RECEPTION COMMITTEE
The sixty-eight tons deadweight of the Super-Constella-tion hurtled high
above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba and, with only another
hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.
Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and
the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the azure
and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North Shore, over
its rash of millionaire hotels, and crossing the high mountains of the
interior. The scattered dice of small-holdings showed on the slopes and in
clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms
of tumbling rivers and streams. ’Xaymaca* the Arawak Indians had called
it-’The Land of Hills and Rivers’. Bond’s heart lifted with the beauty of one
of the most fertile islands in the world.
The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were
already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the streets of Kingston, but,
beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were still touched with
the sun against which the Port Royal lighthouse blinked ineffectually. Now
the Constellation was getting its nose down into a wide sweep beyond the
harbour. There was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended
under the aircraft and locked into position, and a shrill hydraulic whine as
the brake flaps slid out of the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great
aircraft turned in again towards the land and for a moment the setting sun
poured gold into the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of
the Blue Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north-south
runway. There was a glimpse of a road and telephone wires. Then the
concrete, scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane
and there was the soft double thump of a perfect landing and the roar of
reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport buildings.
The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond’s face as he left the aircraft
and walked over to Health and Immigration.
He knew that by the time he had got through Customs he would be
sweating. He didn’t mind. After the rasping cold of London, the stuffy,
velvet heat was easily bearable.
Bond’s passport described him as ’Import and Export Merchant’.
”What company, sir?”
”Universal Export.”
”Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?”
”Pleasure.”
”I hope you enjoy your stay, sir.” The Negro immigration officer handed
Bond his passport with indifference.
”Thank you.”
Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall brownskinned
man against the barrier. He was wearing the same old faded blue
shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been wearing when
Bond first met him five years before.
”Quarrel!”
From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted
his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute of the West Indians. ”How
you, cap’n?” he called delightedly.
”I’m fine,” said Bond. ”Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the car?”
”Sure, cap’n.”
The Customs officer who, like most men from the waterfront, knew
Quarrel, chalked Bond’s bag without opening it and Bond picked it up and
went out through the barrier. Quarrel took it from him and held out his right
hand. Bond took the warm dry calloused paw and looked into the dark grey
eyes that showed descent from a Cromwellian soldier or a pirate of
Morgan’s time. ”You haven’t changed, Quarrel,” he said affectionately.
”How’s the turtle fishing?”
”Not so bad, cap’n, an’ not so good. Much de same as always.” He looked
critically at Bond. ”Yo been sick, or somepun?”
Bond was surprised. ”As a matter of fact I have. But I’ve been fit for weeks.
What made you say that?”
Quarrel was embarrassed. ”Sorry, cap’n,” he said, thinking he might have
offended Bond. ”Dere some pain lines in yo face since de las’ time.”
”Oh well,” said Bond. ”It was nothing much. But I could do with a spell of
your training. I’m not as fit as I ought to be.”
”Shooting, cap’n.”
They were moving towards the exit when there came the sharp crack and
flash of a Press camera. A pretty Chinese girl in Jamaican dress was
lowering her Speed Graphic. She came up to them. She said with synthetic
charm, ”Thank you, gentlemen. I am from the Daily Gleaner.” She glanced
down at a list in her hand. ”Mister Bond, isn’t it? And how long will you be
with us, Mister Bond?”
Bond was offhand. This was a bad start. ”In transit,” he said shortly. ”I think
you’ll find there were more interesting people on the plane.”
”Oh no, I’m sure not, Mister Bond. You look very important. And what
hotel will you be staying at?”
Damn, thought Bond. He said ”Myrtle Bank” and moved on.
”Thank you, Mister Bond,” said the tinkling voice. ”I hope you’ll enjoy…”
They were outside. As they walked towards the parking place Bond said,
”Ever seen that girl at the airport before?”
Quarrel reflected. ”Reck’n not, cap’n. But de Gleaner have plenty camera
gals.”
Bond was vaguely worried. There was no earthly reason why his picture
should be wanted by the Press. It was five years since his last adventures on
the island, and anyway his name had been kept out of the papers.
They got to the car. It was a black Sunbeam Alpine. Bond looked sharply at
it and then at the number plate. Strangways’s car. What the hell? ”Where did
you get this, Quarrel?”
”ADC tell me fe to take him, cap’n. Him say hit de only spare car dey have.
Why, cap’n? Him no good?”
”Oh, it’s all right, Quarrel,” said Bond resignedly. ”Come on, let’s get
going.”
