The Hildebrand Rarity

The Sting Ray was about six feet from wing tip to wing tip and perhaps ten feet long from the blunt wedge of its nose to the end of its deadly tail. It was dark gray with that violet tinge that is so often a danger signal in the underwater world. When it rose up from the pale, golden sand and swam, it was as if a black towel were being waved through the water.

It was ten o'clock in the morning of a day in April and the lagoon, Belle Anse, near the southernmost tip of Mahé, the largest island in the Seychelles group, was glassy calm. James Bond swam lazily on, keeping the sting ray just in sight. Bond had a Champion harpoon gun with double rubbers. The harpoon was tipped with a needle-sharp trident--a short-range weapon but the best for reef work. Bond pushed up the safety and moved slowly forward, his fins pulsing softly just below the surface so as to make no sound. There was a tiny movement in the sand. Two minute fountains of sand were dancing above the nostrillike holes of the spiracles. Behind the holes was the slight swelling of the thing's body. That was the target. An inch behind the holes. Bond estimated the possible upward lash of the tail and slowly pulled the trigger.

Below him the sand erupted and for an anxious moment Bond could see nothing. Then the harpoon line came taut and the ray showed, pulling away from him while its tail, in reflex aggression, lashed again and again over the body. At the base of the tail Bond could see the jagged poison spines standing up from the trunk. This tail was the old slave-drivers' whip of the Indian Ocean. Today it is illegal even to possess one in the Seychelles, but they are handed down in the families for use on faithless wives and if the word goes around that this or that woman "a cu la crapule," the Provencal name for the sting ray, it is as good as saying that that woman will not be about again for at least a week. Bond swam round and ahead of the ray, pulling it after him toward the shore.

A short, fat white man in khaki shirt and trousers came out from under the palm trees and walked toward Bond through the scattering of sea grape and sun-dried wrack above high-water mark. When he was near enough, Fidele Barbey, the youngest of the innumerable Barbeys who own nearly everything in the Seychelles, stood looking down at the ray. "That's a good one. Lucky you hit the right spot or he'd have towed you over the reef. But come on. I've got to get you back to Victoria. Something's come up. Something good."

On their way down the coast road in the station wagon Fidele said, "Ever hear of an American called Milton Krest? Well, apparently he owns the Krest hotels and a thing called the Krest Foundation. One thing I can tell you for sure. He owns the finest damned yacht in the Indian Ocean. Put in yesterday. The Wavekrest. Nearly two hundred tons. Everything in her from a beautiful wife down to a big transistor gramophone on gimbals so the waves won't jerk the needle."

"What's it got to do with you--or me, for that matter?"

"Just this, my friend. We are going to spend a few days sailing with Mr. Krest--and Mrs. Krest, the beautiful Mrs. Krest. I have agreed to take the ship to Chagrin--the island off the African Banks. This man Krest wants to go there. He's collecting marine specimens, something to do with his foundation, and there's some blasted little fish that's supposed to exist only around Chagrin Island."

"Sounds fun. Where do I come in?"

"I knew you were bored and that you'd got a week before you sail, so I said that you were the local underwater ace and that you'd find the fish if it was there."

•

The gleaming white yacht lay half a mile out in the roadstead. They took a pirogue with an outboard motor across the glassy bay and through the opening in the reef. The Wavekrest was not beautiful--the breadth of the beam and cluttered superstructure stunted her lines--but Bond could see at once that she was a real ship, built to cruise the world and not just the Florida Keys. She seemed deserted, but as they came alongside, two smart-looking sailors in white shorts and singlets appeared and stood by the ladder with boat hooks ready to fend the shabby pirogue off the yacht's gleaming paint. They took the two bags and one of them slid back an aluminum hatch and gestured for them to go down. A breath of what seemed to Bond to be almost freezing air struck him as he went down the few steps into the lounge.

