time it was Bond. He spoke again, slowly and clearly. "This is 007. Would you put me through to M? I want to make an appointment. Miss Mary Goodnight was my secretary. She'd recognize me."

Although Mary Goodnight had been transferred elsewhere, Bond soon stood before M, inscrutable chief of Her Majesty's Secret Service. 007 closed his mind to the stream of reflections that rose to its surface upon this reunion with his old leader. A victim of amnesia, picked up in Vladivostok and brainwashed by the K.G.B., Bond now had to concentrate upon his mission from Moscow: the murder of M. And this was the only opportunity he would get to fulfill that mission.

Facing M, he moved his hand nonchalantly to his right-hand coat pocket. M, with equal casualness, shifted his chair back from his desk. His left hand felt for the button under the arm of the chair, for M knew now that death had walked into the room and was standing beside him.

Suddenly Bond's hand, snub-nosed with black metal, flashed from his pocket, but as the cyanide hissed down the barrel of the bulb-butted pistol, a great sheet of protective glass hurtled down from the ceiling. A jet of viscous brown fluid splashed harmlessly into its center. Then M's Chief of Staff hurled himself into the room, followed by the Head of Security. Even as they seized James Bond, his head fell forward on his chest. Rehabilitation already had begun for 007.

Later M, bland as a Buddha behind his cigar, spoke to his chiefs. "He was a good agent once. Give me the file on Scaramanga. If we can get Bond fit again, that's the right-sized target for him—and if he brings it off, he'll have won his spurs back and we can all forget the past."

Scaramanga—"The Man with the Golden Gun"—was secret agent and hired assassin for Castro. Now he stalked the entire Caribbean, was a confidant of the world's foremost hoods and, as a sideline, was an insatiable womanizer who invariably made violent love just before killing. This was the man M had picked as Bond's target.

Had he signed the death warrant of 007?

There are few less prepossessing places to spend a hot afternoon than Kingston International Airport in Jamaica. All the money has been spent on lengthening the runway out into the harbor to take the big jets and little was left over for the comfort of transit passengers. James Bond had come in an hour before on a B.W.I.A. flight from Trinidad and there were two hours to go before his connection with a Cuban Airways flight for Havana. He had taken off his coat and tie and now sat on a hard bench gloomily surveying the contents of the in-bond shop with its expensive scents, liquor and piles of overdecorated native ware. He had had luncheon on the plane, it was the wrong time for a drink and it was too hot and too far to take a taxi into Kingston, even had he wanted to. He wiped his already soaking handkerchief over his face and neck and cursed softly and fluently.

A cleaner ambled in and, with the exquisite languor of such people throughout the Caribbean, proceeded to sweep very small bits of rubbish hither and thither, occasionally dipping a boneless hand into a bucket to sprinkle water over the dusty cement floor. Through the slatted jalousies a small breeze, reeking of the mangrove swamps, briefly stirred the dead air and then was gone. There were only two other passengers in the "lounge," Cubans perhaps, with jipijapa luggage. A man and a woman. They sat close together against the opposite wall and stared fixedly at James Bond, adding minutely to the oppression of the atmosphere. Bond got up and went over to the shop. He bought a Daily Gleaner and returned to his place. Because of its inconsequence and occasionally bizarre choice of news, the Gleaner was a favorite paper of Bond's. Almost the whole of that day's front page was taken up with new ganja laws to prevent the consumption, sale and cultivation of this local version of marijuana. Bond read the whole paper—"country news bits" and all—with the minute care bred of desperation. His horoscope said: "Cheer Up! Today will bring a pleasant surprise and the fulfillment of a dear wish. But you must earn your good fortune by watching closely for the golden opportunity when it presents itself and then seizing it with both hands." Bond smiled grimly. He would be unlikely to get on the scent of Scaramanga on his first evening in Havana. It was not even certain that Scaramanga was there. This was a last resort. For six weeks, Bond had been chasing his man round the Caribbean and Central America. He had missed him by a day in Trinidad and by only a matter of hours in Caracas. Now he had rather reluctantly taken the decision to try and ferret him out on his home ground, a particularly inimical home ground, with which Bond was barely familiar. At least he had fortified himself in British Guiana with a diplomatic passport and he was now "Courier" Bond with splendidly engraved instructions from Her Majesty to pick up the Jamaican diplomatic bag in Havana and return with it. He had even borrowed an example of the famous Silver Greyhound, the British Courier's emblem for 300 years. If he could do his job and then get a few hundred yards' start, this would at least give him sanctuary in the British Embassy. Then it would be up to the Foreign Office to bargain him out. If he could find his man. If he could carry out his instructions. If he could get away from the scene of the shooting. If, if, if ... Bond turned to the advertisements on the back page. At once an item caught his eye. It was so typically "old" Jamaica. This is what he read:

For sale by Auction

At 77 Harbour Street, Kingston,

At 10:30 a.m. on Wednesday,27th May

under Powers of Sale contained in a mortgage from Cornelius Brown et ux.

No. 3-1/2 Love Lane,

Savannah La Mar

Containing the substantial residence and all that parcel of land by measurement on the Northern Boundary three chains and five perches, on the Southern Boundary five chains and one perch, on the Eastern Boundary two chains exactly and on the Western Boundary four chains and two perches be the same in each case and more or less and butting Northerly on No. 4 Love Lane.

The C.D. Alexander Co. Ltd.

77 Harbour Street, KingstonPhone 4897.

There was the customary central display stand holding messages for incoming and outgoing passengers. As usual, Bond wondered whether there would be something for him. In all his life there never had been. Automatically he ran his eye over the scattered envelopes, held, under tape, beneath each parent letter. Nothing under B and nothing under his alias H for "Hazard, Mark" of the "Transworld Consortium," successor to the old "Universal Export," that had recently been discarded as cover for the Secret Service. Nothing. He ran a bored eye over the other envelopes. He suddenly froze. He looked around him, languidly, casually. The Cuban couple was out of sight. Nobody else was looking. He reached out a quick hand, wrapped in his handkerchief, and pocketed the buff envelope that said "Scaramanga. B.O.A.C. passenger from Lima." He stayed where he was for a few minutes and then wandered slowly off to the door marked men.

