The Man with the Golden Gun

Part Three of the final novel

Synopsis: Scaramanga!—even his name evoked evil—"The Man with the Golden Gun," secret agent and hired assassin for Fidel Castro, confidant of the hoodlum kings of the Western world, insatiable womanizer: Here was the final target for James Bond, Secret Agent 007 on Her Majesty's Secret Service. Dispatched by his chief, the inscrutable M, to the Caribbean, Bond tracked his elusive quarry from port to port in the steaming Antilles, finally caught him by happenstance in a Jamaican bordello.

Confronted with his foe, Bond passed himself off as a somewhat disreputable insurance investigator for a British sugar corporation and, hoodwinked, Scaramanga hired him to serve as bodyguard at an international conclave of hoods in the Thunderbird Hotel at Bloody Bay, the site Scaramanga had picked for this tropical Apalachin Conference.

In the wings as Bond moved to ensnare his foe was 007's former secretary, sensuous Mary Goodnight, now assistant to Commander Ross, M's operative in Jamaica. Ross himself had mysteriously disappeared shortly before Bond's arrival in Kingston.

But the center of the stage itself remained dominated by Scaramanga. After he and Bond had sealed their bargain, they left the brother. A red Thunderbird, with a Jamaican chauffeur, was waiting. Scaramanga sat beside the driver.

"I've got a car at the bottom of the road," said Bond.

"Get in the back. Lift you down to your car. Then follow along."

Bond got into the Thunderbird behind his prey 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, and built-in dislike of cold-blooded murder, the feeling that this was not the predestined moment, the likelihood that he would have to murder the chauffeur also. But at that moment Bond knew that he was not only disobeying orders or at best dodging them, he was also being a bloody fool.

When he arrives at a place on a dark night, particularly in an alien land which he has never seen before—a strange house, perhaps, or a hotel—even the most alert man is assailed by the confused sensations of the meanest tourist.

James Bond more or less knew the map of Jamaica. He knew that the sea had always been close to him on his left and, as he followed the twin red glares of the leading car through an impressive entrance gate of wrought iron and up an avenue of young royal palms, he heard the waves scrolling into a beach very close to his car. The fields of sugar cane would, he guessed from the approach, come close up against the new high wall that surrounded the Thunderbird property, and there was a slight smell of mangrove swamp coming down from below the high hills whose silhouette he had occasionally glimpsed under a scudding three-quarter moon on his right. But otherwise he had no clue to exactly where he was or what sort of a place he was now approaching and, particularly for him, the sensation was an uncomfortable one.

The first law for a secret agent is to get his geography right, his means of access and exit, and assure his communications with the outside world. James Bond was uncomfortably aware that, for the past hour, he had been driving into limbo and that his nearest contact was a girl in a brothel 30 miles away. The situation was not reassuring.

Half a mile ahead, someone must have seen the approaching lights of the leading car and pressed switches, for there was a sudden blaze of brilliant yellow illumination through the trees and a final sweep of the drive revealed the hotel. With the theatrical lighting and the surrounding blackness to conceal any evidence of halted construction work, the place made a brave show. A vast pale-pink-and-white pillared portico gave the hotel an aristocratic frontage and, when Bond drew up behind the other car at the entrance, he could see through the tall Regency windows a vista of black-and-white marble flooring beneath blazing chandeliers. A bell captain and his Jamaican staff in red jackets and black trousers hurried down the steps and, after showing great deference to Scaramanga, took his suitcase and Bond's, then the small cavalcade moved into the entrance hall where Bond wrote "Mark Hazard" and the Kensington address of World Consortium in the register.

Scaramanga had been talking to a man who appeared to be the manager, a young American with a neat face and a neat suit. He turned to Bond. "You're in number 24 in the west wing. I'm close by in number 20. Order what you want from room service. See you about ten in the morning. The guys'll be coming in from Kingston around midday. OK?" The cold eyes in the gaunt face didn't mind whether it was or not. Bond said it was. He followed one of the bellboys with his suitcase across the slippery marble floor and through an archway on the left of the hall and down a long white corridor with a close-fitted carpet in royal-blue Wilton. There was a smell of new paint and Jamaican cedar. The numbered doors and the light fixtures were in good taste. Bond's room was almost at the end on the left. Number 20 was opposite. The bellhop unlocked number 24 and held the door for Bond. Air-conditioned air gushed out. It was a pleasant modern double bedroom and bath in gray and white. When he was alone, Bond went to the air-conditioning control and turned it to zero. Then he drew back the curtains and opened the two broad windows to let in real air. Outside, the sea whispered softly on an invisible beach and the moonlight splashed the black shadows of palms across trim lawns. To his left, where the yellow light of the entrance showed a corner of the gravel sweep, Bond heard his car being started up and driven away, presumably to a parking lot which would, he guessed, be at the rear so as not to spoil the impact of the façade. He turned back into his room and inspected it minutely. The only objects of suspicion were a large picture on the wall above the two beds and the telephone. The picture was a Jamaican market scene painted locally. Bond lifted it off its nail, but the wall behind was innocent. He then took out a pocketknife, laid the telephone carefully, so as not to shift the receiver, upside down on a bed, and very quietly and carefully unscrewed the bottom plate. He smiled his satisfaction. Behind the plate was a small microphone joined by leads to the main cable inside the cradle. He screwed back the plate with the same care and put the telephone quietly back on the night table. He knew the gadget. It would be transistorized and of sufficient power to pick up a conversation in normal tones anywhere in the room. It crossed his mind to say very devout prayers out loud before he went to bed. That would be a fitting prolog for the central recording device!

James Bond unpacked his few belongings and called room service. A Jamaican voice answered. Bond ordered a bottle of Walker's DeLuxe Bourbon, three glasses, ice and, for nine o'clock, eggs Benedict. The voice said, "Sure, sir." Bond then took off his clothes, put his gun and holster under a pillow, rang for the valet and had his suit taken away to be pressed. By the time he had taken a hot shower followed by an ice-cold one and pulled on a fresh pair of Sea Island cotton underpants, the bourbon had arrived.

The best drink in the day is just before the first one (the Red Stripe didn't count). James Bond put ice in the glass and three fingers of the bourbon and swilled it round the glass to cool it and break it down with the ice. He pulled a chair up to the window, put a low table beside it, took Profiles in Courage by Jack Kennedy out of his suitcase, happened to open it at Edmund G. Ross ("I looked down into my open grave"), then went and sat down, letting the scented air, a compound of sea and trees, breathe over his body, naked save for the underpants. He drank the bourbon down in two long draughts and felt its friendly bite at the back of his throat and in his stomach. He filled up his glass again, this time with more ice to make it a weaker drink, and sat back and thought about Scaramanga.

