FACTS AND FIGURES
HE’LL GET you… He’ll get you… He’ll get you, you bastards.’
The words were still ringing in Bond’s brain the next day as he sat on his
balcony and ate a delicious breakfast and gazed out across the riot of
tropkal gardens to Kingston, five miles below him.
Now he was sure that Strangways and the girl had been killed. Someone
had needed to stop them looking any further into his business, so he had
killed them and destroyed the records of what they were investigating. The
same person knew or suspected that the Secret Service would follow up
Strangways’s disappearance. Somehow he had known that Bond had been
given the job. He had wanted a picture of Bond and he had wanted to know
where Bond was staying. He would be keeping an eye on Bond to see if
Bond picked up any of the leads that had led to Strangways’s death. If Bond
did so, Bond would also have to be eliminated. There would be a car smash
or a street fight or some other innocent death. And how, Bond wondered,
would this person react to their treatment of the Chung girl? If he was as
ruthless as Bond supposed, that would be enough. It showed that Bond was
on to something. Perhaps Strangways had made a preliminary report to
London before he was killed. Perhaps someone had leaked. The enemy
would be foolish to take chances. If he had any sense, after the Chung
incident, he would deal with Bond and perhaps also with Quarrel without
delay.
Bond lit his first cigarette of the day-the first Royal Blend he’had smoked
for five years-and let the smoke come out between his teeth in a luxurious
hiss. That was his ’Enemy Appreciation’. Now, who was this enemy?
Well, there was only one candidate, and a pretty insubstantial one at that,
Doctor No, Doctor Julius No, the German Chinese who owned Crab Key
and made his money out of guano. There had been nothing on this man in
Records and a signal to the FBI had been negative. The affair of the roseate
spoonbills and the trouble with the Audubon Society meant precisely
nothing except, as M had said, that a lot of old women had got excited
about some pink storks. All the same, four people had died because of these
storks and, most significant of all to Bond, Quarrel was scared of Doctor No
arid his island. That was very odd indeed. Cayman Islanders, least of all
Quarrel, did not scare easily. And why had Doctor No got this mania for
privacy? Why did he go to such expense and trouble to keep people away
from his guano island? Guano-bird dung. Who wanted the stuff? How
valuable was it? Bond was due to call on the Governor at ten o’clock. After
he had made his number he would get hold of the Colonial Secretary and
try and find out all about the damned stuff and about Crab Key and, if
possible, about Doctor No.
There was a double knock on the door. Bond got up and unlocked it. It was
Quarrel, his left cheek decorated with a piratical cross of sticking-plaster.
”Mornin”, cap’n. Yo said eight-tirty.”
”Yes, come on in, Quarrel. We’ve got a busy day. Had some breakfast?”
”Yes, tank you, cap’n. Salt fish an’ ackee an’ a tot of rum.”
”Good God,” said Bond. ”That’s tough stuff to start the day on.”
”Mos” refreshin’,” said Quarrel stolidly.
They sat down outside on the balcony. Bond offered Quarrel a cigarette and
lit one himself. ”Now then,” he said. ”I’ll be spending most of the day at
King’s House and perhaps at the Jamaica Institute. I shan’t need you till
tomorrow morning, but there are some things for you to do downtown. All
right?”
”Okay, cap’n. Jes’ yo say.”
”First of all, that car of ours is hot. We’ve got to get rid of it. Go down to
Motta’s or one of the other hire people and pick up the newest and best little
self-drive car you can find, the one with the least mileage. Saloon. Take it
for a month. Right? Then hunt around the waterfront and find two men who
look as near as possible like us. One must be able to drive a car. Buy them
both clothes, at least for their top halves, that look like ours. And the sort of
hats we might wear. Say we want a car taken over to Montego tomorrow
morning-by the Spanish Town, Ocho Rios road. To be left at Levy’s garage
there. Ring up Levy and tell him to expect it and keep it for us. Right?”
Quarrel grinned. ”Yo want fox someone?”
”That’s right. They’ll get ten pounds each. Say I’m a rich American and I
want my car to arrive in Montego Bay driven by a respectable couple of
men. Make me out a bit mad. They must be here at six o’clock tomorrow
morning. You’ll be here with the other car. See they look the part and send
them off in the Sunbeam with the roof down. Right?”
”Okay, cap’n.”
”What’s happened to that house we had on the North Shore last time-Beau
Desert at Morgan’s Harbour? Do you know if it’s let?”
”Couldn’t say, cap’n. Hit’s well away from de tourist places and dey askin’ a
big rent for it.”