He locked the door and sat down. The envelope was not sealed. It contained a B.W.I.A. message form. The neat B.W.I.A. writing said "Message received from Kingston at 12:15; the samples will be available at No. 3-1/2 S.L.M. as from midday tomorrow." There was no signature. Bond uttered a short bark of laughter and triumph. S.L.M.—Savannah La Mar. Could it be? It must be! At last the three red stars of a jackpot had clicked into line. What was it his Gleaner horoscope had said? Well, he would go nap on this clue from outer space—seize it with both hands as the Gleaner had instructed. He read the message again and carefully put it back in the envelope. His damp handkerchief had left marks on the buff envelope. In this heat they would dry out in a matter of minutes. He went out and sauntered over to the stand. There was no one in sight. He slipped the message back into its place under s and walked over to the Cuban Airlines both and canceled his reservation. He then went to the B. O. A. C. counter and looked through the timetable. Yes, the Lima flight for Kingston, New York and London was due in at 1315 the next day. He was going to need help. He remembered the name of Head of Station J. He went over to the telephone booth and got through to the High Commissioner's Office. He asked for Commander Ross. After a moment a girl's voice came on the line. "Commander Ross' assistant. Can I help you?"

There was something vaguely familiar in the lilt of the voice. Bond said, "Could I speak to Commander Ross? This is a friend from London."

The girl's voice became suddenly alert. "I'm afraid Commander Ross is away from Jamaica. Is there anything I can do?" There was a pause. "What name did you say?"

"I didn't say any name. But in fact it's——"

The voice broke in excitedly, "Don't tell me. It's James!"

Bond laughed. "Well I'm damned! It's Goodnight! What the hell are you doing here?"

"More or less what I used to do for you. I heard you were back, but I thought you were ill or something. How absolutely marvelous! But where are you talking from?"

"Kingston Airport. Now listen, darling. I need help. We can talk later. Can you get cracking?"

"Of course. Wait till I get a pencil. Right."

(continued on page 165) The Golden Gun (continued from page 88)

"First I need a car. Anything that'll go. Then I want the name of the top man at Frome; you know, the West Indian Sugar Company estate beyond Savannah La Mar. Large-scale survey map of that area, a hundred pounds in Jamaican money. Then be an angel and ring up Alexander's, the auctioneers, and find out anything you can about a property that's advertised in today's Gleaner. Say you're a prospective buyer. Three and a half Love Lane. You'll see the details. Then I want you to come out to Morgan's Harbor where I'm going in a minute, be staying the night there, and we'll have dinner and swap secrets until the dawn steals over the Blue Mountains. Can do?"

"Of course. But that's a hell of a lot of secrets. What shall I wear?"

"Something that's tight in the right places. Not too many buttons."

She laughed. "You've established your identity. Now I'll get on with all this. See you about seven. 'Bye."

Gasping for air, James Bond pushed his way out of the little sweatbox. He ran his handkerchief over his face and neck. He'd be damned! Mary Goodnight, his darling secretary from the old days in the 00 Section! At Headquarters they had said she was abroad. He hadn't asked any questions. Perhaps she had opted for a change when he had been reported missing. Anyway, what a break! Now he'd got an ally, someone he knew. Good old Gleaner! He got his bag from the Cuban Airlines booth and went out and hailed a taxi and said "Morgan's Harbor" and sat back and let the air from the open windows begin to dry him.

The romantic little hotel is on the site of Port Royal at the tip of the Palisadoes. The proprietor, an Englishman who had once been in Intelligence himself and who guessed what Bond's job was, was glad to see him. He showed Bond to a comfortable air-conditioned room with a view of the pool and the wide mirror of Kingston harbor. He said, "What is it this time? Cubans or smuggling? They're the popular targets these days."

"Just on my way through. Got any lobsters?"

"Of course."

"Be a good chap and save two for dinner. Broiled with melted butter. And a pot of that ridiculously expensive foie gras of yours. All right?"

"Wilco. Celebration? Champagne on ice?"

"Good idea. Now I must get a shower and some sleep. That Kingston Airport's murder."

James Bond awoke at six. At first he didn't know where he was. He lay and remembered. Sir James Molony had said that his memory would be sluggish for a while. The E.C.T. treatment at The Park, a discreet so-called "convalescent home" in a vast mansion in Kent, had been fierce. Twenty-four bashes at his brain from the black box in thirty days. After it was over, Sir James had confessed that, if he had been practicing in America, he wouldn't have been allowed to administer more than eighteen. At first, Bond had been terrified at the sight of the box and of the two cathodes that would be cupped to each temple. He had heard that people undergoing shock treatment had to be strapped down, that their jerking, twitching bodies, impelled by the volts, often hurtled off the operating table. But that, it seemed, was old hat. Now there was the longed-for needle with the Pentothal, and Sir James said there was no movement of the body when the current Hashed through except a slight twitching of the eyelids. And the results had been miraculous. After the pleasant, quiet-spoken analyst had explained to him what had been done to him in Russia, and after he had passed through the mental agony of knowing what he had nearly done to M, the old fierce hatred of the K.G.B. and all its works had been reborn in him and, six weeks after he had entered The Park, all he wanted was to get back at the people who had invaded his brain for their own murderous purposes. And then had come his physical rehabilitation and the inexplicable amount of gun practice he had had to do at the Maidstone police range. And then the day arrived when the Chief of Staff had come down and explained about the gun practice and had spent the day with him and given him his orders, the scribble of green ink, signed "M," that wished him luck, and then the excitement of the ride to London Airport on his way across the world.