What was the man doing now? Talking long distance with Havana or the States? Organizing things for tomorrow? It would be interesting to see these fat, frightened stockholders! If Bond knew anything, they would be a choice bunch of hoods, the type that had owned the Havana hotels and casinos in the old Batista days, the men who held the stock in Las Vegas, who looked after the action in Miami. And whose money was Scaramanga representing? There was so much hot money drifting around the Caribbean that it might be any of the syndicates, any of the banana dictators from the islands or the mainland. And the man himself? It had been damned fine shooting that had killed the two birds swerving through the window of 3-1/2 Love Lane. How in hell was Bond going to take him? On an impulse, Bond went over to his bed and took the Walther from under the pillow. He slipped out the magazine and pumped the single round onto the counterpane. He tested the spring of the magazine and of the breech and drew a quick bead on various objects round the room. He found he was aiming an inch or so high. But that would be because the gun was lighter without its loaded magazine. He snapped the magazine back and tried again. Yes, that was better. He pumped a round into the breech, put up the safety and replaced the gun under the pillow. Then he went back to his drink and picked up the book and forgot his worries in the high endeavors of great men.

The eggs came and were good. The mousseline sauce might have been mixed at Maxim's. Bond had the tray removed, poured himself a last drink and prepared for bed. Scaramanga would certainly have a master key. Tomorrow, Bond would whittle himself a wedge to jam the door. For tonight, he upended his suitcase just inside the door and balanced the three glasses on top of it. It (continued on page 210) The Golden Gun (continued from page 108) was a simple booby trap, but it would give him all the warning he needed. Then he took off his shorts and got into bed and slept.

A nightmare woke him, sweating, around two in the morning. He had been defending a fort. There were other defenders with him, but they seemed to be wandering around aimlessly, ineffectively, and when Bond shouted to rally them they seemed not to hear him. Out on the plain, Scaramanga sat bassackwards on the café chair beside a huge golden cannon. Every now and then, he put his long cigar to the touchhole and there came a tremendous flash of soundless flame. A black cannon ball, as big as a football, lobbed up high in the air and crashed down into the fort with a shattering noise of breaking timber. Bond was armed with nothing but a longbow, but even this he could not fire, because every time he tried to fit the notch of the arrow into the gut, the arrow slipped out of his fingers to the ground. He cursed his clumsiness. Any moment now and a huge cannon ball would land on the small open space where he was standing! Out on the plain, Scaramanga reached his cigar to the touchhole. The black ball soared up. It was coming straight for Bond! It landed just in front of him and came rolling very slowly toward him, getting bigger and bigger, smoke and sparks coming from its shortening fuse. He threw up an arm to protect himself. Painfully, the arm crashed into the side of the night table and Bond woke up.

Bond got out of bed, gave himself a cold shower and drank a glass of water. By the time he was back in bed, he had forgotten the nightmare and he went quickly to sleep and slept dreamlessly until 7:30 in the morning. He put on swimming trunks, removed the barricade from in front of the door and went out into the passage. To his left, a door into the garden was open and sun streamed in. He went out and was walking over the dewy grass toward the beach when he heard a curious thumping noise from among the palms to his right. He walked over. It was Scaramanga, in trunks, attended by a good-looking young Negro holding a flame-colored terrycloth robe, doing exercises on a trampoline. Scaramanga's body gleamed with sweat in the sunshine as he hurled himself high in the air from the stretched canvas and bounded back, sometimes from his knees or his buttocks and sometimes even from his head. It was an impressive exercise in gymnastics. The prominent third nipple over the heart made an obvious target! Bond walked thoughtfully down to the beautiful crescent of white sand fringed with gently clashing palm trees. He dived in and, because of the other man's example, swam twice as far as he had intended.

James Bond had a quick and small breakfast in his room, dressed, reluctantly because of the heat, in his dark-blue suit, armed himself and went for a walk round the property. He quickly got the picture. The night, and the lighted façade, had covered up a half project. The east wing on the other side of the lobby was still uncompleted. The body of the hotel—the restaurant, night club and living rooms that were the tail of the T-shaped structure, were mock-ups—stages for a dress rehearsal hastily assembled with the essential props, carpets, light fixtures and a scattering of furniture, but stinking of fresh paint and wood shavings. Perhaps 50 men and women were at work, tacking up curtains, Hoovering carpets, fixing the electricity; but no one was employed on the essentials, the big cement mixers, the drills, the ironwork, that lay about behind the hotel like the abandoned toys of a giant. At a guess, the place would need another year and another $5,000,000 to become what the plans had said it was to be. Bond saw Scaramanga's problem. Someone was going to complain about this. Others would want to get out. But then again, others would want to buy in, but cheaply, and use it as a tax loss to set against more profitable enterprises elsewhere. Better to have a capital asset, with the big tax concessions that Jamaica gave, than pay the money to Uncle Sam, Uncle Fidel, Uncle Trujillo, Uncle Leoni of Venezuela. So Scaramanga's job would be to blind his guests with pleasure, send them back half drunk to their syndicates. Would it work? Bond knew such people and he doubted it. They might go to bed drunk with a pretty colored girl, but they would awake sober or they wouldn't have their jobs, they wouldn't be coming here with their discreet briefcases.

He walked farther back on the property. He wanted to locate his car. He found it on a deserted lot behind the west wing. The sun would get at where it was, so he drove it forward and into the shade of a giant Ficus tree. He checked the petrol and pocketed the ignition key. There were not too many small precautions he could take.

On the parking lot, the smell of the swamps was very strong. While it was still comparatively cool, he decided to walk farther. He soon came to the end of the young shrubs and guinea grass the landscaper had laid on. Behind these was desolation—a great area of sluggish streams and swampland from which the hotel land had been recovered. Egrets, shrikes and Louisiana herons rose and settled lazily, and there were strange insect noises and the call of frogs and Gekkos. On what would probably be the border of the property a biggish stream meandered toward the sea, its muddy banks pitted with the holes of land crabs and water rats. As Bond approached, there was a heavy splash and a man-sized crocodile left the bank and showed its snout before submerging. Bond smiled to himself. No doubt, if the hotel got off the ground, all this area would be turned into an asset. There would be native boatmen, suitably attired as Arawak Indians, a landing stage and comfortable boats, with fringed shades, from which the guests could view the "tropical jungle," for an extra $10 on the bill.

Bond glanced at his watch. He strolled back. To the left, not yet screened by the young oleanders and crotons that had been planted for this eventual purpose, were the kitchens and laundry and staff quarters, the usual back quarters of a luxury hotel, and music, the heartbeat thump of Jamaican calypso, came from their direction—presumably the Kingston combo rehearsing. Bond walked round and under the portico into the main lobby. Scaramanga was at the desk talking to the manager. When he heard's Bond's footsteps on the marble, he turned and looked and gave Bond a curt nod. He was dressed as on the previous day, and the high white cravat suited the elegance of the hall. He said, "OK, then" to the manager and, to Bond, "Let's go take a look at the conference room."

Bond followed him through the restaurant door and then through another door to the right that opened into a lobby, one of whose walls was taken up with the glasses and plates of a buffet. Beyond this was another door. Scaramanga led the way through into what would one day perhaps be a card room or writing room. Now there was nothing but a round table in the center of a wine-red carpet and seven white leatherette armchairs with scratch-pads and pencils in front of them. The chair facing the door, presumably Scaramanga's, had a white telephone in front of it.