The lounge was empty. It was not a cabin. It was a room of solid richness and comfort with nothing to associate it with the interior of a ship. The windows behind the half-closed Venetian blinds were full size as were the deep armchairs round the low central table. The carpet was the deepest pile in pale blue. The walls were paneled in a silvery wood and the ceiling was off-white. There was a desk with the usual writing materials and a telephone. Next to the big gramophone was a sideboard laden with drinks. Above the sideboard was what looked like an extremely good Renoir.

"What did I tell you, James?"

Bond shook his head admiringly. "This is certainly the way to treat the sea--as if it damned well didn't exist." He breathed in deeply. "What a relief to get a mouthful of fresh air. I'd almost forgotten what it tastes like."

"It's the stuff outside that's fresh, feller. This is canned." Mr. Milton Krest had come quietly into the room and was standing looking at them. He was a tough, leathery man in his early 50s. He looked hard and fit and the faded blue jeans, military-cut shirt and wide leather belt suggested that he made a fetish of doing so--looking tough. The pale brown eyes in the weather-beaten face were slightly hooded and their gaze was sleepy and contemptuous. The mouth had a downward twist that might be humorous or disdainful, probably the latter, and the words he had tossed into the room, innocuous in themselves except for the patronizing "feller," had been tossed like small change to a couple of coolies. To Bond the oddest thing about Mr. Krest was his voice. It was a soft, most attractive lisping through the teeth. It was exactly the voice of the late Humphrey Bogart. Bond ran his eyes down the man. He thought: This man likes to be thought a Hemingway hero. I'm not going to like him.

Mr. Krest came across the carpet and held out his hand. "You Bond? Glad to have you aboard, sir."

Bond was expecting the bone-crushing grip and parried with stiffened muscles.

"Free-diving or aqualung?"

"Free, and I don't go deep. It's only a hobby."

"Whaddaya do the rest of the time?"

"Civil servant."

Mr. Krest gave a short, barking laugh. "Civility and servitude. You English make the best goddamn butlers and valets in the world. I reckon we're likely to get along fine. Civil servants are just what I like to have around me."

The click of the deck hatch sliding back saved Bond's temper. Mr. Krest was swept from his mind as a naked, sunburned girl came down the steps into the saloon. No, she wasn't quite naked after all, but the pale brown satin scraps of bikini were designed to make one think she was.

" 'Lo, treasure. Where have you been hiding? Long time no see. Meet Mr. Barbey and Mr. Bond, the fellers who are coming along." Mr. Krest raised a hand in the direction of the girl. "Fellers, this is Mrs. Krest. The fifth Mrs. Krest. And just in case anybody should get any ideas, she loves Mr. Krest. Don't you, treasure?"

"Oh, don't be silly, Milt, you know I do." Mrs. Krest smiled prettily. "How do you do, Mr. Barbey. And Mr. Bond. It's nice to have you with us. What about a drink?"

"Now just a minute, treas. Suppose you let me fix things aboard my own ship, eh?" Mr. Krest's voice was pleasant.

The woman blushed. "Oh, yes, Milt."

"OK, then, just so we know who's skipper aboard the good ship Wavekrest." The amused smile embraced them all. "Now, then, Mr. Barbey. What's your first name, by the way? Fidele, eh? That's quite a name. Old Faithful." Mr. Krest chuckled bonhomously. "Well, now, Fido, how's about you and me go up on the bridge and get this little old skiff moving, eh? And Mr. Bond. First name? James, eh? Well, Jim, what say you practice a bit of that civility and servitude on Mrs. Krest. Call her Liz, by the way. Help her fix the canapés and so on for drinks before lunch. OK? Move, Fido." He sprang boyishly up the steps.

When the hatch closed, Bond let out a deep breath. Mrs. Krest said apologetically, "Please don't mind. It's just his sense of humor. He likes to see if he can rile people. But it's really all in fun."

Bond smiled reassuringly. How often did she have to make this speech? He said, "How long have you been married?"