Bond got into the passenger seat. It was entirely his fault. He might have
guessed at the chance of getting this car. But it would certainly put the
finger on him and on what he was doing in Jamaica if anyone happened to
be interested.
They moved off down the long cactus-fringed road towards the distant
lights of Kingston. Normally, Bond would have sat and enjoyed the beauty
of it all-the steady zing of the crickets, the rush of warm, scented air, the
ceiling of stars, the necklace of yellow lights shimmering across the
harbour-but now he was cursing his carelessness and knowing what he
shouldn’t have done.
What he had done was to send one signal through the Colonial Office to the
Governor. In it he had first asked that the ADC should get Quarrel over
from the Cayman Islands for an indefinite period on a salary of ten pounds
a week. Quarrel had been with Bond on his last adventure in Jamaica. He
was an invaluable handyman with all the fine seaman’s qualities of the
Cayman Islander, and he was a passport into the lower strata of coloured
life which would otherwise be closed to Bond. Everybody loved him and he
was a splendid companion. Bond knew that Quarrel was vital if he was to
get anywhere on the Strangways case-whether it was a case or just a
scandal. Then Bond had asked for a single room and shower at the Blue
Hills Hotel, for the loan of a car and for Quarrel to meet him with the car at
the airport. Most of this had been wrong. In particular Bond should have
taken a taxi to his hotel and made contact with Quarrel later. Then he would
have seen the car and had a chance to change it.
As it was, reflected Bond, he might just as well have advertised his visit and
its purpose in the Gleaner. He sighed. It was the mistakes one made at the
beginning of a case that were the worst. They were the irretrievable ones,
the ones that got you off on the wrong foot, that gave the enemy the firstgame.
But was there an enemy? Wasn’t he being over-cautious? On an
impulse Bond turned in his seat. A hundred yards behind were two dim
sidelights. Most Jamaicans drive with their headlights full on. Bond turned
back. He said, ”Quarrel. At the end of the Palisadoes, where the left fork
goes to Kingston and right to Morant, I want you to turn quickly down the ’
Morant road and stop at once and turn your lights off. Right? And now go
like hell.”
”Okay, cap’n.” Quarrel’s voice sounded pleased. He put his foot down to the
floorboards. The little car gave a deep growl and tore off down the white
road.
Now they were at the end of the straight. The car skidded round the curve
where the corner of the harbour bit into the land. Another five hundred
yards and they would be at the intersection. Bond looked back. There was
no sign of the other car. Here was the signpost. Quarrel did a racing change
and hurled the car round on a tight lock. He pulled in to the side and
dowsed his lights. Bond turned and waited. At once he heard the roar of a
big car at speed. Lights blazed on, looking for them. Then the car was past
and tearing on towards Kingston. Bond had time to notice that it was a big
American type taxicab and that there was no one in it but the driver. Then it
was gone.
The dust settled slowly. They sat for ten minutes saying nothing. Then
Bond told Quarrel to turn the car and take the Kingston road. He said, ”I
think that car was interested in us, Quarrel. You don’t drive an empty taxi
back from the airport. It’s an expensive run. Keep a watch out. He may find
we’ve fooled him and be waiting for us.”
”Sho ting, cap’n,” said Quarrel happily. This was just the sort of life he had
hoped for when he got Bond’s message.
They came into the stream of Kingston traffic-buses, cars, horse-drawn
carts, pannier-laden donkeys down from the hills, and the hand-drawn
barrows selling violent coloured drinks. In the crush it was impossible to
say if they were being followed. They turned off to the right and up towards
the hills. There were many cars behind them. Any one of them could have
been the American taxi. They drove for a quarter of an hour up to Halfway
Tree and then on to the Junction Road, the main road across the island.
Soon there was a neon sign of a green palm tree and underneath ’Blue Hills.
THE hotel’. They drove in and up the drive lined with neatly rounded
bushes of bougainvillaea.
A hundred yards higher up the road the black taxi waved the following
drivers on and pulled in to the left. It made a U-turn in a break in the traffic
and swept back down the hill towards Kingston.
The Blue Hills was a comfortable old-fashioned hotel with modern
trimmings. Bond was welcomed with deference because his reservation had
been made by King’s House. He was shown to a fine corner room with a
balcony looking out over the distant sweep of Kingston harbour. Thankfully
he” took off his London clothes, now moist with perspiration, and went into
the glass-fronted shower and turned the cold water full on and stood under
it for five minutes during which he washed his hair to remove the last dirt of
big-city life. Then he pulled on a pair of Sea Island cotton shorts and, with
sensual pleasure at the warm soft air on his nakedness, unpacked his things
and rang for the waiter.