Bond went round the room and examined the windows and the curtains and glanced at the wall brackets of the lighting. He said, "The brackets could be bugged. And of course there's the telephone. Like me to go over it?"

Scaramanga looked at Bond stonily. He said, "No need to. It's bugged, all right. By me. Got to have a record of what's said."

Bond said, "All right, then. Where do you want me to be?"

"Outside the door. Sitting reading a magazine or something. There'll be the general meeting this afternoon around four. Tomorrow there'll mebbe be one or two smaller meetings, mebbe just me and one of the guys. I want all these meetings not to be disturbed. Got it?"

"Seems simple enough. Now, isn't it about time you told me the names of these men and more or less who they represent and which ones, if any, you're expecting trouble from?"

Scaramanga said, "Take a chair and a paper and pencil." He strolled up and down the room. "First there's Mr. Hendriks. Dutchman. Represents the European money, mostly Swiss. You needn't bother with him. He's not the arguing type. Then there's Sam Binion from Detroit."

"The Purple Gang?"

Scaramanga stopped in his stride and looked hard at Bond. "These are all respectable guys, Mister Whoosis."

"Hazard is the name."

"All right. Hazard, then. But respectable, you understand. Don't go getting the notion that this is another Apalachin. These are all solid businessmen. Get me? This Sam Binion, for instance. He's in real estate. He and his friends are worth mebbe twenty million bucks. See what I mean? Then there's Leroy Gengerella, Miami. Owns Gengerella Enterprises. Big shot in the entertainment world. He may cut up rough. Guys in that line of business like quick profits and a quick turnover. And Ruby Rotkopf, the hotelman from Vegas. He'll ask the difficult questions, because he'll already know most of the answers from experience. Hal Garfinkel from Chicago. He's in labor relations, like me. Represents a lot of Teamster Union funds. He shouldn't be any trouble. Those unions have got so much money they don't know where to put it. That makes five. Last comes Louie Paradise from Phoenix, Arizona. Owns Paradise Slots, the biggest people in the one-armed-bandit business. Got casino interests, too. I can't figure which way he'll bet. That's the lot."

"And who do you represent, Mr. Scaramanga?"

"Caribbean money."

"Cuban?"

"I said Caribbean. Cuba's in the Caribbean, isn't it?"

"Castro or Batista?"

The frown was back. Scaramanga's right hand balled into a fist. "I told you not to rile me, mister. So don't go prying into my affairs or you'll get hurt. And that's for sure." As if he could hardly control himself longer, the big man turned on his heel and strode brusquely out of the room.

James Bond smiled. He turned back to the list in front of him. A strong reek of high gangsterdom rose from the paper. But the name he was most interested in was Mr. Hendriks who represented "European money." If that was his real name, and he was a Dutchman, so, James Bond reflected, was he.

He tore off three sheets of paper to efface the impression of his pencil and walked out and along into the lobby. A bulky man was approaching the desk from the entrance. He was sweating mightily in his unseasonable woodenlooking suit. He might have been anybody—an Antwerp diamond merchant, a German dentist, a Swiss bank manager. The pale, square-jowled face was totally anonymous. He put a heavy brief case on the desk and said in a thick central European accent, "I am Mr. Hendriks. I think it is that you have a room for me, isn't it?"

• • •

The cars began rolling up. Scaramanga was in evidence. He switched a careful smile of welcome on and off. No hands were shaken. The host was greeted either as "Pistol" or "Mr. S." except by Mr. Hendriks, who called him nothing.

Bond stood within earshot of the desk and fitted the names to the men. In general appearance they were all much of a muchness. Dark-faced, clean-shaven, around five feet, six, hard-eyed above thinly smiling mouths, curt of speech to the manager. They all held firmly onto their briefcases when the bellboys tried to add them to the luggage on the rubber-tired barrows. They dispersed to their rooms along the east wing. Bond took out his list and added hat-check notations to each one except Hendriks, who was clearly etched in Bond's memory. Gengerella became "Italian origin, mean, pursed mouth"; Rotkopf, "Thick neck, totally bald, Jew"; Binion, "Bat ears, scar down left cheek, limp"; Garfinkel, "The toughest. Bad teeth, gun under right armpit"; and, finally, Paradise, "Showman type, cocky, false smile, diamond ring."

Scaramanga came up. "What you writing?"

"Just notes to remember them by."

"Gimme." Scaramanga held out a demanding hand.

Bond gave him the list.

Scaramanga ran his eyes down it. He handed it back. "Fair enough. But you needn't have mentioned the only gun you noticed. They'll all be protected. Except Hendriks, I guess. These kinda guys are nervous when they move abroad."

"What of?"

Scaramanga shrugged. "Mebbe the natives."

"The last people who worried about the natives were the redcoats, perhaps a hundred and fifty years ago."

"Who cares? See you in the bar around twelve. I'll be introducing you as my personal assistant."

"That'll be fine."

Scaramanga's brows came together. Bond strolled off in the direction of his bedroom. He proposed to needle this man, and go on needling until it came to a fight. For the time being the other man would probably take it, because it seemed he needed Bond. But there would come a moment, probably on an occasion when there were witnesses, when his vanity would be so sharply pricked that he would draw. Then Bond would have a small edge, for it would be he who had thrown down the glove. The tactic was a crude one, but Bond could think, of no other.

Bond verified that his room had been searched at some time during the morning—and by an expert. He always used a Hoffritz safety razor patterned on the old-fashioned heavy-toothed Gillette type. His American friend Felix Leiter had once bought him one in New York to prove that they were the best, and Bond had stayed with them. The handle of a safety razor is a reasonably sophisticated hideout for the minor tools of espionage—codes, microder developers, cyanide and other pills. That morning Bond had set a minute nick on the screw base of the handle in line with the Z of the maker's name engraved on the shaft. The nick was now a millimeter to the right of the Z. None of his other little traps—handkerchiefs with indelible dots in particular places arranged in a certain order, the angle of his suitcase with the wall of the warbrode, the semiextracted lining of the breast pocket of his spare suit, the particular symmetry of certain dents in his tube of Maclean's toothpaste—had been bungled or disturbed. They all might have been by a turned. They all might have been by a meticulous servant, a trained valet. But Jamaican servants, for all their charm and willingness, are not of this caliber. No. Between nine and ten, when Bond was doing his rounds and was well away from the hotel, his room had received a thorough going-over by someone who knew his business.

Bond was pleased. It was good to know that the fight was well and truly joined. If he found a chance of making a foray into number 20, he hoped that he would do better. He tooked at shower. Afterward, as he brushed his hair, he looked at himself in the mirror with inquiry. He was feeling a hundred percent fit, but he remembered the dull, lackluster eyes that had looked back at him when he shaved after first entering The Park—the tense, preoccupied expression on his face. Now the gray-blue eyes looked back at him from the tanned face with the brilliant glint of suppressed excitement and accurate focus of the old days. He smiled ironically back at the introspective scrutiny that so many people make of themselves before a race, a contest of wits, a trial of some sort. He had no excuses. He was ready to go.