”Well, go to Graham Associates and see if you can rent it for a month, or
another bungalow near by. I don’t mind what you pay. Say it’s for a rich
American, Mr James. Get the keys and pay the rent and say I’ll write and
confirm. I can telephone them if they want more details.” Bond reached into
his hip pocket and brought out a thick wad of notes. He handed half of it to
Quarrel. ”Here’s two hundred pounds. That should cover all this. Get in
touch if you want some more. You know where I’ll be.”
”Tanks, cap’n,” said Quarrel, awestruck by the big sum. He stowed it away
inside his blue shirt and buttoned the shirt up to his neck. ”Anyting helse?”
”No, but take a lot of trouble about not being followed. Leave the car
somewhere downtown and walk to these places. And watch out particularly
for any Chinese near you.” Bond got up and they went to the door. ”See you
tomorrow morning ajt six-fifteen and we’ll get over to the North Coast. As
far as I can see that’s going to be our base for a while.”
Quarrel nodded. His face was enigmatic. He said ”Okay, cap’n” and went
off down the corridor.
Half an hour later Bond went downstairs and took a taxi to King’s House.
He didn’t sign the Governor’s book in the cool hall. He was put in a waiting
room for the quarter of an hour necessary to show him that he was
unimportant. Then the ADC came for him and took him up to the
Governor’s study on the first floor.
It was a large cool room smelling of cigar smoke. The Acting Governor, in
a cream tussore suit and an inappropriate wing collar and spotted bow tie,
was sitting at a broad mahogany desk on which there was nothing but the
Daily Gleaner, the Times Weekly and a bowl of hibiscus blossoms. His
hands lay flat on the desk in front of him. He was sixtyish with a red, rather
petulant face and bright, bitter blue eyes. He didn’t smile or get up. He said,
”Good morning, Mr-er-Bond. Please sit down.”
Bond took the chair across the desk from the Governor and sat down. He
said, ”Good morning, sir,” and waited. A friend at the Colonial Office had
told him his reception would be frigid. ’He’s nearly at retiring age. Only an
interim appointment. We had to find an Acting Governor to take over at
short notice when Sir Hugh Foot was promoted. Foot was a great success.
This man’s not even trying to compete. He knows he’s only got the job for a
few months while we find someone to replace Foot. This man’s been passed
over for the Governor Generalship of Rhodesia. Now all he wants is to
retire and get some directorships in the City. Last thing he wants is any
trouble in Jamaica. He keeps on trying to close this Strangways case of
yours. Won’t like you ferreting about.’
The Governor cleared his throat. He recognized that Bond wasn’t one of the
servile ones. ”You wanted to see me?”
”Just to make my number, sir,” said Bond equably. ”I’m here on the
Strangways case. I think you had a signal front the Secretary of State.” This
was a reminder that the people behind Bond were powerful people. Bond
didn’t like attempts to squash him or his Service.
”I recall the signal. And what can I do for you? So far as we’re concerned
here the case is closed.”
”In what way ’closed’, sir?”
The Governor said roughly, ”Strangways obviously did a bunk with the girl.
Unbalanced sort of fellow at the best of times. Some of your-er-colleagues
don’t seem to be able to leave women alone.” The Governor clearly
included Bond. ”Had to bail the chap out of various scandals before now.
Doesn’t do the Colony any good, Mr-er-Bond. Hope your people will be
sending us a rather better type of man to take his place. That is,” he added
coldly, ”if a Regional Control man is really needed here. Personally I have
every confidence in our police.”
Bond smiled sympathetically. ”I’ll report your views, sir. I expect my Chief
will like to discuss them with the Minister of Defence and the Secretary of
State. Naturally, if you would like to-take over these extra duties it will be a
saving in manpower so far as my Service is concerned. I’m sure the
Jamaican Constabulary is most efficient.”
The Governor looked at Bond suspiciously. Perhaps he had better handle
this man a bit more carefully. ”This is an in-formal discussion, Mr Bond.
When I have decided on my views I will communicate them myself to the
Secretary of State. In the meantime, is there anyone you wish to see on my
staff?” .
”I’d like to have a word with the Colonial Secretary, sir.”
”Really? And why, pray?”
”There’s been some trouble on Crab Key. Something about a bird sanctuary.
The case was passed to us by the Colonial Office. My Chief asked me to
look into it while I’m here.”
The Governor looked relieved. ”Certainly, certainly. I’ll see that Mr
Pleydell-Smith receives you straight away. So you feel we can leave the
Strangways case to sort itself out? They’ll turn up before long, never fear.”
He reached over and rang a bell. The ADC came in. ”This gentleman would
like to see the Colonial Secretary, ADC. Take him along, would you? I’ll
call Mr Pleydell-Smith myself and ask him to make himself available.” He
got up and came round the desk. He held out his hand. ”Goodbye, then Mr
Bond. And I’m so glad we see eye to eye. Crab Key, eh? Never been there
myself, but I’m sure it would repay a visit.”
