按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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； microdot 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 millimetre 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 wardrobe； the semi…extracted lining of the breast pocket of his spare suit； the particular symmetry of certain dents in his tube of Macleans toothpaste…had been bungled or disturbed。 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 calibre。 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 took a shower。 Afterwards； 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； lacklustre eyes that had looked back at him when he shaved after first entering The Park…the tense； preoccupied expression on his face。 Now the grey…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； or simulated silver； instead of pewter。 The hunting prints； copper and brass hunting horns； muskets and powder horns； on the walls could have e from the Parker Galleries 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〃 leant 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 midwhirl and sighted on Bond's stomach。 〃Fellows；〃 said Scaramanga； mock boisterous； 〃meet my personal assistant； Mr。 Mark Hazard； from London； England。 He's e along to make things run smoothly over this weekend。 Mark； e over and meet the gang and pass round the canapes。〃 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 an 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 desultory 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 towards 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 e 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's 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 splendour at the bar。 Mr。 Hendriks said something。 His words acted like a mand on the other man。 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 buttonholed 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 are one zero or two。 Mr。 Rotkopf s only contribution was to say； through a mouthful of steak and French fries； 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 e back。 Sure； you can squeeze