"Two years. I was working as a receptionist in one of his hotels. He owns the Krest group, you know. It was wonderful. Like a fairy story. I still have to pinch myself sometimes to make sure I'm not dreaming. This, for instance," she waved a hand, "and he's terribly good to me. Always giving me presents."

There came a deep rumble from below deck amidships. "There. We're off. Why don't you watch us leave harbor from the afterdeck and I'll join you in a minute. This way." She moved past him and slid open a door. "As a matter of fact, if you're sensible, you'll stake a claim to this for the nights. There are plenty of cushions and the cabins get a bit stuffy in spite of the air conditioning."

Bond thanked her and walked out and shut the door behind him. It was a big well deck with hemp flooring and a cream-colored semicircular foam-rubber settee in the stern. Rattan chairs were scattered about and there was a serving bar in one corner. It crossed Bond's mind that Mr. Krest might be a heavy drinker. Was it his imagination, or was Mrs. Krest terrified of him? No doubt she had to pay heavily for her "fairy story."

"Well, feller. Taking it easy?" Mr. Krest was standing on the boat deck looking into the well. "Care to look over the ship?"

Bond followed Mr. Krest down the narrow passage that ran the length of the ship and for half an hour made appropriate comments on what was certainly the finest and most luxuriously designed yacht he had ever seen. In every detail, the margin was for extra comfort. Even the crew's bath and shower was full size and the stainless-steel galley, or kitchen as Mr. Krest called it, was as big as the Krest stateroom. Mr. Krest opened the door of the latter without knocking. Liz Krest was at the dressing table. "Why, treasure," said Mr. Krest in his soft voice. "Puttin' on a little extra ritz for Jim, eh?"

"I'm sorry, Milt. I was just coming. A zipper got stuck." The girl hurriedly picked up a compact and made for the door. She gave them both a nervous half-smile and went out.

"Vermont birch paneling, Corning glass lamps, Mexican tuft rugs. That sailing ship picture's a genuine Montague Dawson, by the way...." Mr. Krest's catalog ran smoothly on. But Bond was looking at something that hung down almost out of sight by the bedside table on what was obviously Mr. Krest's side of the huge double bed. It was a thin whip about three feet long with a leather-thonged handle. It was the tail of a sting ray.

Casually, Bond walked over to the side of the bed and picked it up. He ran a (continued on page 321)Hildebrand Rarity(continued from page 128) finger down its spiny gristle. It hurt his finger even to do that. He said, "Where did you pick that up? I was hunting one of these animals this morning."

"Bahrein. The Arabs use them on their wives." Mr. Krest chuckled easily. "Haven't had to use more than one stroke at a time on Liz so far. Wonderful results. We call it my Corrector."

Bond put the thing back. He looked hard at Mr. Krest and said, "Is that so? In the Seychelles, where the Creoles are pretty tough, it's illegal even to own one of those."

Mr. Krest moved toward the door. He said indifferently, "Feller, this happens to be United States territory. Let's go get ourselves something to drink."

Mr. Krest drank three double bullshots before luncheon and beer with the meal. The pale eyes darkened a little and acquired a watery glitter, but the sibilant voice remained soft and unemphatic as, with a complete monopoly of the conversation, he explained the object of the voyage. "Ya see, fellers, it's like this. In the States we have this foundation system for the lucky guys that got plenty dough and don't happen to want to pay it into Uncle Sam's Treasury. You make a foundation--like this one, the Krest Foundation--and you escape tax on it. So I put a matter of ten million dollars into the Krest Foundation and since I happen to like yachting and seeing the world, I built this yacht with two million of the money and told the Smithsonian that I would go to any part of the world and collect specimens for them. So that makes me a scientific expedition, see? For three months of every year I have a fine holiday that costs me next to nothing!" Mr. Krest looked to his guests for applause.

Fidele Barbey shook his head doubtfully. "That sounds fine, Mr. Krest. But these rare specimens. They are easy to find? The Smithsonian, it wants a giant panda, a sea shell. You can get hold of these things where they have failed?"