The bar was through a brass-studded leather door opposite the lobby to the conference room. It was—in the fashion—a mock-English public-house saloon bar with luxury accessories. The scrubbed wooden chairs and benches had foam-rubber squabs in red leather. Behind the bar, the tankards were of silver, of simulated silver, instead of pewter. The hunting prints, copper and brass hunting horns, muskets and powder horns on the walls could have come from the Parker Galler in London. Instead of tankards of beer, bottles of champagne in antique coolers stood on the tables and, instead of yokels, the hoods stood around in what looked like Brooks Brothers "tropical" attire and carefully sipped their drinks while "Mine Host" leaned against the polished mahogany bar and twirled his golden gun round and round on the first finger of his right hand like the snide poker cheat out of an old Western.

As the door closed behind Bond with a pressurized sigh, the golden gun halted in mid-whirl and sighted on Bond's stomach. "Fellers," said Scaramanga, mock boisterous, "meet my personal assistant, Mr. Mark Hazard, from London, England. He's come along to make things run smoothly over this weekend. Mark, come over and meet the gang and pass round the canapé's." He lowered the gun and shoved it into his waistband.

James Bond stitched a personal-assistant smile on his face and walked up to the bar. Perhaps because he was and Englishman, there was a round of handshaking. The red-coated barman asked him what he would have and he said, "Some pink gin. Plenty of bitters. Beefeater's." There was desutory talk about the relative merits of gins. Everyone else seemed to be drinking champagne except Mr.Hendriks, who stood away from the group and nursed a Schweppes Bitter Lemon. Bond moved among the men. He made small talk about their flight, the weather in the States, the beauties of Jamaica. He wanted to fit the voices to the names. He gravitated toward Mr. Hendriks. "Seems we're the only two Europeans here. Gather you're from Holland. Often passed through. Never stayed there long. Beautiful country."

The very pale blue eyes regarded Bond unenthusiastically. "Sank you."

"What part do you come from?"

"Den Haag."

"Have you lived there long?"

"Many, many years."

"Beautiful town."

"Sank you."

"Is this your first visit to Jamaica?"

"No."

"How do you like it?"

"It is a beautiful place."

Bond nearly said, "Sank you." He smiled encouragingly at Mr. Hendriks as much as to say, "I've made all the running so far. Now you say something."

Mr. Hendriks looked past Bond's right ear at nothing. The pressure of the silence built up. Mr. Hendriks shifted his weight from one foot to the other and finally broke down. His eyes shifted and looked thoughtfully at Bond. "And you. You are from London, isn't it?"

"Yes. Do you know it?"

"I have been there, yes."

"Where do you usually stay?"

There was hesitation. "With friends."

"That must be convenient."

"Pliss?"

"I mean it's pleasant to have friends in a foreign town. Hotels are so much alike."

"I have not found this. Excuse pliss." With a Germanic bob of the head Mr. Hendriks moved decisively away from Bond and went up to Scaramanga, who was still lounging in solitary splendor at the bar. Mr. Hendriks said something. His words acted like a command on the other man. Mr. Scaramanga straightened himself and followed Mr. Hendriks into a far corner of the room. He stood and listened with deference as Mr. Hendriks talked rapidly in a low tone.

Bond, joining the other men, was interested. It was his guess that no other man in the room could have button-holed Scaramanga with so much authority. He noticed that many fleeting glances were cast in the direction of the couple apart. For Bond's money, this was either the Mafia or K.G.B. Probably even the other five wouldn't know which, but they would certainly recognize the secret smell of "The Machine" which Mr. Hendriks exuded so strongly.

Luncheon was announced. The Jamaican headwaiter hovered between two richly prepared tables. There were place cards. Bond found that, while Scaramanga was host at one of them, he himself was at the head of the other table between Mr. Paradise and Mr. Rotkopf. As he expected, Mr. Paradise was the better value of the two and, as they went through the conventional shrimp cocktail, steak, fruit salad of the Americanized hotel abroad, Bond cheerfully got himself involved in an argument about the odds at roulette when there is one zero or two. Mr. Rotkopf's only contribution was to say, through a mouthful of steak and French-fried, that he had once tried three zeros at the Black Cat Casino in Miami but that the experiment had failed. Mr. Paradise said that so it should have. "You got to let the suckers win sometimes, Ruby, or they won't come back. Sure, you can squeeze the juice out of them, but you ought leave them the pips. Like with my slots. I tell the customers, don't be too greedy. Don't set 'em at thirty percent for the house. Set 'em at twenty. You ever heard of Mr. J. P. Morgan turning down a net profit of twenty percent? Hell, no! So why try and be smarter than guys like that?"

Mr. Rotkopf said sourly, "You got to make big profits to put against a bum steer like this." He waved a hand. "If you ask me," he held up a bit of steak on his fork, "you're eating the only money you're going to see out of this dump at this minute."

Mr. Paradise leaned across the table and said softly, "You know something?"

Mr. Rotkopf said, "I always told my money that the bindweed would get this place. The damn fools wouldn't listen. And look where we are in three years! Second mortgage nearly run out and we've only got one story up. What I say is ..."

The argument went off into the realms of high finance. At the next-door table there was not even this amount of animation. Scaramanga was a man of few words. There were clearly none available for social occasions. Opposite him, Mr. Hendriks exuded a silence as thick as gouda cheese. The three hoods addressed an occasional glum sentence to anyone who would listen. James Bond wondered how Scaramanga was going to electrify this unpromising company into "having a good time."

Luncheon broke up and the company dispersed to their rooms. James Bond wandered round to the back of the hotel and found a discarded shingle on a rubbish dump. It was blazing hot under the afternoon sun, but the doctor's wind was blowing in from the sea. For all its air conditioning, there was something grim about the impersonal gray and white of Bond's bedroom. Bond walked along the shore, took off his coat and tie and sat in the shade of a bush of sea grapes and watched the fiddler crabs about their minuscule business in the sand while he whittled two chunky wedges out of the Jamaican cedar. Then he closed his eyes and thought about Mary Goodnight. She would now be having her siesta in some villa on the outskirts of Kingston. It would probably be high up in the Blue Mountains for the coolness. In Bond's imagination, she would be lying on her bed under a mosquito net. Because of the heat, she would have nothing on, and one could see only an ivory and gold shape through the fabric of the net. But one would know that there were small beads of sweat on her upper lip and between her breasts and the fringes of the golden hair would be damp. Bond took off his clothes and lifted up the corner of the mosquito net, not wanting to wake her until he had fitted himself against her thighs. But she turned, in half sleep, toward him and held out her arms. "James ..."

Under the sea-grape bush, 120 miles away from the scene of the dream, James Bond's head came up with a jerk. He looked quickly, guiltily, at his watch. 3:30. He went off to his room and had a cold shower, verified that his cedar wedges would do what they were meant to do, and strolled down the corridor to the lobby.

The manager with the neat suit and neat face came out from behind his desk. "Er, Mr. Hazard."