Bond ordered a double gin and tonic and one whole green lime. When the
drink came he cut the lime in half, dropped the two squeezed halves into the
long glass, almost filled the glass with ice cubes and then poured in the
tonic. He took the drink out on to the balcony, and sat and looked out across
the spectacular view. He thought how wonderful it was to be away from
headquarters, and from London, and from hospitals, and to be here, at this
moment, doing what he was doing and knowing, as all his senses told him,
that he was on a good tough case again.
He sat for a while, luxuriously, letting the gin relax him. He ordered another
and drank it down. It was seven-fifteen. He had arranged for Quarrel to pick
him up at seven-thirty. They were going to have dinner together. Bond had
asked Quarrel to suggest a place. After a moment of embarrassment,
Quarrel had said that whenever he wanted to enjoy himself in Kingston he
went to a waterfront nightspot called the Joy Boat. ”Hit no great shakes,
cap’n,” he had said apologetically, ”but da food an’ drinks an” music is good
and I got a good fren’ dere. Him owns de joint. Dey calls him ’Pus-Feller’
seein’ how him once fought wit’ a big hoctopus.”
Bond smiled to himself at the way Quarrel, like most West Indians, added
an ’h’ where it wasn’t needed and took it off when it was. He went into his
room and dressed in his old dark blue tropical worsted suit, a sleeveless
white cotton shirt and a black knitted tie, looked in the glass to see that the
Walther didn’t show under his armpit and went down and out to where the
car was waiting.
They swooped down quietly through the soft singing dusk into Kingston
and turned to the left along the harbour side. They passed one or two smart
restaurants and night clubs from which came the throb and twang of
calypso music. There was a stretch of private houses that dwindled into a
poor-class shopping centre and then into shacks. Then, where the road
curved away from the sea, there was a blaze of golden neon in the shape of
a Spanish galleon above green lettering that said ’The Joy Boat’. They
pulled into a parking place and Bond followed Quarrel through the gate into
a small garden of palm trees growing out of lawn. At the end was the beach
and the sea. Tables were dotted about under the palms, and in the centre was
a small deserted cement dance floor to one side of which a calypso trio in
sequined scarlet shirts was softly improvising on ’Take her to Jamaica
where the rum comes from’.
Only half the tables were filled, mostly by coloured people. There was a
sprinkling of British and American sailors with their girls. An immensely
fat Negro in a smart white dinner jacket left one of the tables and came to
meet them.
”Hi, Mister Q. Long time no see. Nice table for two?”
”That’s right, Pus-Feller. Closer to da kitchen dan da music.”
The big man chuckled. He led them down towards the sea and placed them
at a quiet table under a palm tree that grew out of the base of the restaurant
building. ”Drinks gemmun?”
Bond ordered his gin and tonic with a lime, and Quarrel a Red Stripe beer.
They scanned the menu and both decided on broiled lobster followed by a
rare steak with native vegetables.
The drinks came. The glasses were dripping with con- * densation. The
small fact reminded Bond of other times in hot climates. A few yards away
the sea lisped on the flat sand. The three-piece began playing ’Kitch’. Above
them the palm fronds clashed softly in the night breeze. A gecko chuckled
somewhere in the garden. Bond thought of the London he had left the day
before. He said, ”I like this place, Quarrel.”
Quarrel was pleased. ”Him a good fren of mine, da Pus-Feller. Him knows
mostly what goes hon hin Kingston case you got hany questions, cap’n. Him
come from da Caymans. Him an’ me once share a boat. Then him go hoff
one day catching boobies’ heggs hat Crab Key. Went swimmin’ to a rock for
more heggs an’ dis big hoctopus get him. Dey mos’ly small fellers roun’ here
but dey come bigger at da Crab seein’ how its alongside de Cuba Deep, da
deepest waters roun’ dese parts. Pus-Feller have himself a bad time wit dis
hanimal. Bust one lung cuttin” hisself free. Dat scare him an’ him sell me
his half of da boat an’ come to Kingston. Dat were ’fore da war. . Now him
rich mail whiles I go hon fishin’.” Quarrel chuckled at the quirk of fate.
”Crab Key,” said Bond. ”What sort of a place is that?”