Mr. Krest slowly shook his head. He said sorrowfully, "Feller, you sure were born yesterday. Money, that's all it takes. You want a panda? You buy it from some goddamn zoo that can't afford central heating for its reptile house or wants to build a new block for its tigers or something. The sea shell? You find a man that's got one and you offer him so much goddamn money that even if he cries for a week he sells it to you. Pretty smart, eh, Jim?"

Bond said, "You'll probably get a medal when you get home. What about this fish?"

Mr. Krest got up from the table and rummaged in a drawer of his desk. He brought back a typewritten sheet. "Here you are." He read out: " 'Hildebrand Rarity. Caught by Professor Hildebrand of the University of the Witwatersrand in a net off Chagrin Island in the Seychelles group, April 1925. The only specimen known is six inches long. The color is a bright pink with black transverse stripes. The anal, ventral and dorsal fins are pink. The tail fin is black. Eyes, large and dark blue. All fins are sharply spiked. Professor Hildebrand records that he found the specimen in three feet of water on the edge of the southwestern reef.' " Mr. Krest threw the paper down on the table. "Well, there you are, fellers. We're traveling about a thousand miles at a cost of several thousand dollars to try and find a goddamn six-inch fish. And two years ago, the revenue people had the gall to suggest that my foundation was a phony!"

Liz Krest broke in eagerly, "But that's just it, Milt, isn't it? It's really rather important to bring back plenty of specimens and things this time. Weren't those horrible tax people talking about disallowing the yacht and the expenses and so on for the last five years if we didn't show an outstanding scientific achievement?"

"Treasure." Mr. Krest's voice was soft as velvet. "You know what you just done, treas? You just earned yourself a little meeting with the Corrector this evening."

The girl's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened. She said in a whisper, "Oh, no, Milt. Oh, no, please."

•

On the second day out, at dawn, they came up with Chagrin Island.

They anchored outside the reef in ten fathoms and Fidele Barbey took them through the opening in the speedboat. In every detail Chagrin was the prototype coral island. It was about 20 acres of sand and dead coral and low scrub surrounded, after 50 yards of shallow lagoon, by a necklace of reef on which the quiet, long swell broke with a soft hiss.

The glare from the white sand was dazzling and there was no shade. Mr. Krest ordered a tent to be erected and sat in it smoking a cigar while gear of various kinds was ferried ashore. Mrs. Krest swam and picked up sea shells while Bond and Fidele Barbey put on masks and, swimming in opposing directions, began systematically to comb the reef all the way round the island.

The water was so buoyant that Bond could lie face downward on the surface without moving. Idly he broke up a sea egg with the tip of his spear and watched the horde of glittering reef fish darting for the shreds of yellow flesh among the needle-sharp black spines. How infernal that if he did find the Rarity it would benefit only Mr. Krest! Should he say nothing if he found it? Rather childish, and, anyway, he was under contract, so to speak. Bond moved slowly on, his eyes automatically taking up the search again while his mind turned to considering the girl. She had spent the previous day in bed. Mr. Krest had said it was a headache. Bond put the Krests out of his mind and looked up. Fidele Barbey's snorkel was only 100 yards away. They had completed the circuit.

They came up with each other and swam to the shore and walked along the beach to the tent. Mr. Krest heard their voices and came out to meet them. "No dice, eh?" He scratched angrily at an armpit. "Goddamn sand fly bit me. This is one hell of a godawful island. Liz couldn't stand the smell. Gone back to the ship. Here, gimme one of those masks. How do you use the damn things? I guess I might as well take a peek while I'm about it."

They sat in the hot tent and ate chicken salad and drank beer and moodily watched Mr. Krest poking and peering about in the shallows. Fidele Barbey said, "It's only the poor bloody frozen Europeans that dream of coral islands."

Bond laughed. He began, "Put an advertisement in The Times and you'd get sackloads--" when, 50 yards away, Mr. Krest began to make frantic signals. Bond said, "Either the bastard's found it or he's trodden on a guitar fish," and picked up his mask and ran to the sea.