"Yes."

"I don't think you've met my assistant, Mr. Travis."

"No, I don't think I have."

"Would you care to step into the office for a moment and shake him by the hand?"

"Later, perhaps. We've got this conference on in a few minutes."

The neat man came a step closer. He said quietly, "He particularly wants to meet you, Mr.—er—Bond."

Bond cursed himself. This was always happening in his particular trade. You were looking in the dark for a beetle with red wings. Your eyes were focused for that particular pattern on the bark of the tree. You didn't notice the moth with cryptic coloring that crouched quietly nearby, itself like a piece of the bark, itself just as important to the collector. The focus of your eyes was too narrow. Your mind was too concentrated. You were using 1 X 100 magnification and your 1 X 10 was not in focus. Bond looked at the man with the recognition that exists between crooks, between homosexuals, between secret agents. It is the look common to men bound by secrecy—by common trouble. "Better make it quick."

The neat man stepped behind his desk and opened a door. Bond went in and the neat man closed the door behind them. A tall, slim man was standing at a filing cabinet. He turned. He had a lean, bronzed Texan face under an unruly mop of straight, fair hair, and, instead of a right hand, a bright steel hook. Bond stopped in his tracks. His face split into a smile broader than he had smiled for—what? Was it three years or four? He said, "You goddamned, lousy crook. What in hell are you doing here?" He went up to the man and hit him hard on the biceps of the left arm.

The grin was slightly more creased than Bond remembered, but it was just as friendly and ironical. Mr. Travis said, "The name is Leiter, Mr. Felix Leiter. Temporary accountant on loan from Morgan Guarantee Trust to the Thunderbird Hotel. We're just checking up on your credit rating, Mr. Hazard. Would you kindly, in your royal parlance, extract your finger, and give me some evidence that you are who you claim to be?"

• • •

James Bond, almost lightheaded with pleasure, picked up a handful of travel literature from the front desk, said "Hi!" to Mr. Gengerella, who didn't reply, and followed him into the conference-room lobby. They were the last to show. Scaramanga, beside the open door to the conference room, looked pointedly at his watch and said to Bond, "OK, feller. Lock the door when we're all settled and don't let anyone in, even if the hotel catches fire." He turned to the barman behind the loaded buffet. "Get lost, Joe. I'll call for you later." He said to the room, "Right. We're all set. Let's go." He led the way into the conference room and the six men followed. Bond stood by the door and noted the seating order round the table. He closed the door and locked it and quickly also locked the exit from the lobby. Then he picked up a champagne glass from the buffet, pulled over a chair and sited the chair very close to the door of the conference room. He placed the bowl of the champagne glass as near as possible to a hinge of the door and, holding the glass by the stem, put his left ear up against its base. Through the crude amplifier, what had been the rumble of a voice became Mr. Hendriks speaking, "... and so it is that I will now report from my superiors in Europe ..." The voice paused and Bond heard another noise, the creak of a chair. Like lightning he pulled his chair back a few feet, opened one of the travel folders on his lap and raised the glass to his lips. The door jerked open and Scaramanga stood in the opening, twirling his passkey on a chain. He examined the innocent figure on the chair. He said, "OK, feller. Just checking," and kicked the door shut. Bond noisily locked it and took up his place again. Mr. Hendriks said, "I have one most important message for our chairman. It is from a sure source. There is a man that is called James Bond that is looking for him in this territory. This is a man who is from the British Secret Service. I have no informations or descriptions of this man, but it seems that he is highly rated by my superiors. Mr. Scaramanga, have you heard of this man?"

Scaramanga snorted. "Hell, no! And should I care? I eat one of their famous secret agents for breakfast from time to time. Only ten days ago, I disposed of one of them who came nosing after me. Man called Ross. His body is now very slowly sinking to the bottom of a pitch lake in Western Trinidad—place called La Brea. The oil company, the Trinidad Lake Asphalt people, will obtain an interesting barrel of crude one of these days. Next question, please, Mr. Hendriks."

"Next I am wishing to know what is the policy of The Group in the matter of cane sabotage. At our meeting six months ago in Havana, against my minority vote, it was decided, in exchange for certain favors, to come to the aid of Fidel Castro and assist in maintaining and indeed increasing the world price of sugar to offset the damage caused by Hurricane Flora. Since this time there have been very numerous fires in the cane fields of Jamaica and Trinidad. In this connection, it has come to the ears of my superiors that individual members of The Group, notably," there was the rustle of paper, "Messrs. Gengerella, Rotkopf and Binion, in addition to our chairman, have engaged in extensive purchasing of July sugar futures for the benefit of private gain ..."

There came an angry murmur from round the table. "Why shouldn't we ... ? Why shouldn't they ... ?" The voice of Gengerella dominated the others. He shouted, "Who in hell said we weren't to make money? Isn't that one of the objects of The Group? I ask you again, Mr. Hendriks, as I asked you six months ago, who in hell is it among your so-called 'superiors' who wants to keep the price of raw sugar down" For my money, the most interested party in such a gambit would be Soviet Russia. They're selling goods to Cuba, including, let me say, the recent abortive shipment of missiles to fire against my homeland, in exchange for raw sugar. They're sharp traders, the Reds. In their double-dealing way, even from a friend and ally, they would want more sugar for fewer goods. Yes? I suppose," the voice sneered, "one of your superiors, Mr. Hendriks, would not by any chance be Mr. Khrushchev?"

The voice of Scaramanga cut through the ensuing hubbub. "Fellers! Fellers!" A reluctant silence fell. "When we formed this cooperative, it was agreed that the first object was to cooperate with one another. OK, then. Mr. Hendriks. Let me put you more fully in the picture. So far as the total finances of The Group are concerned, we have a fine situation coming up. As an investment group, we have good bets and bad bets. Sugar is a good bet and we should ride that bet even though certain members of The Group have chosen not to be on the horse. Get me? Now hear me through. There are six ships controlled by The Group at this moment riding at anchor outside New York and other U.S. harbors. These ships are loaded with raw sugar. These ships, Mr. Hendriks, will not dock and unload until sugar futures, July futures, have risen another ten cents. In Washington, the Department of Agriculture and the sugar lobby know this. They know that we have them by the balls. Meantime, the liquor lobby is leaning on them—let alone Russia. The price of molasses is going up with sugar and the rum barons are kicking up hell and want our ships let in before there's a real shortage and the price goes through the roof. But there's another side to it. We're having to pay our crews and our charter bills and so on, and squatting ships are dead ships, dead losses. So something's going to give. In the business, the situation we've developed is called the Floating Crop Game—our ships lying offshore, lined up against the Government of the United States. All right. So now four of us stand to win or lose ten million bucks or so—us and our backers. And we've got this little business of the Thunderbird on the red side of the sheet. So what do you think, Mr. Hendriks? Of course we burn the crops where we can get away with it. I got a good in with the Rastafaris—that's a beat sect here that grows beards and smokes ganja and mostly lives on a bit of land outside Kingston called the Dungle—the Dunghill—and believes it owes allegiance to the King of Ethiopia, this King Zog or what have you, and that that's their rightful home. So I've got a man in there, a man who wants the ganja for them, and I keep him supplied in exchange for plenty fires and troubles on the cane lands. So all right, Mr. Hendriks. You just tell your superiors that what goes up must come down and that applies to the price of sugar like anything else. OK?"