Bond took another shower and dressed in shirt, slacks and sandals and wandered over to the little bar on the waterfront and ordered a double Walker's DeLuxe Bourbon on the rocks and watched the pelicans diving for their dinner. Then he had another drink with a water chaser to break it down and wondered about 3-1/2 Love Lane and what the "samples" would consist of and how he would take Scaramanga. This had been worrying him since he had been given his orders. It was all very fine to be told to "eliminate" the man, but James Bond had never liked killing in cold blood and to provoke a draw against a man who was possibly the fastest gun in the world was suicide. Well, he would just have to see which way the cards fell. The first thing to do was to clean up his cover. The diplomatic passport he would leave with Goodnight. He would now be "Mark Hazard" of "The Transworld Consortium," the splendidly vague title which could cover almost any kind of human activity. His business would have to be with the West Indian Sugar Company, because that was the only business, apart from Kaiser Bauxite, that existed in the comparatively deserted western districts of Jamaica. There was also the Negril project for developing one of the most spectacular beaches in the world, beginning with the building of the Thunderbird Hotel. He could be a rich man looking around for a building site. If his hunch and the childish predictions of his horoscope were right, and if he came up with Scaramanga at the romantic Love Lane address, it would be a question of playing it by ear.

The prairie fire of the sunset raged briefly in the west and the molten sea cooled off into moonlit gun metal.

A naked arm smelling of Chanel No. 5 snaked round his neck and warm lips kissed the corner of his mouth. As he reached up to hold the arm where it was, a breathless voice said, "Oh, James! I'm sorry. I just had to! It's so wonderful to have you back."

Bond put his hand under the soft chin and lifted up her mouth and kissed her full on the half-open lips. He said, "Why didn't we ever think of doing that before, Goodnight? Three years with only that door between us! What must we have been thinking of?"

She stood away from him. The golden bell of hair fell back to embrace her neck. She hadn't changed. Still only the faintest trace of make-up, but now the face was golden with sun tan from which the wide-apart blue eyes, now ablaze with the moon, shone out with that challenging directness that had disconcerted him when they had argued over some office problem. Still the same glint of health over the good bones and the broad uninhibited smile from the full lips that, in repose, were so exciting. But now the clothes were different. Instead of the severe shirt and skirt of the days at Headquarters, she was wearing a single string of pearls and a one-piece short-skirted frock in the color of a pink gin with a lot of bitters in it—the orangey-pink of the inside of a conch shell. It was all tight against the bosom and the hips. She smiled at his scrutiny. "The buttons are down the back. This is standard uniform for a tropical Station."

"I can just see Q Branch dreaming it up. I suppose one of the pearls has a death pill in it."

"Of course. But I can't remember which. I'll just have to swallow the whole string. Can I have a daiquiri, please, instead?"

Bond gave the order. "Sorry, Goodnight. My manners are slipping. I was dazzled. It's so tremendous finding you here. And I've never seen you in your working clothes before. Now then, tell me the news. Where's Ross? How long have you been here? Have you managed to cope with all that junk I gave you?"

Her drink came. She sipped it carefully. Bond remembered that she rarely drank and didn't smoke. He ordered another for himself and felt vaguely guilty that this was his third double and that she wouldn't know it and when it came wouldn't recognize it as a double. He lit a cigarette. Nowadays he was trying to keep to twenty and failing by about five. He stabbed the cigarette out. He was getting near to his target and the rigid training rules that had been drilled into him at The Park must from now on be observed meticulously. The champagne wouldn't count. He was amused by the conscience this girl had awakened in him. He was also surprised and impressed.

Mary Goodnight knew that the last question was the one he would want answered first. She reached into a plain straw handbag on a gold metal chain and handed him a thick envelope. She said, "Mostly in used singles. A few fivers. Shall I debit you direct or put it in as expenses?"

"Direct, please."

"The car's outside. You remember Strangways? Well, it's his old Sunbeam Alpine. The Station bought it and now I use it. The tank's full and it goes like a bird. The top man at Frome is a man called Tony Hugill. Ex-navy. Nice man. Nice wife. Nice children. Does a good job. Has a lot of trouble with cane burning and other small sabotage—mostly with thermite bombs brought in from Cuba. Cuba's sugar crop is Jamaica's chief rival, and with Hurricane Flora and all the rains they've been having over there, the Cuban crop is going to be only about three million tons this year, compared with a Batista level of about seven, and very late, because the rains have played havoc with the sucrose content." She smiled her wide smile. "No secrets. Just reading the Gleaner. So it's worth Castro's trouble to try and keep the world price up by doing as much damage as he can to rival crops so that he's in a better position to bargain with Russia. He's only got his sugar to sell and he wants food badly. This wheat the Americans are selling to Russia. A lot of that will find its way back to Cuba, in exchange for sugar, to feed the Cuban sugar croppers." She smiled again. "Pretty daft business, isn't it? I don't think Castro can hold out much longer. The missile business in Cuba must have cost Russia about a billion pounds. And now they're having to pour money into Cuba, money and goods, to keep the place on its feet. I can't help thinking they'll pull out soon and leave Castro to go the way Batista went. It's a fiercely Catholic country and Hurricane Flora was considered the final judgment from heaven. It sat over the island and simply whipped it, day after day, for five days. No hurricane in history has ever behaved like that. The churchgoers don't miss an omen like that. It was a straight indictment of the regime."

Bond said with admiration, "Goodnight, you're a treasure. You've certainly been doing your homework."