Mr. Krest was standing up to his waist among the shallow beginnings of the reef. He jabbed his finger excitedly at the surface. Bond swam softly forward. A red blur materialized through the far mist and came toward him. It circled closely beneath him as if showing itself off. The dark-blue eyes examined him without fear. The small fish busied itself rather self-consciously with some algae on the underside of a niggerhead, made a dart at a speck of something suspended in the water and then, as if leaving the stage after showing its paces, swam off back into the mist.

Mr. Krest pulled off his mask. "Goddamn, I found it!" he said reverently. "Well, goddamn, I did." He slowly followed Bond to the shore.

Fidele Barbey was waiting for them. Mr. Krest said boisterously, "Fido, I found that goddamn fish. Me--Milton Krest. Whaddaya say to that, eh, Fido?"

"That's good, Mr. Krest. That's fine. Now, how do we catch it?"

"Aha," Mr. Krest winked slowly. "I got just the ticket for that. Got it from a chemist friend of mine. Stuff called rotenone. Made from derris root. What the natives fish with in Brazil. Just pour it in the water where it'll float over what you're after and it'll get him as sure as eggs is eggs. Sort of poison. Constricts the blood vessels in their gills. Suffocates them. No effect on humans because no gills, see?" Mr. Krest turned to Bond. "Here, Jim. You go on out and keep watch. See the darned fish don't vamoose. Fido and I'll bring the stuff out there." He pointed upcurrent from the vital area.

Bond said, "All right," and walked slowly down and into the water. He swam lazily out to where he had stood before. In a minute, as if it had a rendezvous with Bond, the Hildebrand Rarity appeared. This time it swam up quite close to his face. It looked through the glass at his eyes and then, as if disturbed by what it had seen there, darted out of range. It played around among the rocks for a while and then went off into the mist.

Slowly the little underwater world within Bond's vision began to take him for granted. A small octopus that had been camouflaged as a piece of coral revealed its presence and groped carefully down toward the sand. A blue and yellow langouste came a few steps out from under a rock, wondering about him. Some very small fish like minnows nibbled at his legs and toes, tickling. Bond broke a sea egg for them and they darted to the better meal. Bond lifted his head. Mr. Krest, holding the flat can, was 20 yards away.

Bond put his head down. There was the little community, everyone busied with his affairs. Soon, to get one fish that someone vaguely wanted in a museum 5000 miles away, 100, perhaps 1000 small people were going to die. When Bond gave the signal, the shadow of death would come down on the stream. How long would the poison last? How far would it travel on down the reef? Perhaps it would not be thousands but tens of thousands that would die.

Bond pulled down his mask and lay again on the surface. At once he saw the beautiful red shadow coming out of the far mists. The fish swam fast up to him as if it now took him for granted. It lay below him, looking up. Bond said into his mask, "Get away from here, damn you." He gave a sharp jab at the fish with his harpoon. The fish fled back into the mist. Bond lifted his head and angrily raised his thumb. It was a ridiculous act of sabotage of which he was already ashamed.

The stuff was creeping slowly down on the current--a shiny, spreading stain that reflected the blue sky with a metallic glint. Mr. Krest, the giant reaper, was wading down with it. "Get set, fellers," he called cheerfully.

Bond put his head back under the surface. Everything was as before in the little community. And then, with stupefying suddenness, everyone went mad. It was as if they had all been seized with St. Vitus' dance. Several fish looped the loop crazily and then fell like heavy leaves to the sand. A moray eel came slowly out of a hole in the coral, its jaws wide. It stood carefully upright on its tail and gently toppled sideways. The small langouste gave three kicks of its tail and turned over on its back, and the octopus let go its hold of the coral and drifted to the bottom upside down. And then, into the arena drifted the corpses from upstream--white-bellied fish, shrimps, worms, hermit crabs, spotted and green morays, langoustes of all sizes. As if blown by some light breeze of death, the clumsy bodies, their colors already fading, swept slowly past. A five-pound billfish struggled by with a snapping beak, fighting death. Down-reef there were splashes on the surface as still bigger fish tried to make for safety. One by one, before Bond's eyes, the sea urchins dropped off the rocks to make black ink-blots on the sand.

