if.themanwiththegoldengun-第12部分

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me　care　and　put　the　telephone　quietly　back　on　the　night　table。　He　knew　the　gadget。　It　would　be　transistorized　and　of　sufficient　power　to　pick　up　a　conversation　in　normal　tones　anywhere　in　the　room。　It　crossed　his　mind　to　say　very　devout　prayers　out　loud　before　he　went　to　bed。　That　would　be　a　fitting　prologue　for　the　central　recording　device！
　James　Bond　unpacked　his　few　belongings　and　called　room　service。　A　Jamaican　voice　answered。　Bond　ordered　a　bottle　of　Walker's　deluxe　bourbon；　three　glasses；　ice；　and；　for　nine　o'clock；　eggs　Benedict。　The　voice　said；　〃Sure；　sir。〃　Bond　then　took　off　his　clothes；　put　his　gun　and　holster　under　a　pillow；　rang　for　the　valet；　and　had　his　suit　taken　away　to　be　pressed。　By　the　time　he　had　taken　a　hot　shower　followed　by　an　ice…cold　one　and　pulled　on　a　fresh　pair　of　sea　island　cotton　underpants；　the　bourbon　had　arrived。
　The　best　drink　in　the　day　is　just　before　the　first　one　（the　Red　Stripe　didn't　count）。　James　Bond　put　ice　in　the　glass　and　three　fingers　of　the　bourbon　and　swilled　it　round　the　glass　to　cool　it　and　break　it　down　with　the　ice。　He　pulled　a　chair　up　to　the　window；　put　a　low　table　beside　it；　took　Profiles　in　Courage　by　Jack　Kennedy　out　of　his　suitcase；　happened　to　open　it　at　Edmund　G。　Ross　（〃I　looked　down　into　my　open　grave〃）；　then　went　and　sat　down；　letting　the　scented　air；　a　pound　of　sea　and　trees；　breathe　over　his　body；　naked　save　for　the　underpants。　He　drank　the　bourbon　down　in　two　long　draughts　and　felt　its　friendly　bite　at　the　back　of　his　throat　and　in　his　stomach。　He　filled　up　his　glass　again；　this　time　with　more　ice　to　make　it　a　weaker　drink；　and　sat　back　and　thought　about　Scaramanga。
　What　was　the　man　doing　now？　Talking　long　distance　with　Havana　or　the　States？　Organizing　things　for　tomorrow？　It　would　be　interesting　to　see　these　fat；　frightened　stockholders！　If　Bond　knew　anything；　they　would　be　a　choice　bunch　of　hoods；　the　type　that　had　owned　the　Havana　hotels　and　casinos　in　the　old　Batista　days；　the　men　that　held　the　stock　in　Las　Vegas；　that　looked　after　the　action　in　Miami。　And　whose　money　was　Scaramanga　representing？　There　was　so　much　hot　money　drifting　around　the　Caribbean　that　it　might　be　any　of　the　syndicates；　any　of　the　banana　dictators　from　the　islands　or　the　mainland。　And　the　man　himself？　It　had　been　damned　fine　shooting　that　had　killed　the　two　birds　swerving　through　the　window　of　3…1/2。　How　in　hell　was　Bond　going　to　take　him？　On　an　impulse；　Bond　went　over　to　his　bed　and　took　the　Walther　from　under　the　pillow。　He　slipped　out　the　magazine　and　pumped　the　single　round　onto　the　counterpane。　He　tested　the　spring　of　the　magazine　and　of　the　breech　and　drew　a　quick　bead　on　various　objects　round　the　room。　He　found　he　was　aiming　an　inch　or　so　high。　But　that　would　be　be…cause　the　gun　was　lighter　without　its　loaded　magazine。　He　snapped　the　magazine　back　and　tried　again。　Yes；　that　was　better。　He　pumped　a　round　into　the　breech；　put　up　the　safety；　and　replaced　the　gun　under　the　pillow。　Then　he　went　back　to　his　drink　and　picked　up　the　book　and　forgot　his　worries　in　the　high　endeavours　of　great　men。
　The　eggs　came　and　were　good。　The　mousseline　sauce　might　have　been　mixed　at　Maxim's。　Bond　had　the　tray　removed；　poured　himself　a　last　drink　and　prepared　for　bed。　Scaramanga　would　certainly　have　a　master　key。　Tomorrow；　Bond　would　whittle　himself　a　wedge　to　jam　the　door。　For　tonight；　he　upended　his　suitcase；　just　inside　the　door　and　balanced　the　three　glasses　on　top　of　it。　It　was　a　simple　booby　trap；　but　it　would　give　him　all　the　warning　he　needed。　Then　he　took　off　his　shorts　and　got　into　bed　and　slept。