The direct blue eyes looked straight into his, dodging the compliment. "This is the stuff I live with here. It's built into the Station. But I thought you might like some background to Frome, and what I've said explains why WISCO are getting these cane fires. At least we think it is. Apparently there's a tremendous chess game going on all over the world in sugar—in what they call sugar futures: that's sort of buying the stuff forward for delivery dates later in the year. Washington's trying to keep the price down, to upset Cuba's economy, but there's increased world consumption and a shortage largely due to Flora and the tremendous rains we've been having here after Flora which have delayed the Jamaican crop. I don't understand it all, but it's in Cuba's interest to do as much damage as possible to the Jamaican crop, and this place Frome you're interested in produces about a quarter of Jamaica's total output." She took a sip of her drink. "Well, that's all about sugar. The top man there is this man Hugill. We've had a lot to do with him, so he'll be friendly. He was in Naval Intelligence during the War, sort of commando job, so he knows the score. The car's a bit aged, but it's still pretty fast and it won't let you down. It's rather bashed about so it won't be conspicuous. I've put the survey map in the glove compartment."

"That's fine. Now, last question and then we'll go and have dinner and tell each other our life stories. But, by the way, what's happened to your chief, Ross?"

Mary Goodnight looked worried. "To tell you the truth, I don't exactly know. He went off last week on some job to Trinidad. It was to try and locate a man called Scaramanga. He's a local gunman of some sort. I don't know much about him. Apparently Headquarters wants him traced for some reason." She smiled ruefully. "Nobody ever tells me anything that's interesting. I just do the donkey-work. Well, Commander Ross was due back two days ago and he hasn't turned up. I've had to send off a Red Warning, but I've been told to give him another week."

"Well, I'm glad he's out of the way. I'd rather have his number two. Last question. What about this three and a half Love Lane? Did you get anywhere?"

Mary Goodnight blushed. "Did I not! That was a fine question to get me mixed up with. Alexander's were noncommittal and I finally had to go to the Special Branch. I shan't be able to show my face there for weeks. Heaven knows what they must think of you. That place is a, is a, er——" She wrinkled her nose. "It's a famous disorderly house in Sav' La Mar."

Bond laughed out loud at her discomfiture. He teased her with malicious but gentle sadism. "You mean it's a whorehouse?"

"James! For heaven's sake! Must you be so crude?"

• • •

The south coast of Jamaica is not as beautiful as the north, and it is a long 120-mile hack over very mixed road surfaces from Kingston to Savannah La Mar. Mary Goodnight had insisted on coming along, "to navigate and help with the punctures." Bond had not demurred.

Spanish Town, May Pen, Alligator Pond, Black River, Whitehouse Inn, where they had luncheon—the miles unrolled under the fierce sun until, around four in the afternoon, a stretch of good straight road brought them among the spruce little villas, each with its patch of brownish lawn, bougainvillaea, and single bed of canna lilies and crotons, which make up the "smart" suburbs of the modest little coastal township that is, in the vernacular, Sav' La Mar.

Except for the old quarter on the waterfront, it is not a typically Jamaican town, nor a very attractive one. The villas, built for the senior staff of the Frome sugar estates, are drably respectable, and the small straight streets smack of a most un-Jamaican bout of town planning around the 1920s. Bond stopped at the first garage, took in petrol and put Mary Goodnight into a hired car for the return trip. He had told her nothing of his assignment and she had asked no questions when Bond told her vaguely that it was "something to do with Cuba." Bond said he would keep in touch when he could, and get back to her when his job was done and then, businesslike, she was off back down the dusty road and Bond drove slowly down to the waterfront. He identified Love Lane, a narrow street of broken-down shops and houses that meandered back into the town from the jetty. He circled the area to get the neighboring geography clear in his mind and parked the car in a deserted area near the spit of sand on which fishing canoes were drawn up on raised stilts. He locked the car and sauntered back and into Love Lane. There were a few people about, poor people of the fisherman class. Bond bought a packet of Royal Blend at a small general store that smelled of spices. He asked where No. 3-1/2 was and got a look of polite curiosity. "Further up de street. Mebbe a chain. Big house on de right." Bond moved over to the shady side and strolled on. He slit open the packet with his thumbnail and lit a cigarette to help the picture of an idle tourist examining a corner of old Jamaica. There was only one big house on the right. He took some time lighting the cigarette while he examined it.

It must once have had importance, perhaps as the private house of a merchant. It was of two stories with balconies running all the way round and it was wooden built with silvering shingles, but the gingerbread tracery beneath the eaves was broken in many places and there was hardly a scrap of paint left on the jalousies that closed off all the upstairs windows and most of those below. The patch of "yard" bordering the street was inhabited by a clutch of vulturine-necked chickens that pecked at nothing and three skeletal Jamaican black-and-tan mongrels. They gazed lazily across the street at Bond and scratched and bit at invisible flies. But, in the background, there was one very beautiful lignum vitae tree in full blue blossom. Bond guessed that it was as old as the house—perhaps 50 years. It certainly owned the property by right of strength and adornment. In its delicious black shade a girl in a rocking chair sat reading a magazine. At the range of about 30 yards she looked tidy and pretty. Bond strolled up the opposite side of the street until a corner of the house hid the girl. Then he stopped and examined the house more closely.

Wooden steps ran up to an open front door, over whose lintel, whereas few of the other buildings in the street bore numbers, a big enameled metal sign announced 3-1/2 in white on dark blue. Of the two broad windows that bracketed the door, the left-hand one was shuttered, but the right-hand one was a single broad sheet of rather dusty glass through which tables and chairs and a serving counter could be seen. Over the door a swinging sign said dreamland café in sun-bleached letters, and round this window were advertisements for Red Stripe beer, Royal Blend, Four Aces cigarettes and Coca-Cola. A hand-painted sign said Snax and, underneath, "Hot Cock Soup Fresh Daily."