Bond felt a touch on his shoulder. Mr. Krest's eyes were bloodshot with the sun and glare. He had put white sunburn paste on his lips. He shouted impatiently at Bond's mask, "Where in hell's our goddamn fish?"

Bond lifted his mask. "Looks as if it managed to get away just before the stuff came down. I'm still watching for it."

He didn't wait to hear Mr. Krest's reply but got his head quickly under water again. In the far mists there was a pink flash. The beautiful red and black fish seemed to pause and quiver. Then it shot straight through the water toward Bond and dived down to the sand at his feet and lay still. Bond only had to bend to pick it up. There was not even a last flap from the tail. It just filled Bond's hand, lightly pricking the palm with the spiny black dorsal fin. Bond carried it back under water so as to preserve its colors. When he got to Mr. Krest, he said, "Here," and handed him the small fish. Then he swam toward the shore.

•

That evening, with the Wavekrest heading for home down the path of a huge yellow moon, Mr. Krest gave orders for what he called a wingding.

Mr. Krest got very drunk that night. It did not show greatly. But it showed in the things Mr. Krest said. There was a violent cruelty, a pathological desire to wound quite near the surface in the man. It looked to Bond as if, unless Mr. Krest passed out, the time was not far off when Bond would have to hit Mr. Krest just once, very hard on the jaw. Before the next jibe could be uttered, Bond had pushed his chair back and had gone out into the well deck and pulled the door shut behind him.

Ten minutes later Bond heard feet coming softly down the ladder from the boat deck. He turned. It was Liz Krest. She came over to where he was standing in the stern. She said in a strained voice, "I said I'd go to bed. But then I thought I'd come back here and see if you'd got everything you want. I'm not a very good hostess, I'm afraid. Are you sure you don't mind sleeping out here?"

"I like it. And it's rather wonderful to have all those stars to look at."

She laughed nervously. "You won't believe me, but just to talk like this for a few minutes, to have someone like you to talk to, is something I'd almost forgotten." She suddenly reached for his hand and held it hard. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to do that. Now I'll go to bed."

The soft voice came from behind them. The sibilants had slurred, but each word was carefully separated from the next. "Well, well. Whaddaya know? Necking with the underwater help!"

Mr. Krest stood framed in the hatch to the saloon. He stood with his legs apart and his arms upstretched to the lintel above his head. With the light behind him he had the silhouette of a baboon. The cold, imprisoned breath of the saloon rushed out past him and for a moment chilled the warm night air in the well deck. Mr. Krest stepped out and softly pulled the door to behind him.

Bond took a step toward him, his hands held loosely at his sides. He measured the distance to Mr. Krest's solar plexus. He said, "Don't jump to conclusions."

Mr. Krest swayed on his feet. "OK, so let's all be friends again and get some shuteye." He reached for the lintel of the hatch and turned to his wife. He lifted his free hand and slowly crooked a finger. "Move, treasure. Time for bed."

"Yes, Milt." The wide, frightened eyes turned sideways. "Good night, James." Without waiting for an answer, she ducked under Mr. Krest's arm and almost ran through the saloon.

Mr. Krest lifted a hand. "Take it easy, feller. No hard feelings, eh?"

Bond said nothing. He went on looking hard at Mr. Krest. Mr. Krest laughed uncertainly. He said, "OK, then." He stepped into the saloon and slid the door shut. Through the window, Bond watched him walk unsteadily across the saloon and turn out the lights. He went into the corridor and there was a momentary gleam from the stateroom door, then it went dark.