Bond shook hands. ”That was what I was thinking. Goodbye, sir.”
”Goodbye, goodbye.” The Governor watched Bond’s back retreating out of
the door and himself returned well satisfied to his desk. ”Young
whippersnapper,” he said to the empty room. He sat down and said a few
peremptory words down the telephone to the Colonial Secretary. Then he
picked up the Times Weekly and turned to the Stock Exchange prices.
The Colonial Secretary was a youngish shaggy-haired man with bright,
boyish eyes. He was one of those nervous pipe smokers who are constantly
patting their pockets for matches, shaking the box to see how many are left
in it, or knocking the dottle out of their pipes. After he had gone through
this routine two or three times in his first ten minutes with Bond, Bond
wondered if he ever got any smoke into his lungs at all.
After pumping energetically at Bond’s hand and waving vaguely at a chair,
Pleydell-Smith walked up and down the room scratching his temple with
the stem of his pipe. ”Bond. Bond. Bond! Rings a bell. Now let me see. Yes,
by jove! You werejthe chap who was mixed up in that treasure business
here. By jove, yes! Four, five years ago. Found the file lying around only
the other day. Splendid show. What a lark! I say, wish you’d start another
bonfire like that here. Stir the place up a bit. All they think of nowadays is
Federation and their bloody self-importance. Self-determination indeed!
They can’t even run a bus service. And the colour problem! My dear chap,
there’s far more colour problem between the straight-haired and the crinklyhaired
Jamaicans than there is between me and my black cook. However-
”Pleydell-Smith came to rest beside his desk. He sat down opposite Bond
and draped one leg over the arm of his chair. Reaching for a tobacco jar
with the arms of King’s College, Cambridge, on it, he dug into it and started
filling his pipe-”I mean to say I don’t want to bore you with all that. You go
ahead and bore me. What’s your problem? Glad to help. I bet it’s more
interesting than this muck,” he waved at the pile of papers in his In tray.
Bond grinned at him. This was more like it. He had found an ally, and an
intelligent one at that. ”Well,” he said seriously, ”I’m here on the
Strangways case. But first of all I want to ask you a question that may
sound odd. Exactly how did you come to be looking at that other case of
mine? You say you found the file lying about. How was that? Had someone
asked for it? I don’t want to be indiscreet, so don’t answer if you don’t want
to. I’m just inquisitive.”
Pleydell-Smith cocked an eye at him. ”I suppose that’s yoUr job.” He
reflected, gazing at the ceiling. ”Well, now I come to think of it I saw it on
my secretary’s desk. She’s a new girl. Said she was trying to get up to date
with the files. Mark you,” the Colonial Secretary hastened to exonerate his
girl, ”there were plenty of other files on her desk. It was just this one that
caught my eye.”
”Oh, I see,” said Bond. ”It was like that.” He smiled apologetically. ”Sorry,
but various people seem to be rather interested in me being here. What I
really wanted to talk to you about was Crab Key. Anything you know about
the place. And about this Chinaman, Doctor No, who bought it. And
anything you can tell me about his guano business. Rather a tall order, I’m
afraid, but any scraps will help.”
Pleydell-Smith laughed shortly through the stem of his pipe. He jerked the
pipe out of his mouth and talked while he tamped down the burning tobacco
with his matchbox. ”Bitten off a bit more than you can chew on guano. Talk
to you for hours about it. Started in the Consular before I transferred to the
Colonial Office. First job was in Peru. Had a lot to do with their people who
administer the whole trade-Compania Aministradora del Guano. Nice
people.” The pipe was going now and Pleydell-Smith threw his matchbox
down on the table. ”As for the rest, it’s just a question of getting the file.”
He rang a bell. In a minute the door opened behind Bond. ”Miss Taro, the
file on Crab Key, please. The one on the sale of the place and the other one
on that warden fellow who turned up before Christmas. Miss Longfellow
will know where to find them.”
A soft voice said, ”Yes, sir.” Bond heard the door close. ”Now then, guano.”
Pleydell-Smith tilted his chair back. Bond prepared to be bored. ”As you
know, it’s bird dung. Comes frorn the rear end of two birds, the masked
booby and the guanay. So far as Crab Key is concerned, it’s only the
guanay, otherwise known as the green cormorant, same bird as you find in
England. The guanay is a machine for converting fish into guano. They
mostly eat anchovies. Just to show you how much fish they eat, they’ve
found up to seventy anchovies inside one bird!” Pleydell-Smith took out his
pipe and pointed it impressively at Bond. ”The whole population of Peru
eats four thousand tons of fish a year. The sea birds of the country eat five
hundred thousand tons!”
Bond pursed his lips to show he was impressed. ”Really.”