Bond walked across the street and up the steps and parted the bead curtain that hung over the entrance. He walked over to the counter and was inspecting its contents, a plate of dry-looking ginger cakes, a pile of packeted banana crisps, and some sweet jars, when he heard quick steps outside. The girl from the garden came in. The beads clashed softly behind her. She was an octoroon, pretty as, in Bond's imagination, the word octoroon suggested. She had bold, brown eyes, slightly uptilted at the corners, beneath a fringe of silken black hair. (Bond reflected that there would be Chinese blood somewhere in her past.) She was dressed in a short frock of shocking pink which went well with the coffee and cream of her skin. Her wrists and ankles were tiny. She smiled politely. The eyes flirted. "Evenin'."

"Good evening. Could I have a Red Stripe?"

"Sure." She went behind the counter. She gave him a quick glimpse of fine bosoms as she bent to the door of the icebox—a glimpse not dictated by the geography of the place. She nudged the door shut with a knee, deftly uncapped the bottle and put it on the counter beside an almost clean glass. "That'll be one and six."

Bond paid. She rang the money into the cash register. Bond drew up a stool to the counter and sat down. She rested her arms on the wooden top and looked across at him. "Passing through?"

"More or less. I saw this place was for sale in yesterday's Gleaner. I thought I'd take a look at it. Nice big house. Does it belong to you?"

She laughed. It was a pity, because she was a pretty girl, but the teeth had been sharpened by munching raw sugar cane. "What a hope! I'm sort of, well, sort of manager. There's the café" (she pronounced it caif) "and mebbe you heard we got other attractions."

Bond looked puzzled. "What sort?"

"Girls. Six bedrooms upstairs. Very clean. It only cost a pound. There's Sarah up there now. Care to meet up with her?"

"Not today, thanks. It's too hot. But do you only have one at a time?"

"There's Lindy, but she's engaged. She's a big girl. If you like them big, she'll be free in half an hour." She glanced at a kitchen clock on the wall behind her. "Around six o'clock. It'll be cooler then."

"I prefer girls like you. What's your name?"

She giggled. "I only do it for love. I told you I just manage the place. They call me Tiffy."

"That's an unusual name. How did you come by it?"

"My momma had six girls. Called them all after flowers. Violet, Rose, Cherry, Pansy and Lily. Then when I came, she couldn't think of any more flower names, so she called me 'Artificial.'" Tiffy waited for him to laugh. When he didn't, she went on. "When I went to school they all said it was a wrong name and laughed at me and shortened it to Tiffy and that's how I've stayed."

"Well, I think it's a very pretty name. My name's Mark."

She flirted. "You a saint, too?"

"No one's ever accused me of it. I've been up at Frome doing a job. I like this part of the island and it crossed my mind to find some place to rent. But I want to be closer to the sea than this. I'll have to look around a bit more. Do you rent rooms by the night?"

She reflected. "Sure. Why not. But you may find it a bit noisy. There's sometimes a customer who's taken some drinks too many And there's not too much plumbing." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "But I wouldn't have advised you to rent the place. The shingles are in bad shape. Cost you mebbe five hunnerd, mebbe a thousand to get the roof done."

"It's nice of you to tell me that. But why's the place being sold? Trouble with the police?"

"Not so much. We operate a respectable place. But in the Gleaner, after Mr. Brown, that's my boss, you read that 'et ux.'?"

"Yes."

"Well, seems that means 'and his wife.' And Mistress Brown, Mistress Agatha Brown, she was Church of England, but she just done gone to the Catholics. And it seems they don't hold with places like three and a half, not even when they're decently run. And their church here, just up the street, seems that needs a new roof like here. So Mistress Brown figures to kill two birds with the same stone and she goes on at Mr. Brown to close the place down and sell it and with her portion she goin' fix the roof for the Catholics."

"That's a shame. It seems a nice quiet place. What's going to happen to you?"

"Guess I'll move to Kingston. Live with one of my sisters and mebbe work in one of the big stores—Issa's mebbe, or Nathan's. Sav' La Mar is sort of quiet." The brown eyes became introspective. "But I'll sure miss the place. Folks have fun here and Love Lane's a pretty street. We're all friends up and down the Lane. It's got sort of, sort of ..."

"Atmosphere."

"Right. That's what it's got. Like sort of old Jamaica. Like it must have been in the old days. Everyone's friends with each other. Help each other when they have trouble. You'd be surprised how often the girls do it for free if the man's a good feller, regular customer sort of, and he's short." The brown eyes gazed inquiringly at Bond to see if he understood the strength of the evidence.

"That's nice of them. But it can't be good for business."

She laughed. "This ain't no business, Mister Mark. Not while I'm running it. This is a public service, like water and electricity and health and education and ..." She broke off and glanced over her shoulder at the clock which said 5:45. "Hell! You got me talking so much I've forgot Joe and May. It's their supper." She went to the café window and wound it down. At once, from the direction of the lignum vitae tree, two large black birds, slightly smaller than a raven, whirled in, circled the interior of the café amid a metallic clangor of song unlike the song of any other bird in the world, and untidily landed on the counter within reach of Bond's hand. They strutted up and down imperiously, eying Bond without fear from bold, golden eyes, and went through a piercing repertoire of tinny whistles and trills, some of which required them to ruffle themselves up to almost twice their normal size.

Tiffy went back behind the bar, took two pennies out of her purse, rang them up on the register and took two ginger cakes out of the flyblown display case. She broke off bits and fed the two birds, always the smaller of the two, the female, first, and they greedily seized the pieces from her fingers, and, holding the scraps to the wooden counter with a claw, tore them into smaller fragments and devoured them. When it was all over, and Tiffy had chided them both for pecking her fingers, they made small, neat white messes on the counter and looked pleased with themselves. Tiffy took a cloth and cleaned up the messes. She said, "We call them kling-klings, but learned folk call them Jamaican grackles. They're very friendly folk. The doctor-bird, the hummingbird with the streamer tail, is the Jamaican national bird, but I like these best. They're not so beautiful, but they're the friendliest bird and they're funny besides. They seem to know it. They're like naughty black thieves." The kling-klings eyed the cake stand and complained stridently that their supper was over. James Bond produced twopence and handed it over. "They're wonderful. Like mechanical toys. Give them a second course from me."