　A　nightmare　woke　him；　sweating；　around　two　in　the　morning。　He　had　been　defending　a　fort。　There　were　other　defenders　with　him；　but　they　seemed　to　be　wandering　around　aimlessly；　ineffectively；　and　when　Bond　shouted　to　rally　them；　they　seemed　not　to　hear　him。　Out　of　the　plain；　Scaramanga　sat　ass…backwards　on　the　cafe　chair　beside　a　huge　golden　cannon。　Every　now　and　then；　he　put　his　long　cigar　to　the　touchhole；　and　there　came　a　tremendous　flash　of　soundless　flame。　A　black　cannonball；　as　big　as　a　football；　lobbed　up　high　in　the　air　and　crashed　down　into　the　fort　with　a　shattering　noise　of　breaking　timber。　Bond　was　armed　with　nothing　but　a　longbow；　but　even　this　he　could　not　fire　because　every　time　he　tried　to　fit　the　notch　of　the　arrow　into　the　gut　the　arrow　slipped　out　of　his　fingers　to　the　ground。　He　cursed　his　clumsiness。　Any　moment　now　and　a　huge　cannonball　would　land　on　the　small　open　space　where　he　was　standing！　Out　on　the　plain；　Scaramanga　reached　his　cigar　to　the　touchole。　The　black　ball　soared　up。　It　was　ing　straight　for　Bond！　It　landed　just　in　front　of　him　and　came　rolling　very　slowly　towards　him；　getting　bigger　and　bigger；　smoke　and　sparks　ing　from　its　shortening　fuse。　Bond　threw　up　an　arm　to　protect　himself。　Painfully；　the　arm　crashed　into　the　side　of　the　night　table；　and　Bond　woke　up。
　Bond　got　out　of　bed；　gave　himself　a　cold　shower；　and　drank　a　glass　of　water。　By　the　time　he　was　back　in　bed；　he　had　forgotten　the　nightmare　and　he　went　quickly　to　sleep　and　slept　dreamlessly　until　7：30　in　the　morning。　He　put　on　swimming　trunks；　removed　the　barricade　from　in　front　of　the　door；　and　went　out　into　the　passage。　To　his　left；　a　door　into　the　garden　was　open　and　sun　streamed　in。　He　went　out　and　was　walking　over　the　dewy　grass　towards　the　beach　when　he　heard　a　curious　thumping　noise　from　among　the　palms　to　his　right。　He　walked　over。　It　was　Scaramanga；　in　trunks；　attended　by　a　good…looking　young　Negro　holding　a　flame…coloured　terrycloth　robe；　doing　exercises　on　a　trampoline。　Scaramanga's　body　gleamed　with　sweat　in　the　sunshine　　as　he　hurled　himself　high　in　the　　air　from　the　stretched　canvas　and　bounded　back；　sometimes　from　his　knees　or　his　buttocks　and　sometimes　even　from　his　head。　It　was　an　impressive　exercise　in　gymnastics。　The　prominent　third　nipple　over　the　heart　made　an　obvious　target！　Bond　walked　thoughtfully　down　to　the　beautiful　crescent　of　white　sand　fringed　with　gently　clashing　palm　trees。　He　dived　in；　and　because　of　the　other　man's　example；　swam　twice　as　far　as　he　had　intended。
　James　Bond　had　a　quick　and　small　breakfast　in　his　room；　dressed；　reluctantly　because　of　the　heat；　in　his　dark　blue　suit；　armed　himself；　and　went　for　a　walk　round　the　property。　He　quickly　got　the　picture。　The　night；　and　the　lighted　facade；　had　covered　up　a　half…project。　The　east　wing　on　the　other　side　of　the　lobby　was　still　lath　and　plaster。　The　body　of　the　hotel…the　restaurant；　nightclub；　and　living　rooms　that　were　the　tail　of　the　T…shaped　structure…　were　mockups；　stages　for　a　dress　rehearsal；　hastily　assembled　with　the　essential　props；　carpets；　light　fixtures；　and　a　scattering　of　furniture；　but　stinking　of　fresh　paint　and　wood　shavings。　