Bond was making a bed for himself among the piled foam-rubber cushions when he heard a single, heart-rending scream. It tore briefly into the night and was smothered. It was the girl. Bond ran through the saloon and down the passage. With his hand on the stateroom door, he stopped. He could hear her sobs and, above them, the soft, even drone of Mr. Krest's voice. He took his hand away from the latch. Hell! What was it to do with him? They were man and wife. As he was crossing the saloon, the scream, this time less piercing, rang out again. Bond cursed fluently and went out and lay down on his bed and tried to focus his mind on the soft thud of the diesels. How could a girl have so little guts? Or was it that women could take almost anything from a man?

•

An hour later Bond had reached the edge of unconsciousness when, up above him on the boat deck, Mr. Krest began to snore. He had left his cabin and had gone up to the hammock that was kept slung for him between the speedboat and the dinghy. Now he was snoring with those deep, rattling, utterly lost snores that come from big blue sleeping pills on top of too much alcohol.

This was too damned much. Bond looked at his watch. One-thirty. He had got to his feet and was gathering up his shirt and shorts when, from up on the boat deck, there came a heavy crash. The crash was immediately followed by scrabbling sounds and a dreadful choking and gurgling. Had Mr. Krest fallen out of his hammock? Reluctantly, Bond dropped his things back on the deck and walked over and climbed the ladder. As his eyes came level with the boat deck, the choking stopped. Instead there was another, a more dreadful sound--the quick drumming of heels. Bond knew that sound. He leaped up the last steps and ran toward the figure lying spread-eagled on its back in the bright moonlight. He stopped and knelt slowly down, aghast. The horror of the strangled face was bad enough, but it was not Mr. Krest's tongue that protruded from his gaping mouth. It was the tail of a fish. The colors were pink and black. It was the Hildebrand Rarity!

The man was dead--horribly dead. When the fish had been crammed into his mouth, he must have reached up and desperately tried to tug it out. But the spines of the dorsal and anal fins had caught inside the cheeks and the spiny tips now protruded through the blood-flecked skin.

Bond slowly got to his feet. He walked over to the racks of glass specimen jars and peered under the protective awning. The plastic cover of the end jar lay on the deck beside it. Bond wiped it carefully on the tarpaulin and then, holding it by the tips of his fingernails, laid it loosely back over the mouth of the jar.

Bond looked round the deck. The snoring of the man could have been a signal for any potential murderer. There were ladders to the boat deck from both sides of the cabin deck amidships. The man at the wheel in the pilothouse forward would have heard nothing above the noise from the engine room. To pick the small fish out of its formalin bath and slip it into Mr. Krest's gaping mouth would have needed only seconds.

Bond glanced over the edge of the boat deck. Supposing the hammock had broken and Mr. Krest had fallen and rolled under the speedboat and over the edge of the upper deck, could he have reached the sea? Hardly, in this dead calm, but that was what he was going to have done.

Bond got moving. With a table knife from the saloon he carefully frayed and then broke one of the main cords of the hammock so that the hammock trailed realistically on the deck. Next, with a damp cloth, he cleaned up the specks of blood on the woodwork and the drops of formalin that led from the specimen jar. Then came the hardest part--handling the corpse. Carefully, Bond pulled it to the very edge of the deck and himself went down the ladder and, bracing himself, reached up. The corpse came down on top of him in a heavy, drunken embrace. Bond staggered under it to the low rail and eased it over. There was a last hideous glimpse of the obscenely bulging face and the protruding fishtail, a sickening fume of stale whiskey, a heavy splash and it was rolling sluggishly away in the wake.

•

The next morning there seemed to be a conspiracy to sleep late. Even Bond had not been awakened by the sun until ten o'clock. He showered in the crew's quarters and chatted with the helmsman before going below to see what had happened to Fidele Barbey. He was still in bed. He said he had a hangover. Had he been very rude to Mr. Krest? He couldn't remember much about it except that he seemed to recall Mr. Krest being very rude to him. "You remember what I said about him from the beginning, James? A grand slam redoubled in bastards. Now do you agree with me? One of these days, someone's going to shut that soft ugly mouth of his forever."