Tiffy rang up the money and took out two more cakes. "Now listen, Joe and May. This nice gemmun's been nice to Tiffy and he's now being nice to you. So don't you peck my fingers and make messes or mebbe he won't visit us again." She was halfway through feeding the birds when she cocked an ear. There was the noise of creaking boards somewhere overhead and then the sound of quiet footsteps treading stairs. All of a sudden Tiffy's animated face became quiet and tense. She whispered to Bond. "That's Lindy's man. Important man. He's a good customer here. But he don't like me, because I won't go with him. So he can talk rough sometimes. And he don't like Joe and May, because he reckons they make too much noise." She shooed the birds in the direction of the open window, but they saw there was half their cake to come and they just fluttered into the air and then down to the counter again. Tiffy appealed to Bond. "Be a good friend and just sit quiet whatever he says. He likes to get people mad. And then ..." She stopped. "Will you have another Red Stripe, mister?"

Bead curtains swished in the shadowy back of the room.

Bond had been sitting with his chin propped on his right hand. He now dropped the hand to the counter and sat back. The Walther PPK inside the waistband of his trousers to the left of his flat stomach signaled its presence to his skin. The fingers of his right hand curled slightly, ready to receive its butt. He moved his left foot off the rail of the stool onto the floor. He said, "That'd be fine." He unbuttoned his coat with his left hand and then, with the same hand, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face with it. "It always gets extra hot around six before the undertaker's wind has started to blow."

"Mister, the undertaker's right here. You care to feel his wind?"

James Bond turned his head slowly. Dusk had crept into the big room and all he could see was a pale, tall outline. The man was carrying a suitcase. He put it down on the floor and came forward. He must have been wearing rubber-soled shoes, for his feet made no sound. Tiffy moved nervously behind the counter and a switch clicked. Half a dozen low-voltage bulbs came to life in rusty brackets around the walls.

Bond said easily, "You made me jump."

Scaramanga came up and leaned against the counter. The description in Records was exact, but it had not caught the catlike menace of the big man, the extreme breadth of the shoulders and the narrow waist, or the cold immobility of the eyes that now examined Bond with an expression of aloof disinterest. He was wearing a well-cut, single-breasted tan suit and "corespondent" shoes in brown and white. Instead of a tie, he wore a high stock in white silk secured by a gold pin the shape of a miniature pistol. There should have been something theatrical about the getup, but, perhaps because of the man's fine figure, there wasn't.

He said, "I sometimes make 'em dance. Then I shoot their feet off." There was no trace of a foreign accent underneath the American.

Bond said, "That sounds rather drastic. What do you do it for?"

"The last time it was five thousand dollars. Seems like you don't know who I am. Didn't the cool cat tell you?"

Bond glanced at Tiffy. She was standing very still, her hands by her sides. The knuckles were white.

Bond said, "Why should she? Why would I want to know?"

There was a quick flash of gold. The small black hole looked directly at Bond's navel. "Because of this. What are you doing here, stranger? Kind of a coincidence finding a city slicker at three and a half. Or at Sav' La Mar, for the matter of that. Not by any chance from the police? Or any of their friends?"

"Kamerad!" Bond raised his hands in mock surrender. He lowered them and turned to Tiffy. "Who is this man? A one-man take-over bid for Jamaica? Or a refugee from a circus? Ask him what he'd like to drink. Whoever he is, it was a good act." James Bond knew that he had very nearly pulled the trigger of the gun. Hit a gunman in his vanity ... He had a quick vision of himself writhing on the floor, his right hand without the power to reach for his own weapon. Tiffy's pretty face was no longer pretty. It was a taut skull. She stared at James Bond. Her mouth opened, but no sound came from the gaping lips. She liked him and she knew he was dead. The kling-klings, Joe and May, smelled the same electricity. With a tremendous din of metallic squawks, they fled for the open window like black thieves escaping into the night.

The explosions from the Colt .45 were deafening. The two birds disintegrated against the violet backdrop of the dusk, the scraps of feathers and pink flesh blasting out of the yellow light of the café into the limbo of the deserted street like shrapnel.

There was a moment of deafening silence. James Bond didn't move. He sat where he was, waiting for the tension of the deed to relax. It didn't. With an inarticulate scream that was half a filthy word, Tiffy took James Bond's bottle of Red Stripe off the counter and clumsily flung it. There came a distant crash of glass from the back of the room. Then, having made her puny gesture, Tiffy fell to her knees behind the counter and went into sobbing hysterics.

James Bond drank down the rest of his beer and got slowly to his feet. He walked toward Scaramanga and was about to pass him when the man reached out a languid left arm and caught him at the biceps. He held the snout of his gun to his nose, sniffing delicately. The expression in the dead brown eyes was faraway. He said, "Mister, there's something quite extra about the smell of death. Care to try it?" He held out the glittering gun as if he were offering James Bond a rose.

Bond stood quite still. He said, "Mind your manners. Take your hand off me."

Scaramanga raised his eyebrows. The flat, leaden gaze seemed to take in Bond for the first time.

He released his grip.

James Bond went on round the edge of the counter. When he came opposite the other man, he found the eyes were now looking at him with faint, scornful curiosity. Bond stopped. The sobbing of the girl was the crying of a small dog. Somewhere down the street a "sound system"—a loudspeaker record player—began braying calypso.

Bond looked the man in the eye. He said, "I've tried the smell of death. I recommend the Berlin vintage. 1945." He smiled a friendly, only slightly ironical smile. "But I expect you were too young to be at that tasting."