Perhaps　fifty　men　and　women　were　at　work；　tacking　up　curtains；　vacuuming　carpets；　fixing　the　electricity；　but　no　one　was　employed　on　the　essentials…the　big　cement　mixers；　the　drills；　the　ironwork　that　lay　about　behind　the　hotel　like　the　abandoned　toys　of　a　giant。　At　a　guess；　the　place　would　need　another　year　and　another　few　million　pounds　to　bee　what　the　plans　had　said　it　was　to　be。　Bond　saw　Scaramanga's　problem。　Someone　was　going　to　plain　about　this。　Others　would　want　to　get　out。　But　then　again；　others　would　want　to　buy　in；　but　cheaply；　and　use　it　as　a　tax　loss　to　set　against　more　profitable　enterprises　elsewhere。　Better　to　have　a　capital　asset；　with　the　big　tax　concessions　that　Jamaica　gave；　than　pay　the　money　to　Uncle　Sam；　Uncle　Fidel；　Uncle　Leoni　of　Venezuela。　So　Scaramanga's　job　would　be　to　blind　his　guests　with　pleasure；　send　them　back　half　drunk　to　their　syndicates。　Would　it　work？　Bond　knew　such　people　and　he　doubted　it。　They　might　go　to　bed　drunk　with　a　pretty　coloured　girl　but　they　would　awake　sober。　Or　else　they　wouldn't　have　their　jobs；　they　wouldn't　be　ing　here　with　their　discreet　briefcases。
　He　walked　farther　back　on　the　property。　He　wanted　to　locate　his　car。　He　found　it　on　a　deserted　lot　behind　the　west　wing。　The　sun　would　get　at　it　where　it　was；　so　he　drove　it　forward　and　into　the　shade　of　a　giant　ficus　tree。　He　checked　the　petrol　and　pocketed　the　ignition　key。　There　were　not　too　many　small　precautions　he　could　take。
　On　the　parking　lot　the　smell　of　the　swamps　was　very　strong。　While　it　was　still　paratively　cool；　he　decided　to　walk　farther。　He　soon　came　to　the　end　of　the　young　shrubs　and　guinea　grass　the　landscaper　had　laid　on。　Behind　these　was　desolation…a　great　area　of　sluggish　streams　and　swampland　from　which　the　hotel　land　had　been　recovered。　Egrets；　shrikes；　and　Louisiana　herons　rose　and　settled　lazily；　and　there　were　strange　insect　noises　and　the　call　of　frogs　and　gekkos。　On　what　would　probably　be　the　border　of　the　property；　a　biggish　stream　meandered　towards　the　sea；　its　muddy　banks　pitted　with　the　holes　of　land　crabs　and　water　rats。　As　Bond　approacned；　there　was　a　heavy　splash　and　a　man…sized　alligator　left　the　bank　and　showed　its　snout　before　submerging。　Bond　smiled　to　himself。　No　doubt；　if　the　hotel　got　off　the　ground；　all　this　area　would　be　turned　into　an　asset。　There　would　be　native　boatmen；　suitably　attired　as　Arawak　Indians；　a　landing　stage；　and　fortable　boats　with　fringed　shades　from　which　the　guests　could　view　the　〃tropical　jungle〃　for　an　extra　ten　dollars　on　the　bill。
　Bond　glanced　at　his　watch。　He　strolled　back。　To　the　left；　not　yet　screened　by　the　young　oleanders　and　crotons　that　had　been　planted　for　this　eventual　purpose；　were　the　kitchens　and　laundry　and　staff　quarters；　the　usual　back　quarters　of　a　luxury　hotel；　and　music；　the　heartbeat　thump　of　Jamaican　calypso；　came　from　their　direction…presumably　the　Kingston　bo　rehearsing。　Bond　walked　round　and　under　the　portico　into　the　main　lobby。　Scaramanga　was　at　the　desk　talking　to　the　manager。　When　he　heard　Bond's　footsteps　on　the　marble；　he　turned　and　looked；　and　gave　Bond　a　curt　nod。　He　was　dressed　as　on　the　previous　day；　and　the　high　white　cravat　suited　the　elegance　of　the　hall。　He　said　〃Okay；　then〃　to　the　manager　and；　to　Bond；　〃Let's　go　take　a　look　at　the　conference　room。〃
　Bond　followed　him　through　the　restaurant　door　and　then　through　another　door　to　the　right　that　opened　into　a　lobby；　one　of　whose　walls　was　taken　up　with　the　glasses　and　plates　of　a　buffet。　Beyond　this　was　another　door。　Scar