Quarrel looked at him sharply. ”Dat a bad luck place now, cap’n,” he said
shortly. ”Chinee gemmun buy hit durin’ da war and bring in men and dig
bird-dirt. Don’ let nobody land dere and don’ let no one get hoff. We gives it
a wide bert’.”
”Why’s that?”
”Him have plenty watchmen. An’ guns-machine guns. An’ a radar. An’ a
spottin’ plane. Frens o’ mine have landed dere and him never been seen
again. Dat Chinee keep him island plenty private. Tell da trut’, cap’n,”
Quarrel was apologetic, ”dat Crab Key scare me plenty.”
Bond said thoughtfully, ”Well, well.”
The food came. They ordered another round of drinks and ate. While they
ate, Bond gave Quarrel an outline of the Strangways case. Quarrel listened
carefully, occasionally asking questions. He was particularly interested in
the birds on Crab Key, and what the watchmen had said, and how the plane
was supposed to have crashed. Finally he pushed his plate away. He wiped
the back of his hand across his mouth. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He
leant forward. ”Cap’n,” he said softly, ”I no mind if hit was birds or
butterflies or bees. If dey was on Crab Key and da Commander was stickin’
his nose into da business, yo kin bet yo bottom dollar him been mashed.
Him and him girl. Da Chinee mash dem for sho.”
Bond looked carefully into the urgent grey eyes. ”What makes you so
certain?”
Quarrel spread his hands. To him the answerwas simple. ”Dat Chinee love
him privacy. Him want be left alone. I know him kill ma frens order keep
folk away from da Crab. Him a mos’ powerful man. Him kill hanyone what
hinterfere with him.”
”Why?”
”Don’ rightly know, cap’n,” said Quarrel indifferently.”People dem want
different tings in dis world. An’ what dem want sufficient dem gits.”
A glint of light caught the corner of Bond’s eye. He turned quickly. The
Chinese girl from the airport was standing in the nearby shadows. Now she
was dressed in a tight-fitting sheath of black satin slashed up one side
almost to her hip.
She had a Leica with a flash attachment in one hand. The other was in a
leather case at her side. The hand came out holding a flashbulb. The girl
slipped the base into her mouth to wet it and improve the contact and made
to screw it into the reflector.
”Get that girl,” said Bond quickly.
In two strides Quarrel was up with her. He held out his hand. ”Evenin”,
missy,” he said softly.
The girl smiled. She let the Leica hang on the thin strap round her neck. She
took Quarrel’s hand. Quarrel swung her round like a ballet dancer. Now he
had her hand behind her back and she was in the crook of his arm.
She looked up at him angrily. ”Don’t. You’re hurting.”
Quarrel smiled down into the flashing dark eyes in the pale, almond-shaped
face. ”Cap’n like you take a drink wit” we,” he said soothingly. He came
back to the table, moving the girl along with him. He hooked a chair out
with his foot and sat her down beside him, keeping the grip on her wrist
behind her back. They sat bolt upright, like quarrelling lovers.
Bond looked into the pretty, angry little face. ”Good evening. What are you
doing here? Why do you want another picture of me?”
”I’m doing the nightspots,” the Cupid’s bow of a mouth parted persuasively.
”The first picture of you didn’t come out. Tell this man to leave me alone.”
”So you work for the Gleaner? What’s your name?”
”I won’t tell you.”
Bond cocked an eyebrow at Quarrel.
Quarrel’s eyes narrowed. His hand behind the girl’s back turned slowly. The
girl struggled like an eel, her teeth clenched on her lower lip. Quarrel went
on twisting. Suddenly she said ”Ow!” sharply and gasped, ”I’ll tell I”
Quarrel eased his grip. The girl looked furiously at Bond: ”Annabel
Chung.”
Bond said to Quarrel, ”Call the Pus-Feller.”
Quarrel picked up a fork with his free hand and clanged it against a glass.
The big Negro hurried up.
Bond looked up at him. ”Ever seen this girl before?”
”Yes, boss. She come here sometimes. She bein’ a nuisance? Want for me to
send her away?”
”No. We like her,” said Bond amiably, ”but she wants to take a studio
portrait .of me and I don’t know if she’s worth the money. Would you call up
the Gleaner and ask if they’ve got a photographer called Annabel Chung? If
she really is one of their people she ought to be good enough.”
”Sure, boss.” The man hurried away.
Bond smiled at the girl. ”Why didn’t you ask that man to rescue you?”
The girl glowered at him.