Mr. Hendriks said, "I will pass on your saying, Mr. Scaramanga. It will not cause pleasure. Now there is this business of the hotel. How is she standing, if you pliss? I think we are all wishing to know the true situation, isn't it?"

There was a growl of assent.

Mr. Scaramanga went off into a long dissertation which was only of passing interest to Bond. Felix Leiter would in any case be getting it all on the tape in a drawer of his filing cabinet. He had reassured Bond on this score. The neat American, Leiter had explained, filling him in with the essentials, was in fact a certain Mr. Nick Nicholson of the CIA. His particular concern was Mr. Hendriks who, as Bond had suspected, was a top man of the K.G.B. The K.G.B. favors oblique control—a man in Geneva being the Resident Director for Italy, for instance—and Mr. Hendriks at The Hague was in fact Resident Director for the Caribbean and in charge of the Havana center. Leiter was still working for Pinkerton's, but was also on the reserve of the CIA, who had drafted him for this particular assignment because of his knowledge, gained in the past mostly with James Bond, of Jamaica. His job was to get a breakdown of The Group and find out what they were up to. They were all well-known hoods who would normally have been the concern of the FBI, but Gengerella was a Capo Mafiosi and this was the first time the Mafia had been found consorting with the K.G.B.—a most disturbing partnership that must at all costs be quickly broken up, by physical elimination if need be. Nick Nicholson, whose "front" name was Mr. Stanley Jones, was an electronics expert. He had traced the main lead to Scaramanga's recording device under the floor of the central switch room and had bled off the microphone cable to his own tape recorder in the filing cabinet. So Bond had not much to worry about. He was listening to satisfy his own curiosity and to fill in on anything that might transpire in the lobby or out of range of the bug in the telephone on the conference-room table. Bond had explained his own presence. Leiter had given a long low whistle of respectful apprehension. Bond had agreed to keep well clear of the other two men and to paddle his own canoe, but they had arranged an emergency meeting place and a postal "drop" in the uncompleted and "Out of Order" men's room off the lobby. Nicholson had given him a passkey for this place and all other rooms and then Bond had had to hurry off to his meeting. James Bond was immensely reassured by finding these unexpected reinforcements. He had worked with Leiter on some of his most hazardous assignments. There was no man like him when the chips were down. Although Leiter had only a steel hook instead of a right hand—a memento of one of those assignments—he was one of the finest left-handed one-armed shots in the States and the hook itself could be a devastating weapon at close quarters.

Scaramanga was finishing his exposition. "So the net of it is, gentlemen, that we need to find ten million bucks. The interests I represent, which are the majority interests, suggest that this sum should be provided by a note issue, bearing interest at ten percent and repayable in ten years, such an issue to have priority over all other loans."

The voice of Mr. Rotkopf broke in angrily. "The hell it will! Not on your life, mister. What about the seven-percent second mortgage put up by me and my friends only a year back? What do you think I'd get if I went back to Vegas with that kind of parlay? The old heave-ho! And at that I'm being optimistic."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Ruby. It's that or close. What do you other fellers have to say?"

Hendriks said, "Ten percent on a first charge is good pizzness. My friends and I will take one million dollars. On the understanding, it is natural, that the conditions of the issue are, how shall I say, more substantial, less open to misunderstandings, than the second mortgage of Mr. Rotkopf and his friends."

"Of course. And I and my friends will also take a million. Sam?"

Mr. Binion said reluctantly, "Ok, OK. Count us in for the same. But by golly this has got to be the last touch."

"Mr. Gengerella?"

"It sounds a good bet. I'll take the rest."

The voices of Mr. Garfinkel and Mr. Paradise broke in excitedly, Garfinkel in the lead. "Like hell you will! I'm taking a million."

"And so am I," shouted Mr. Paradise. "Cut the cake equally. But damnit. Let's be fair to Ruby. Ruby, you oughta have first pick. How much do you want? You can have it off the top."

"I don't want a damned cent of your phony notes. As soon as I get back, I'm going to reach for the best damned lawyers in the States—all of them. You think you can scrub a mortgage just by saying so, you've all got another think coming."

There was silence. The voice of Scaramanga was soft and deadly. "You're making a big mistake, Ruby. You've just got yourself a nice fat tax loss to put against your Vegas interests. And don't forget that when we formed this Group we all took an oath. None of us was to operate against the interests of the others. Is that your last word?"

"It damn is."

"Would this help you change your mind? They've got a slogan for it in Cuba—Rapido! Seguro! Economico! This is how the system operates."

The scream of terror and the explosion were simultaneous. A chair crashed to the floor and there was a moment's silence. Then someone coughed nervously. Mr. Gengerella said calmly, "I think that was the correct solution of an embarrassing conflict of interests. Ruby's friends in Vegas like a quiet life. I doubt if they will even complain. It is better to be a live owner of some finely engraved paper than to be a dead holder of a second mortgage. Put them in for a million, Pistol. I think you behaved with speed and correctness. Now then, can you clean this up?"

"Sure, sure." Mr. Scaramanga's voice was relaxed, happy. "Ruby's left here to go back to Vegas. Never heard of again. We don't know nuthin'. I've got some hungry crocs out back there in the river. They'll give him free transportation to where he's going—and his baggage, if it's good leather. I shall need some help tonight. What about you, Sam? And you, Louie?"

The voice of Mr. Paradise pleaded. "Count me out, Pistol. I'm a good Catholic."

Mr. Hendriks said, "I will take his place. I am not a Catholic person."

"So it be, then. Well, fellers, any other business? If not, we'll break up the meeting and have a drink."

Hal Garfinkel said nervously, "Just a minute, Pistol. What about that guy outside the door? That limey feller? What's he going to say about the fireworks and all?"

Mr. Scaramanga's chuckle was like the dry chuckle of a Gekko. "Just don't you worry your tiny head about the limey, Hal. He'll be looked after when the weekend's over. Picked him up in a bordello in a village nearby. Place where I go get my weed and a bit of black tail. Got only temporary staff here to see you fellers have a good time over the weekend. He's the temporariest of the lot. Those crocs have a big appetite. Ruby'll be the main dish, but they'll need a dessert. Jes' you leave him to me. For all I know he may be this James Bond man Mr. Hendriks has told us about. I should worry. I don't like limeys. Like some good Yankee once said, 'For every Britisher that dies, there's a song in my heart.' Remember the guy? Around the time of the Israeli war against them. I dig that viewpoint. Stuck-up bastards. Stuffed shirts. When the time comes, I'm going to let the stuffing out of this one. Jes' you leave him to me. Or let's jes' say leave him to this."

