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！
n shot at by experts and I'm still alive。 Maybe not precisely kicking； but I've never heard of a limey who'd shoot a defenceless man who's badly wounded。 They haven't got the guts。 We'll just sit here； chewing the fat； until the rescue team es。 Then I'll be glad to go for trial。 What'll they get me for； eh？〃
〃Well； just for a start； there's that nice Mr。 Rotkopf with one of your famous silver bullets in his head in the river back of the hotel。〃
〃That'll match with the nice Mr。 Hendriks with one of your bullets somewhere behind his face。 Maybe we'll serve a bit of time together。 That'd be nice； wouldn't it？ They say the jail at Spanish Town has all the forts。 How about it； limey？ That's where you'll be found with a shiv in your back in the sack…sewing department。 And by the same token； how d'you know about Rotkopf？〃
〃Your bug was bugged。 Seems you're a bit accident…prone these days； Scaramanga。 You hired the wrong security men。 Both your managers were from the C。I。A。 The tape'll be on the way to Washington by now。 That's got the murder of Ross on it too。 See what I mean？ You've got it ing from every which way。〃
〃Tape isn't evidence in an American court。 But I see what you mean； shamus。 Mistakes seem to have got made。 So okay；〃…Scaramanga made an expansive gesture of the right hand…〃take a million bucks and call it quits？〃
〃I was offered three million on the train。〃
〃I'll double that。〃
〃No。 Sorry。〃 Bond got to his feet。 The left hand behind his back was clenched with the horror of what he was about to do。 He forced himself to think of what the broken body of Margesson must have looked like； of the others that this man had killed； of the ones he would kill afresh if Bond weakened。 This man was probably the most efficient one…man death…dealer in the world。 James Bond had him。 He had been instructed to take him。 He must take him… lying down wounded or in any other position。 Bond assumed casualness； tried to make himself the enemy's cold equal。 〃Any messages for anyone； Scaramanga？ Any instructions？ Anyone you want looking after？ I'll take care of it if it's personal。 I'll keep it to myself。〃
Scaramanga laughed his harsh laugh； but carefully。 This tune the laugh didn't turn into the red cough。 〃Quite the little English gentleman！ Just like I spelled it out。 S'pose you wouldn't like to hand me your gun and leave me to myself for five minutes like in the books？ Well； you're right； boyo！ I'd crawl after you and blast the back of your head off。〃 The eyes still bored into Bond's with the arrogant superiority； the cold superman quality that had made him the greatest pro gunman in the world…no drinks； no drugs…the impersonal trigger man who killed for money and； by the way he sometimes did it； for the kicks。
Bond examined him carefully。 How could Scaramanga fail to break when he was going to die in minutes？ Was there some last trick the man was going to spring？ Some hidden weapon？ But the man just lay there； apparently relaxed； propped up against the mangrove roots； his chest heaving rhythmicallv； the granite of his face not crumbling even minutely in defeat。 On his forehead there was not as much sweat as there was on Bond's。 Scaramanga lay in dappled black shadow。 For ten minutes James Bond had stood in the middle of the clearing in blazing sunshine。 Suddenly he felt the vitality oozing out through his feet into the black mud。 And his resolve was going with it。 He said； and he heard his voice ring out harshly； 〃All right； Scaramanga； this is it。〃 He lifted his gun and held it in the two…handed grip of the target man。 〃I'm going to make it as quick as I can。〃
Scaramanga held up a hand。 For the first time his face showed emotion。 〃Okay； fella。〃 The voice； amazingly； supplicated。 〃I'm a Catholic； see？ Just let me say my last prayer。 Okay？ Won't take long； then you can blaze away。 Every man's got to die sometime。 You're a fine guy as guys go。 It's the luck of the game。 If my bullet had been an inch maybe two inches； to the right； it'd be you that's dead in place of me。 Right？ Can I say my prayer； mister？〃
James Bond lowered his gun。 He would give the man a few minutes。 He knew he couldn't give him more。 Pain and heat and exhaustion and thirst。 It wouldn't be long before he lay down himself； right there on the hard cracked mud； just to rest。 If someone wanted to kill him； they could。 He said； and the words came out slowly； tiredly； 〃Go ahead； Scaramanga。 One minute only。〃
〃Thanks； pal。〃 Scaramanga's hands went up to his face and covered his eyes。 There came a drone of Lathi which went on and on。 Bond stood there in the sunshine； his gun lowered； watching Scaramanga； but at the same tune not watching him； the edge of his focus dulled by the pain and the heat and the hypnotic litany that came from behind the shuttered face and the horror of what Bond was going to have to do…in one minute； perhaps two。
The fingers of Scaramanga's right hand crawled imperceptibly sideways across his face； inch by inch； centimetre by centimetre。 They got to his ear and stopped。 The drone of the Lathi prayer never altered its slow； lulling tempo。
And then the hand leaped behind the head and the tiny golden Derringer roared； and James Bond spun round as if he had taken a right to the jaw and crashed to the ground。
At once Scaramanga was on his feet and moving forward like a swift cat。 He snatched up the discarded knife and held it forward like a tongue of silver flame。
But James Bond twisted like a dying animal on the ground and the iron in his hand cracked viciously again and again…five times…and then fell out of his hand onto the black earth as his gun hand went to the right side of his belly and stayed there； clutching at the terrible pain。
The big man stood for a moment and looked up at the deep blue sky。 His fingers opened in a spasm and let go the knife。 His pierced heart stuttered and limped and stopped。 He crashed flat back and lay； his arms flung wide； as if someone had thrown him away。
After a while； the land crabs came out of their holes and began nosing at the scraps of the snake。 The bigger offal could wait until the night。
16
The Wrapup
The extremely smart policeman from the wrecking squad on the railway came down the riverbank at the normal； dignified gait of a Jamaican constable on his beat。 No Jamaican policeman ever breaks into a run。 He has been taught that this lacks authority。 Felix Leiter； now put under with morphine by the doctor； had said that a good man was after a bad man in the swamp and that there might be shooting。 Felix Leiter wasn't more explicit than that； but when he said he was from the F。B。I。…a legitimate euphemism…in Washington； the policeman tried to get some of the wrecking squad to e with him and when he failed； sauntered cautiously off on his own； his baton swinging with assumed jauntiness。
The boom of the guns and the explosion of screeching marsh birds gave him an approximate fix。 He had been born not far away； at Negril； and as a boy he had often used his gins and his slingshot in these marshes。 They held no fears for him。 When he came to the approximate point on the riverbank； he turned left into the mangrove； and conscious that his black…and…blue uniform