Inconclusive. Bond had fixed himself some breakfast in the galley and was eating it there when Liz Krest had come in to do the same. She was dressed in a pale blue Shantung kimono to her knees. There were dark rings under her eyes and she ate her breakfast standing. But she seemed perfectly calm and at ease. She whispered conspiratorially, "I do apologize about last night. It's only when he's had a bit too much that he gets sort of difficult. He's always sorry the next morning. You'll see."

When 11 o'clock came and neither of the other two showed any signs of, so to speak, blowing the gaff, Bond decided to force the pace. He looked very hard at Liz Krest, who was curled up in the well deck reading a magazine. He said, "By the way, where's your husband? Still sleeping it off?"

She frowned. "I suppose so. He went up to his hammock on the boat deck. I've no idea what time. I took a sleeping pill and went straight off."

Fidele Barbey had a line out for amber jack. Without looking around he said, "He's probably in the pilothouse."

Bond said, "If he's asleep on the boat deck, he'll be getting a hell of a sunburn."

Liz Krest said, "Oh, poor Milt! I hadn't thought of that. I'll go and see."

She climbed the ladder. When her head was above the level of the boat deck she stopped. She called down, anxiously, "James. He's not here. And the hammock's broken."

Bond said, "Fidele's probably right. I'll have a look forward."

He went to the pilothouse. Fritz, the mate, and the engineer were there. Bond said, "Anyone seen Mr. Krest?"

Fritz looked puzzled. "No, sir. Why? Is anything wrong?"

Bond flooded his face with anxiety. "He's not aft. Here, come on! Look round everywhere. He was sleeping on the boat deck. He's not there and his hammock's broken. He was rather the worse for wear last night. Come on! Get cracking!"

When the inevitable conclusion had been reached, Liz Krest had a short but credible fit of hysterics. Bond took her to her cabin and left her there in tears. "It's all right, Liz," he said. "You stay out of this. I'll look after everything."

"Oh, Milt! Poor darling Milt! Oh, why did this have to happen?"

Bond went out and softly shut the door.

•

The yacht rounded Cannon Point and reduced speed. Bond saw the Customs and Immigration launch move off from Long Pier to meet them. The little community would already be buzzing with news that would have quickly leaked from the radio station to the Seychelles Club.

Liz Krest turned to him. "I'm beginning to get nervous. Will you help me through the rest of this--these awful formalities and things?"

"Of course."

Fidele Barbey said, "Don't worry too much. All these people are my friends. And the Chief Justice is my uncle. We shall all have to make a statement. They'll probably have the inquest tomorrow. You'll be able to leave the day after."

"You really think so?" A dew of sweat had sprung below her eyes. "The trouble is I don't really know where to leave for or what to do next. I suppose," she hesitated, not looking at Bond, "I suppose, James, you wouldn't like to come on to Mombasa?"

Bond lit a cigarette to cover his hesitation. Four days in a beautiful yacht with this girl! But the tail of that fish sticking out of the mouth! Had she done it? Or had Fidele, who would know that his uncles and cousins on Mahé would somehow see that he came to no harm? If only one of them would make a slip. Bond said easily, "That's terribly nice of you, Liz. Of course I'd love to come."

Fidele Barbey chuckled. "Bravo, my friend. And I would love to be in your shoes, but for one thing. That damned fish. It is a great responsibility. I like to think of you both being deluged with cables from the Smithsonian about it. Don't forget that you are now both trustees of a scientific Koh-i-noor."

Bond's eyes were hard as flint as he watched the girl. Did that put the finger on her?

But the beautiful, candid blue eyes did not flicker. She looked up into Fidele Barbey's face and said, easily, charmingly, "That won't be a problem. I've decided to give it to the British Museum."

James Bond noticed that the sweat dew had now gathered at her temples, but, after all, it was a desperately hot evening....

The thud of the engines stopped and the anchor chain roared down into the quiet bay.

"The girl had spent the previous day in bed. Mr. Krest had said it was a headache."