Bond smiled a thin smile. He could imagine the golden gun being produced and twirled round the finger and stuck back in the waistband. He got up and moved his chair away from the door and poured champagne into the useful glass and leaned against the buffet and studied the latest handout from the Jamaica Tourist Board.

The click of Scaramanga's passkey sounded in the lock. Scaramanga looked at Bond from the doorway. He ran a finger along the small mustache. "OK, feller. I guess that's enough of the house champagne. Cut along to the manager and tell him Mr. Ruby Rotkopf'll be checking out tonight. I'll fix the details. And say a major fuse blew during the meeting and I'm going to seal off this room and find out why we're having so much bad workmanship around the place. 'K? Then drinks and dinner and bring on the dancing girls. Got the photo?"

James Bond said that he had. He weaved slightly as he went to the lobby door and unlocked it. "E. & o. e.—Errors and omissions excepted" as the financial prospectuses say, he thought that he had indeed now "got the photo." And it was an exceptionally clear print in black and white without fuzz.

• • •

In the back office, James Bond went quickly over the highlights of the meeting. Nick Nicholson and Felix Leiter agreed they had enough on the tape, supported by Bond, to send Scaramanga to the chair. That night, one of them would do some snooping while the body of Rotkopf was being disposed of and try and get enough evidence to have Garfinkel and, better still, Hendriks indicted as accessories. But they didn't at all like the outlook for James Bond. Felix commanded him, "Now don't you move an inch without that old equalizer of yours. We don't want to have to read that obituary of yours in The Times all over again. All that crap about what a splendid feller you are nearly made me throw up when I saw it reprinted in the American blats. I damn nearly fired off a piece to the Trib putting the record straight."

Bond laughed. He said, "You're a fine friend, Felix. When I think of all the trouble I've been to to set you a good example all these years." He went off to his room, swallowed two heavy slugs of bourbon, had a cold shower and lay on his bed and looked at the ceiling until it was 8:30 and time for dinner. The meal was less stuffy than luncheon. Everyone seemed satisfied with the way the business of the day had gone and all except Scaramanga and Mr. Hendriks had obviously had plenty to drink. Bond found himself excluded from the happy talk. Eyes avoided his and replies to his attempts at conversation were monosyllabic. He was bad news. He had been dealt the death card by the boss. He was certainly not a man to be pally with. While the meal moved sluggishly on—the conventional "expensive" dinner of a cruise ship, desiccated smoked salmon with a thimbleful of small-grained black caviar, fillets of some unnamed native fish, possibly silk fish, in a cream sauce, poulet suprême, a badly roasted broiler with a thick gravy, and bombe surprise, was as predictable as such things are—the dining room was being turned into a "tropical jungle" with the help of potted plants, piles of oranges and coconuts and an occasional stem of bananas, as a backdrop for the calypso band which, in wine-red and gold-frilled shirts, in due course assembled and began playing Linstead Market too loud. The tune closed. An acceptable but heavily clad girl appeared and began singing Belly-Lick with the printable words. She wore a false pineapple as a headdress. Bond saw a "cruise-ship" evening stretching ahead. He decided that he was either too old or too young for the worst torture of all, boredom, and got up and went to the head of the table. He said to Mr. Scaramanga, "I've got a headache. I'm going to bed."

Mr. Scaramanga looked up at him under lizard eyelids. "No. If you figure the evening's not going so good, make it go better. That's what you're being paid for. You act as if you know Jamaica. OK. Get these people off the pad."

It was many years since James Bond had accepted a dare. He felt the eyes of The Group on him. What he had drunk had made him careless—perhaps wanting to show off, like the man at the party who insists on playing the drums. Stupidly, he wanted to assert his personality over this bunch of tough guys who rated him insignificant. He didn't stop to think that it was bad tactics, that he would be better off being the ineffectual limey. He said, "All right, Mr. Scaramanga. Give me a hundred-dollar bill and your gun."

Scaramanga didn't move. He looked up at Bond with surprise and controlled uncertainty. Louie Paradise shouted thickly, "C'mon, Pistol! Let's see some action! Mebbe the guy can produce."

Scaramanga reached for his hip pocket, took out his billfold and thumbed out a note. Next he slowly reached to his waistband and took out his gun. The subdued light from the spot on the girl glowed on its gold. He laid the two objects on the table side by side. James Bond, his back to the cabaret, picked up the gun and hefted it. He thumbed back the hammer and twirled the cylinder with a flash of his hands to verify that it was loaded. Then he suddenly whirled, dropped on his knee so that his aim would be above the shadowy musicians in the background and, his arm at full length, let fly. The explosion was deafening in the confined space. The music died. There was a tense silence. The remains of the false pineapple hit something in the dark background with a soft thud. The girl stood under the spot and put her hands up to her face and slowly folded to the dance floor like something graceful out of Swan Lake. The maître d'hotel came running from among the shadows.

As chatter broke out among The Group, James Bond picked up the hundred-dollar note and walked out into the spotlight. He bent down and lifted the girl up by her arm. He pushed the bill down into her cleavage. He said, "That was a fine act we did together, sweetheart. Don't worry. You were in no danger. I aimed for the top half of the pineapple. Now run off and get ready for your next turn." He turned her round and gave her a sharp pat on the behind. She gave him a horrified glance and scurried off into the shadows.

Bond strolled on and came up with the band. "Who's in charge here? Who's in command of the show?"

The guitarist, a tall, gaunt Negro, got slowly to his feet. The whites of his eyes showed. He squinted at the golden gun in Bond's hand. He said uncertainly, as if signing his own death warrant, "Me, sah."

"What's your name?"

"King Tiger, sah."

"All right then, King. Now listen to me. This isn't a Salvation Army fork supper. Mr. Scaramanga's friends want some action. And they want it hot. I'll be sending plenty of rum over to loosen things up. Smoke weed if you like. We're private here. No one's going to tell on you. And get that pretty girl back, but with only half the clothes on, and tell her to come up close and sing Belly-Lick very clearly with the blue words. And, by the end of the show, she and the other girls have got to end up stripped. Understand? Now get cracking or the everning'll fold and there'll be no tips at the end. OK? Then let's go."

There was nervous laughter and whispered exhortation to King Tiger from the six-piece combo. King Tiger grinned broadly. "OK, captain, sah." He turned to his men. "Give 'em Iron Bar, but hot. An' I'll go get some steam up with Daisy and her friends." He strode to the service exit and the band crashed into its stride.

Bond walked back and laid the pistol down in front of Scaramanga, who gave Bond a long, inquisitive look and slid it back into his waistband. He said flatly, "We must have a shooting match one of these days, mister. How about it? Twenty paces and no wounding?"