Bond knelt down beside Tiffy and gave her a couple of sharp slaps on the right cheek. Then on the left. The wet eyes came back into focus. She put her hand up to her face and looked at Bond with surprise. Bond got to his feet. He took a cloth and wetted it at the tap, then leaned down and put his arm round her and wiped the cloth gently over her face. Then he lifted her up and handed her her bag that was on a shelf behind the counter. He said, "Come on, Tiffy. Make up that pretty face again. Business'll be warming up soon. The leading lady's got to look her best."

Tiffy took the bag and opened it. She looked past Bond and saw Scaramanga for the first time since the shooting. The pretty lips drew back in a snarl. She whispered fiercely so that only Bond could hear, "I'm goin' fix that man, but good. There's Mother Edna up Orange Hill way. She's an obeah top woman. I'll go up there tomorrow. Come a few days, he won't know what hit him." She took out a mirror and began doing up her face. Bond reached into his hip pocket and counted out five one-pound notes. He stuffed them into her open bag.

"You forget all about it. This'll buy you a nice canary in a cage to keep you company. Anyway, another pair of klings'll come along if you put some food out." He patted her shoulder and moved away. When he came up to Scaramanga he stopped and said, "That may have been a good circus act" (he used the word again on purpose) "but it was rough on the girl. Give her some money."

Scaramanga said, "Shove it," out of the corner of his mouth. He said suspiciously, "And what's all this yak about circuses?" He turned to face Bond. "Just stop where you are, mister, and answer a few questions. Like I said, are you from the police? You've sure got the smell of cops around you. If not, what are you doing hereabouts?"

Bond said, "People don't tell me what to do. I tell them." He walked on into the middle of the room and sat down at a table. He said, "Come and sit down and stop trying to lean on me. I'm unleanable-on."

Scaramanga shrugged. He took two long strides, picked up one of the metal chairs, twirled it round and thrust it between his legs and sat bassackwards, his left arm lying along the back of the chair. His right arm rested on his thigh, inches from the ivory pistol butt that showed above the waistband of his trousers. Bond recognized that it was a good working position for a gunman, the metal back of the chair acting as a shield for most of the body. This was certainly a most careful and professional man.

Bond, both hands in full view on the tabletop, said cheerfully, "No. I'm not from the police. My name's Mark Hazard. I'm from a company called World Consortium. I've been doing a job up at Frome, the WISCO sugar place. Know it?"

"Sure I know it. What you been doing there?"

"Not so fast, my friend. First of all, who are you and what's your business?"

"Scaramanga. Francisco Scaramanga. Labor relations. Ever heard of me?"

Bond frowned. "Can't say I have. Should I have?"

"Some people who hadn't are dead."

"A lot of people who hadn't heard of me are dead." Bond leaned back. He crossed one leg over the other, above the knee, and grasped the ankle in a clubman pose. "I do wish you'd stop talking in heroics. For instance, seven hundred million Chinese have certainly heard of neither of us. You must be a frog in a very small pool."

Scaramanga did not rise to the jibe. He said reflectively, "Yeah. I guess you could call the Caribbean a pretty small pool. But there's good pickin's to be had from it. 'The man with the golden gun.' That's what they call me in these parts."

"It's a handy tool for solving labor problems. We could do with you up at Frome."

"Been having trouble up there?" Scaramanga looked bored.

"Too many cane fires."

"Was that your business?"

"Sort of. One of the jobs of my company is insurance investigation."

"Security work. I've come across guys like you before. Thought I could smell the cop smell." Scaramanga looked satisfied that his guess had been right. "Did you get anywhere?"

"Picked up a few Rastafari. I'd have liked to get rid of the lot of them. But they went crying to their union that they were being discriminated against because of their religion, so we had to call a halt. So the fires'll begin again soon. That's why I say we could do with a good enforcer up there." Bond added blandly, "I take it that's another name for your profession?"

Again Scaramanga dodged the sneer. He said, "You carry a gun?"

"Of course. You don't go after the Rastas without one."

"What kind of a gun?"

"Walther PPK. 7.65 millimeter."

"Yes, that's a stopper all right." Scaramanga turned toward the counter. "Hey, cool cat. Couple of Red Stripes, if you're in business again." He turned back and the blank eyes looked hard at Bond. "What's your next job?"

"Don't know. I'll have to contact London and find out if they've got any other problems in the area. But I'm in no hurry. I work for them more or less on a free-lance basis. Why? Any suggestions?"

The other man sat quiet while Tiffy came out from behind the counter. She came over to the table and placed the tin tray with the bottles and glasses in front of Bond. She didn't look at Scaramanga. Scaramanga uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He reached inside his coat and took out an alligatorskin billfold. He extracted a hundred-dollar bill and threw it on the table. "No hard feelings, cool cat. You'd be OK if you didn't always keep your legs together. Go buy yourself some more birds with that. I like to have smiling people around me."

Tiffy picked up the note. She said, "Thanks, mister. You'd be surprised what I'm going to spend your money on." She gave him a long, hard look and turned on her heel.

Scaramanga shrugged. He reached for a bottle of beer and a glass and both men poured and drank. Scaramanga took out an expensive cigar case, selected a pencil-thin cheroot and lit it with a match. He let the smoke dribble out between his lips and inhaled the thin stream up his nostrils. He did this several times with the same mouthful of smoke until the smoke was dissipated. All the while he stared across the table at Bond, seeming to weigh up something in his mind. He said, "Care to earn yourself a grand—a thousand bucks?"

Bond said, "Possibly." He paused and added, "Probably." What he meant was, "Of course! If it means staying close to you, my friend."

Scaramanga smoked awhile in silence. A car stopped outside and two laughing men came quickly up the steps. When they came through the bead curtains, working-class Jamaicans, they stopped laughing and went quietly over to the counter and began whispering to Tiffy. Then they both slapped a pound note on the counter and, making a wide detour away from the white men, disappeared through the curtains at the back of the room. Their laughter began again as Bond heard their footsteps on the stairs.

