if.themanwiththegoldengun-第13部分

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whose　walls　was　taken　up　with　the　glasses　and　plates　of　a　buffet。　Beyond　this　was　another　door。　Scaramanga　led　the　way　through　into　what　would　one　day　perhaps　be　a　card　room　or　writing　room。　Now　there　was　nothing　but　a　round　table　in　the　centre　of　a　wine…red　carpet　and　seven　white　leatherette　armchairs　with　scratchpads　and　pencils　in　front　of　them。　The　chair　facing　the　door；　presumably　Scaramanga's；　had　a　white　telephone　in　front　of　it。
　Bond　went　round　the　room　and　examined　the　windows　and　the　curtains　and　glanced　at　the　wall　brackets　of　the　lighting。　He　said；　〃The　brackets　could　be　bugged。　And　of　course　there's　the　telephone。　Like　me　to　go　over　it？〃
　Scaramanga　looked　at　Bond　stonily。　He　said；　〃No　need　to。　It's　bugged　all　right。　By　me。　Got　to　have　a　record　of　what's　said。〃
　Bond　said；　〃All　right；　then。　Where　do　you　want　me　to　be？〃
　〃Outside　the　door。　Sitting　reading　a　magazine　or　something。　There'll　be　the　general　meeting　this　afternoon　around　four。　Tomorrow　there'll　maybe　be　one　or　two　smaller　meetings；　maybe　just　me　and　one　of　the　guys。　I　don't　want　any　of　these　meetings　to　be　disturbed。　Got　it？〃　〃Seems　simple　enough。　Now；　isn't　it　about　time　you　told　me　the　names　of　these　men　and　more　or　less　who　they　represent　and　which　ones；　if　any；　you're　expecting　trouble　from？〃
　Scaramanga　said；　〃Take　a　chair　and　a　paper　and　pencil。〃　He　strolled　up　and　down　the　room。　〃First　there's　Mr。　Hendriks。　Dutchman。　Represents　the　European　money；　mostly　Swiss。　You　needn't　bother　with　him。　He's　not　the　arguing　type。　Then　there's　Sam　Binion　from　Detroit。〃　〃The　Purple　Gang？〃
　Scaramanga　stopped　in　his　stride　and　looked　hard　at　Bond。　〃These　are　all　respectable　guys；　mister　whoosis。〃　〃Hazard　is　the　name。〃
　〃All　right。　Hazard；　then。　But　respectable；　you　understand。　Don't　go　getting　the　notion　that　this　is　another　Ap…palachia。　These　are　all　solid　businessmen。　Get　me？　This　Sam　Binion；　for　instance。　He's　in　real　estate。　He　and　his　friends　are　worth　maybe　twenty　million　bucks。　See　what　I　mean？　Then　there's　Leroy　Gengerella。　Miami。　Owns　Gengerella　Enterprises。　Big　shots　in　the　entertainment　world。　He　may　cut　up　rough。　Guys　in　that　line　of　business　like　quick　profits　and　a　quick　turnover。　And　Ruby　Rotkopf；　the　hotel　man　from　Vegas。　He'll　ask　the　difficult　questions　because　he'll　already　know　most　of　the　answers　from　experience。　Hal　Garfinkel　from　Chicago。　He's　in　labour　relations；　like　me。　Represents　a　lot　of　Teamster　Union　funds。　He　shouldn't　be　any　trouble。　Those　unions　have　got　so　much　money　they　don't　know　where　to　put　it。　That　makes　five。　Last　es　Louis　Paradise　from　Phoenix；　Arizona。　Owns　Paradise　Slots；　the　biggest　people　in　the　one…armed　bandit　business。　Got　casino　interests　too。　I　can't　figure　which　way　he'll　bet。　That's　the　lot。〃
　〃And　who　do　you　represent；　Mr。　Scaramanga？〃
　〃Caribbean　money。〃
　〃Cuban？〃
　〃I　said　Caribbean。　Cuba's　in　the　Caribbean；　isn't　it？〃
　〃Castro　or　Batista？〃