"Thanks," said Bond, "but my mother wouldn't approve. Would you have some rum sent over to the band? These people can't play dry." He went back to his seat. He was hardly noticed. The five men, or rather four of them, because Hendriks sat impassively through the whole evening, were straining their ears to catch the lewd words of the Fanny Hill version of Iron Bar that were coming across clearly from the soloist. Four girls, plump, busty little animals wearing nothing but white sequined G-strings, ran out onto the floor and, advancing toward the audience, did an enthusiastic belly dance that brought sweat to the temples of Louie Paradise and Hal Garfinkel. The number ended amid applause, the girls ran off and the lights were dowsed, leaving only the circular spot in the middle of the floor. The drummer, on his calypso box, began a hasty beat like a quickened pulse. The service door opened and shut and a curious object was wheeled into the circle of light. It was a huge hand, perhaps six feet tall at its highest point, upholstered in black leather. It stood, half open on its broad base, with the thumb and fingers outstretched as if ready to catch something. The drummer hastened his beat. The service door sighed. A glistening figure slipped through and, after pausing in the darkness, moved into the pool of light round the hand with a strutting jerk of belly and limbs. There was Chinese blood in her, and her body, totally naked and shining with palm oil, was almost white against the black hand. As she jerked round the hand she caressed its outstretched fingers with her hands and arms and then, with well-acted swooning motions, climbed into the palm of the hand and proceeded to perform languorous, but explicit and ingenious acts of passion with each of the fingers in turn. The scene, the black hand, now shining with her oil and seeming to clutch at the squirming white body, was of an incredible lewdness, and Bond, himself aroused, noticed that even Scaramanga was watching with rapt attention, his eyes narrow slits. The drummer had now worked up to his crescendo. The girl, in well-simulated ecstasy, mounted the thumb, slowly expired upon it and then with a last grind of her rump, slid down it and vanished through the exit. The act was over. The lights came on and everyone, including the band, applauded loudly. The men came out of their separate animal trances. Scaramanga clapped his hand for the bandleader, took a note out of his case and said something to him under his breath. The chieftain, Bond suspected, had chosen his bride for the night!

After this inspired piece of sexual dumb crambo, the rest of the cabaret was an anticlimax. One of the girls, only after her G-string had been slashed off with a cutlass by the bandleader, was able to squirm under a bamboo balanced just 18 inches off the floor on top of two beer bottles. The first girl, the one who had acted as an unwitting pineapple tee to Bond's William Tell act, came on and combined an acceptable striptease with a rendering of Belly-Lick that got the audience straining its ears again, and then the whole team of six girls, less the Chinese beauty, came up to the audience and invited them to dance. Scaramanga and Hendriks refused with adequate politeness and Bond stood the two left-out girls glasses of champagne and learned that their names were Mabel and Pearl while he watched the four others being almost bent in half by the bearlike embraces of the four sweating hoods as they clumsily cha-cha'd round the room to the now riotous music of the half-drunk band. The climax to what could certainly class as an orgy was clearly in sight. Bond told his two girls that he must go to the men's room and slipped away when Scaramanga was looking elsewhere, but, as he went, he noted that Hendriks' gaze, as cool as if he had been watching an indifferent film, was firmly on him.

When Bond got to his room, it was midnight. His windows had been closed and the air conditioning turned on. He switched it off and opened the windows halfway and then, with heartfelt relief, took a shower and went to bed. He worried for a while about having shown off with the gun, but it was an act of folly which he couldn't undo and he soon went to sleep to dream of three black-cloaked men dragging a shapeless bundle through dappled moonlight toward dark waters that were dotted with glinting red eyes. The gnashing white teeth and the crackling bones resolved themselves into a persistent scrabbling noise that brought him suddenly awake. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It said 3:30. The scrabbling became a quiet tapping from behind the curtains. James Bond slid quietly out of bed, took his gun from under his pillow and crept softly along the wall to the edge of the curtains. He pulled them aside with one swift motion. The golden hair shone almost silver in the moonlight. Mary Goodnight whispered urgently, "Quick, James! Help me in!"

Bond cursed softly to himself. What the hell? He laid his gun down on the carpet and reached for her outstretched hands and half dragged, half pulled her over the sill. At the last moment, her heel caught in the frame and the window banged shut with a noise like a pistol shot. Bond cursed again, softly and fluently, under his breath. Mary Goodnight whispered penitently, "I'm terribly sorry, James."

Bond shushed her. He picked up his gun and put it back under his pillow and led her across the room and into the bathroom. He turned on the light and, as a precaution, the shower, and, simultaneously with her gasp, remembered he was naked. He said, "Sorry, Goodnight," and reached for a towel and wound it round his waist and sat down on the edge of the bath. He gestured to the girl to sit down on the lavatory seat and said, with icy control, "What in hell are you doing here, Mary?"

Her voice was desperate. "I had to come. I had to find you somehow. I got on to you through the girl at that, er, dreadful place. I left the car in the trees down the drive and just sniffed about. There were lights on in some of the rooms and I listened and, er," she blushed crimson, "I gathered you couldn't be in any of them and then I saw the open window and I just somehow knew you would be the only one to sleep with his window open. So I just had to take the chance."

"Well, we've got to get you out of here as quick as we can. Anyway, what's the trouble?"

"A 'Most Immediate' in Triple-X came over this evening. I mean yesterday evening. It was to be passed to you at all costs. H.Q. thinks you're in Havana. It said that one of the K.G.B. top men who goes under the name of Hendriks is in the area and that he's known to be visiting this hotel. You're to keep away from him. They know from 'a delicate but sure source' " (Bond smiled at the old euphemism for cipher breaking) "that among his other jobs is to find you and, er, well, kill you. So I put two and two together, and, what with you being in this corner of the island and the questions you asked me, I guessed that you might be already on his track but that you might be walking into an ambush, sort of. Not knowing, I mean, that while you were after him, he was after you."

She put out a tentative hand, as if for reassurance that she had done the right thing. Bond took it and patted it absent-mindedly while his mind chewed on this new complication. He said, "The man's here, all right. So's a gunman called Scaramanga. You might as well know, Mary, that Scaramanga killed Ross. In Trinidad." She put her hand up to her mouth. "You can report it as a fact, from me. If I can get you out of here, that is. As for Hendriks, he's here, all right, but he doesn't seem to have identified me for certain. Did H.Q. say whether he was given a description of me?"

"You were simply described as 'the notorious secret agent, James Bond.' But this doesn't seem to have meant much to Hendriks, because he asked for particulars. That was two days ago. He may get them cabled or telephoned here at any minute. You do see why I had to come, James?"

"Yes, of course. And thanks, Mary. Now I've got to get you out of that window and then you must just make your own way. Don't worry about me. I think I can handle the situation all right. Besides, I've got help." He told her about Felix Leiter and Nicholson. "You just tell H.Q. you've delivered the message and that I'm here and about the two CIA men. H.Q. can get the CIA angles from Washington direct. OK?" He got to his feet.

She stood up beside him and looked up at him. "But you will take care?"

"Sure, sure." He patted her shoulder. He turned off the shower and opened the bathroom door. "Now, come on. We must pray for a stroke of luck."

A silken voice from the darkness at the end of the bed said, "Well, the Holy Man jes' ain't running for you today, mister. Step forward, both of you. Hands clasped behind the neck."

Scaramanga walked to the door and turned the lights on. He was naked save for his shorts and the holster below his left arm. The golden gun remained trained on Bond.

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