Scaramanga hadn't taken his eyes from Bond's face. Now he said, keeping his voice low, "I got myself a problem. Some partners of mine, they've taken an interest in this Negril development. Far end of the property. Place called Bloody Bay. Know it?"

"I've seen it on the map. Just short of Green Island Harbor."

"Right. So I've got some shares in the business. So we start building a hotel and get the first story finished and the main living rooms and restaurant and so on. So then the tourist boom slackens off—Americans get frightened of being so close to Cuba or some such crap. And the banks get difficult and money begins to run short. Follow me?"

"So you're a stale bull of the place?"

"Right. So I came over a few days ago and I'm staying at the Thundercrap and I've got a half dozen of the main stockholders to fly in for a meeting on the spot. Sort of look the place over and get our heads together and figure what to do next. Now, I want to give these guys a good time, so I've got a smart combo over from Kingston, calypso singers, limbo, plenty of girls—all the jazz. And there's swimming and one of the features of the place is a small-scale railway that used to handle the sugar cane. Runs to Green Island Harbor where I got a forty-foot Chris-Craft Roamer. Deep-sea fishing. That'll be another outing. Get me? Give the fellers a real good time."

"So that they'll get all enthusiastic and buy out your share of the stock?"

Scaramanga frowned angrily. "I'm not paying you a grand to get the wrong ideas. Or any ideas, for the matter of that."

"What for, then?"

For a moment or two Scaramanga went through his smoking routine, the little pillars of smoke vanishing again and again into the black nostrils. It seemed to calm him. His forehead cleared. He said, "Some of these men are kind of rough. We're all stockholders, of course, but that don't necessarily mean we're friends. Understand? I'll be wanting to hold some meetings, private meetings, with mebbe only two or three guys at a time, sort of sounding out the different interests. Could be that some of the other guys, the ones not invited to a particular meeting, might get it into their heads to bug a meeting or try and get wise to what goes on in one way or another. So it jes' occurs to me that you being live to security and such, that you could act as a kind of guard at these meetings, clean the room for mikes, stay outside the door and see that no one comes nosing around, see that when I want to be private I git private. D'you get the photo?"

Bond had to laugh. He said, "So you want to hire me as a kind of personal bodyguard. Is that it?"

The frown was back. "And what's so funny about that, mister? It's good money, ain't it? Three, mebbe four days in a luxury joint like the Thunderbird. A thousand bucks at the end of it? What's so screwy about that proposition, eh?" Scaramanga mashed out the butt of his cigar against the underside of the table. A shower of sparks fell. He let them lie.

Bond scratched the back of his head as if reflecting. Which he was—furiously. He knew that he hadn't heard the full story. He also knew that it was odd, to say the least of it, for this man to hire a complete stranger to do this job for him. The job itself stood up, but only just. It made sense that Scaramanga would not want to hire a local man, an ex-policeman, for instance, even if one could be found. Such a man might have friends in the hotel business who would be interested in the speculative side of the Negril development. And, of course, on the plus side, Bond would be achieving what he had never thought possible—he would have got right inside Scaramanga's guard. Or would he? There was the strong smell of a trap. But, assuming that Bond had not, by some obscure bit of ill luck, been blown, he couldn't for the life of him see what the trap could be. Well, clearly, he must make the gamble. In so many respects it was a chance in a million.

Bond lit a cigarette. He said, "I was only laughing at the idea of a man of your particular skills wanting protection. But it all sounds great fun. Of course I'll come along. When do we start? I've got a car at the bottom of the road."

Scaramanga thrust out an inside wrist and looked at a thin gold watch on a two-colored gold bracelet. He said, "Six-thirty-two. My car'll be outside." He got up. "Let's go. But don't forget one thing, Mister Whoosis. I rile mighty easy. Get me?"

Bond said easily, "I saw how annoyed you got with those inoffensive birds." He stood up. "I don't see any reason why either of us should get riled."

Scaramanga said indifferently, "OK, then." He walked to the back of the room and picked up his suitcase, new-looking but cheap, strode to the exit and crashed through the bead curtain and down the steps.

Bond went quickly over to the counter. "Goodbye, Tiffy. Hope I'll be coming by again one day. If anyone should ask after me, say I'm at the Thunderbird Hotel at Bloody Bay."

Tiffy reached out a hand and timidly touched his sleeve. "Go careful over there, Mister Mark. There's gangster money in that place. And watch out for yourself." She jerked her head toward the exit: "That's the worstest man I ever heard tell of." She leaned forward and whispered, "That's a thousand pound worth of ganja he's got in that bag. Rasta left it for him this morning. So I smelled the bag." She drew quickly back.

Bond said, "Thanks, Tiffy. See Mother Edna puts a good hex on him. I'll tell you why someday. I hope. 'Bye!" He went quickly out and down into the street where a red Thunderbird convertible was waiting, its exhaust making a noise like an expensive motorboat. The chauffeur was a Jamaican, smartly dressed, with a peaked cap. A red pennant on the wireless aerial said "The Thunderbird Hotel" in gold. Scaramanga was sitting beside the chauffeur. He said impatiently, "Get in the back. Lift you down to your car. Then follow along. It gets a good road after a while."

James Bond got into the car behind Scaramanga and wondered whether to shoot the man now, in the back of the head—the old Gestapo-K.G.B. point of puncture. A mixture of reasons prevented him—the itch of curiosity, an inbuilt dislike of cold murder, the feeling that this was not the predestined moment, the likelihood that he would have to murder the chauffeur also—these, combined with the softness of the night and the fact that the "sound system" was now playing a good recording of one of his favorites, After You've Gone, and that cicadas were singing from the lignum vitae tree, said "No." But at that moment, as the car coasted down Love Lane toward the bright mercury of the sea, James Bond knew that he was not only disobeying orders, or at best dodging them, he was also being a bloody fool.

This is the second installment of Ian Fleming's final James Bond novel, "The Man with the Golden Gun." Part III will appear next month.