　The　frown　was　back。　Scaramanga's　right　hand　balled　into　a　fist。　〃I　told　you　not　to　rile　me；　mister。　So　don't　go　prying　into　my　affairs　or　you'll　get　hurt。　And　that's　for　sure。〃　As　if　he　could　hardly　control　himself　longer；　the　big　man　turned　on　his　heel　and　strode　brusquely　out　of　the　room。
　James　Bond　smiled。　He　turned　back　to　the　list　in　front　of　him。　A　strong　reek　of　high　gangsterdom　rose　from　the　paper。　But　the　name　he　was　most　interested　in　was　Mr。　Hendriks　who　represented　〃European　money。〃　If　that　was　his　real　name；　and　he　was　a　Dutchman；　so；　James　Bond　reflected；　was　he。
　He　tore　off　three　sheets　of　paper　to　efface　the　impression　of　his　pencil　and　walked　out　and　along　into　the　lobby。　A　bulky　man　was　approaching　the　desk　from　the　entrance。　He　was　sweating　mightily　in　his　unseasonable　wooden…looking　suit。　He　might　have　been　anybody…an　Antwerp　diamond　merchant；　a　German　dentist；　a　Swiss　bank　manager。　The　pale；　square…jowled　face　was　totally　anonymous。　He　put　a　heavy　briefcase　on　the　desk　and　said　in　a　thick　Central　European　accent；　〃I　am　Mr。　Hendriks。　I　think　it　is　that　you　have　a　room　for　me；　isn't　it？〃
　
　8
　Pass　the　Canapes！
　
　The　cars　began　rolling　up。　Scaramanga　was　in　evidence。　He　switched　a　careful　smile　of　wele　on　and　off。　No　hands　were　shaken。　The　host　was　greeted　either　as　〃Pistol〃　or　〃Mr。　S。〃　except　by　Mr。　Hendriks；　who　called　him　nothing。
　Bond　stood　within　earshot　of　the　desk　and　fitted　the　names　to　the　men。　In　general　appearance　they　were　all　much　of　a　muchness。　Dark…faced；　clean…shaven；　around　five　feet　six；　hard…eyed　above　thinly　smiling　mouths；　curt　of　speech　to　the　manager。　They　all　held　firmly　on　to　their　briefcases　when　the　bellboys　tried　to　add　them　to　the　luggage　on　the　rubber…tired　barrows。　They　dispersed　to　their　rooms　along　the　west　wing。　Bond　took　out　his　list　and　added　hatcheck　notations　to　each　one　except　Hendriks；　who　was　clearly　etched　in　Bond's　memory。　Gengerella　became　〃Italian　origin；　mean；　pursed　mouth〃；　Rotkopf；　〃Thick　neck；　totally　bald；　Jew〃；　Binion；　〃bat　ears；　scar　down　left　cheek；　limp〃；　Garfinkel；　〃the　toughest；　bad　teeth；　gun　under　right　armpit〃；　and　finally；　Paradise；　〃Showman　type；　cocky；　false　smile；　diamond　ring。〃
　Scaramanga　came　up。　〃What's　that　you're　writing？〃
　〃Just　notes　to　remember　them　by。〃
　〃Let's　see　it。〃　Scaramanga　held　out　a　demanding　hand。
　Bond　gave　him　the　list。
　Scaramanga　ran　his　eyes　down　it。　He　handed　it　back。　〃Fair　enough。　But　you　needn't　have　mentioned　the　only　gun　you　noticed。　They'll　all　be　protected。　Except　Hendriks　I　guess。　These　kinda　guys　are　nervous　when　they　move　abroad。〃
　〃What　of？〃
　Scaramanga　shrugged。　〃Maybe　the　natives。〃
　〃The　last　people　who　worried　about　the　natives　were　the　redcoats；　perhaps　a　hundred　and　fifty　years　ago。〃
　〃Who　cares？　See　you　in　the　bar　around　twelve。　I'll　be　introducing　you　as　my　personal　assistant。〃
　〃That'll　be　fine。〃
　Scaramanga's　brows　came　together。　Bond　strolled　off　in　the　direction　of　his　bedroom。　He　proposed　to　needle　this　man；　and　go　on　needling　until　it　came　to　a　fight。　For　the　time　being；　the　other　man　would　probably　take　it　because　it　seemed　he　needed　Bond。　But　there　would　e　a　moment；　probably　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　mo