”Well, now,” continued the Colonial Secretary, ”every day
each one of these hundreds of thousands of guanays eat a
pound or so of fish and deposit an ounce of guano on the
guanera-that’s the guano island.”
Bond interrupted, ”Why don’t they do it in the sea?”
”Don’t know.” Pleydell-Smith took the question and turned it over in his
mind. ”Never occurred to me. Anyway they don’t. They do it on the land
and they’ve been doing it since before Genesis. That makes the hell of a lot
of bird dung-millions of tons of it on the Pescadores and the other guanera.
Then, around 1850 someone discovered it was the greatest natural fertilizer
in the world-stuffed with nitrates and phosphates and what have you. And
the ships and the men came to the guaneras and simply ravaged them for
twenty years or more.
It’s a time known as the ’Saturnalia’ in Peru. It was like the Klondyke.
People fought over the muck, hi-jacked each other’s ships, shot the workers,
sold phoney maps of secret guano islands-anything you like. And people
made fortunes out of the stuff.”
”Where does Crab Key come in?” Bond wanted to get down to cases.
”That was the only worthwhile guanera so far north. It was worked too,
God knows who by. But the stuff had a low nitrate content. Water’s not as
rich round here as it is down along the Humboldt Current. So the fish aren’t
so rich in chemicals. So the guano isn’t so rich either. Crab Key got worked
on and off when the price was high enough, but the whole industry went
bust, with Crab Key and the other poor-quality deposits in the van, when
the Germans invented artificial chemical manure. By this time Peru had
realized that she had squandered a fantastic capital asset and she set about
organizing the remains of the industry and protecting the guanera. She
nationalized the industry and protected the birds, and slowly, very slowly,
the supplies built up again. Then people found that there were snags about
the German stuff, it impoverishes the soil, which guano doesn’t do, and
gradually the price of guano improved and the industry staggered back to its
feet. Now it’s going fine, except that Peru keeps most of the guano to
herself, for her own agriculture. And that was where Crab Key came in
again.”
”Ah.”
”Yes,” said Pleydell-Smith, patting his pockets for the matches, finding
them on the desk, shaking them against his ear, and starting his pipe-filling
routine, ”at the beginning of the war, this Chinaman, who must be a wily
devil, by the way, got the idea that he could make a good thing out of the
old guanera on Crab Key. The price was about fifty dollars a ton on this
side of the Atlantic and he bought the island from us, for about ten thousand
pounds as I recall it, brought in labour and got to work. Been working it
ever since. Must have made a fortune. He ships direct to Europe, to
Antwerp. They send him a ship once a month. He’s installed the latest
crushers and separators. Sweats his labour, I daresay. To make a decent
profit, he’d have to. Particularly now. Last year I heard he was only getting
about thirty-eight to forty dollars a ton c.i.f. Antwerp. God knows what he
must pay his labour to make a profit at that price. I’ve never been able to
find out. He runs that place like a fortress-sort of forced labour camp. No
one ever gets off it. I’ve heard some funny rumours, but no one’s ever
complained. It’s his island, of course, and he can do what he likes on it.”
Bond hunted for clues. ”Would it really be so valuable to him, this place?
What do you suppose it’s worth?”
’Pleydell-Smith said, ”The guanay is the most valuable bird in the world.
Each pair produces about two dollars’ worth of guano in a year without any
expense to the owner. Each female lays an-average of three eggs and raises
two young. Two broods a year. Say they’re worth fifteen dollars a pair, and
say there are one hundred thousand birds on Crab Key, which is a
reasonable guess on the old figures we have. That makes his birds worth a
million and a half dollars. Pretty valuable property. Add the value of the
installations, say another million, and you’ve got a small fortune on that
hideous little place. Which reminds me,” Pleydell-Smith pressed the bell,
”what the hell has happened to those files? You’ll find all the dope you want
in them.”
The door opened behind Bond.
Pleydell-Smith said irritably, ”Really, Miss Taro. What about those files?”
”Very sorry, sir,” said the soft voice. ”But we can’t find them anywhere.”
”What do you mean ’can’t find them’? Who had them last?”
”Commander Strangways, sir.”
”Well, I remember distinctly him bringing them back to this room. What
happened to them then?”
”Can’t say, sir,” the voice was unemotional. ”The covers are there but there’s
nothing inside them.”
Bond turned in his chair. He glanced at the girl and turned back. He smiled
grimly to himself. He knew where the files had gone. He also knew why the
old file on himself had been out on the Secretary’s desk. He also guessed
how the particular significance of ’James Bond, Import and Export
Merchant’ seemed to have leaked out of King’s House, the only place where
the significance was known.
Like Doctor No, like Miss Annabel Chung, the demure, efficient-looking
little secretary in the horn-rimmed glasses was a Chinese.