”I’m sorry to have to exert pressure,” said Bond, ”but my export manager in
London said that Kingston was full of shady characters. I’m sure you’re not
one of them, but I really can’t understand why you’re so anxious to get my
picture. Tell me why.”
”What I told you,” said the girl sulkily. ”It’s my job.”
Bond tried other questions. She didn’t answer them. The Pus-Feller came
up. ”That’s right, boss. Annabel Chung. One of their freelance girls. They
say she takes fine pictures. You’ll be okay with her.” He looked bland.
Studio portrait! Studio bed, more like.
”Thanks,” said Bond. The Negro went away. Bond turned back to the girl.
”Freelance,” he said softly. ”That still doesn’t explain who wanted my
picture.” His face went cold. ”Now give!”
”No,” said the girl sullenly.
”All right, Quarrel. Go ahead.” Bond sat back. His instincts told him that
this was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If he could get the answer
out of the girl he might be saved weeks of legwork.
Quarrel’s right shoulder started to dip downwards. The girl squirmed
towards him to ease the pressure, but he held her body away with his free
hand. The girl’s face strained towards Quarrel’s. Suddenly she spat full in
his eyes. Quarrel grinned and increased the twist. The girl’s feet kicked
wildly under the table. She hissed out words in Chinese. Sweat beaded on
her forehead.
”Tell,” said Bond softly. ”Tell and it will stop and we’ll be friends and have
a drink.” He was getting worried. The girl’s arm must be on the verge of
breaking.
”——you.” Suddenly the girl’s left hand flew up and into
Quarrel’s face. Bond was too slow to stop her. Something glinted and there
was a sharp explosion. Bond snatched at her arm and dragged it back.
Blood was streaming down Quarrel’s cheek. Glass and metal tinkled on to
the table. She had smashed the flashbulb on Quarrel’s face. If she had been
able to reach an eye it would have been blinded.
Quarrel’s free hand went up and felt his cheek. He put it in front of his eyes
and looked at the blood. ”Aha!” There was nothing but admiration and a
feline pleasure in his voice. He said equably to Bond, ”We get nuthen out.
of dis gal, cap’n. She plenty tough. You want fe me to break she’s arm?”
”Good God, no.” Bond let go the arm he was holding. ”Let her go.” He felt
angry with himself for having hurt the girl and still failed. But he had
learned something. Whoever was behind her held his people by a steel
chain.
Quarrel brought the girl’s right arm from behind her back. He still held on to
the wrist. Now he opened the girl’s hand.
He looked into her eyes. His own were cruel. ”You mark me, Missy. Now I
mark you.” He brought up his other hand and took the Mount of Venus, the
soft lozenge of flesh in the palm below her thumb, between his thumb and
forefinger. He began to squeeze it. Bond could see his knuckles go white
with the pressure. The girl gave a yelp. She hammered at Quarrel’s hand and
then at his face. Quarrel grinned and squeezed harder. Suddenly he let go.
The girl shot to her feet and backed away from the table, her bruised hand
at her mouth. She took her hand down and hissed furiously. ”He’ll get you,
you bastards!” Then, her Leica dangling, she ran off through the trees.
Quarrel laughed shortly. He took a napkin and wiped it down his cheek and
threw it on the ground and took up another. He said to Bond, ”She’s Love
Moun’ be sore long after ma face done get healed. Dat a fine piece of a
woman, de Love Moun’. When him fat like wit’ dat girl you kin tell her’ll be
good in bed. You know dat, cap’n?”
”No,” said Bond. ”That’s new to me.”
”Sho ting. Dat piece of da han’ most hindicative. Don’ you worry ’bout she,”
he added, noticing the dubious expression on Bond’s face. ”Hers got nuttin
but a big bruise on she’s Love Moun’. But boy, was dat a fat Love Moun’! I
come back after dat girl sometime, see if ma teory is da troof.”
Appropriately the band started playing ’Don’ touch me tomato’. Bond said
”Quarrel, it’s time you married and settled down. And you leave that girl
alone or you’ll get a knife between your ribs. Now come on. We’ll get the
check and go. It’s three o’clock in the morning in London where I was
yesterday. I need a night’s sleep. You’ve got to start getting me into training.
I think I’m going to need it. And it’s about time you put some plaster on that
cheek of yours. She’s written her name and address on it.”
Quarrel grunted reminiscently. He said with quiet pleasure, ”Dat were some
tough baby.” He picked up a fork and clanged it against his glass.