if.themanwiththegoldengun-第25部分

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？　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　was　desperately　conspicuous；　stalked　cautiously　from　clump　to　clump　into　the　morass。　He　was　protected　by　nothing　but　his　nightstick　and　the　knowledge　that　to　kill　a　policeman　was　a　capital　offence　without　the　option。　He　only　hoped　that　the　good　man　and　the　bad　man　knew　this　too。
　With　all　the　birds　gone；　there　was　dead　silence。　The　constable　noticed　that　the　tracks　of　bush　rats　and　other　small　animals　were　running　past　him　on　a　course　that　converged　with　his　target　area。　Then　he　heard　the　rattling　scuttle　of　the　crabs；　and　in　a　moment；　from　behind　a　thick　mangrove　clump；　he　saw　the　glint　of　Scaramanga's　shirt。　He　watched　and　listened。　There　was　no　movement　and　no　sound。　He　strolled；　with　dignity；　into　the　middle　of　the　clearing；　looked　at　the　two　bodies　and　the　guns；　and　took　out　his　nickel　police　whistle　and　blew　three　long　blasts。　Then　he　sat　down　in　the　shade　of　a　bush；　took　out　his　report　pad；　licked　his　pencil；　and　began　writing　in　a　laborious　hand。
　A　week　later；　James　Bond　regained　consciousness。　He　was　in　a　green…shaded　room。　He　was　under　water。　The　slowly　revolving　fan　in　the　ceiling　was　the　screw　of　a　ship　that　was　about　to　run　him　down。　He　swam　for　his　life。　But　it　was　no　good。　He　was　tied　down；　anchored　to　the　bottom　of　the　sea。　He　screamed　at　the　top　of　his　lungs。　To　the　nurse　at　the　end　of　the　bed　it　was　the　whisper　of　a　moan。　At　once　she　was　beside　him。　She　put　a　cool　hand　on　his　forehead。　While　she　took　his　pulse；　James　Bond　looked　up　at　her　with　unfocused　eyes。　So　this　was　what　a　mermaid　looked　like！　He　muttered　〃You're　pretty；〃　and　gratefully　swam　back　down　into　her　arms。
　The　nurse　wrote　ninety…five　on　his　sheet　and　telephoned　down　to　the　ward　sister。　She　looked　in　the　dim　mirror　and　tidied　her　hair　in　preparation　for　the　R。M。O。　in　charge　of　this　apparently　Very　Important　Patient。
　The　Resident　Medical　Officer；　a　young　Jamaican　graduate　from　Edinburgh；　arrived　with　the　matron；　a　kindly　dragon　on　loan　from　King　Edward　VII's。　He　heard　the　nurse's　report。　He　went　over　to　the　bed　and　gently　lifted　Bond's　eyelids。　He　slipped　a　thermometer　under　Bond's　armpit　and　held　Bond's　pulse　in　one　hand　and　a　pocket　chronometer　in　the　other；　and　there　was　silence　in　the　little　room。　Outside；　the　traffic　tore　up　and　down　a　Kingston　road。
　The　doctor　released　Bond's　pulse　and　slipped　the　chronometer　back　into　the　trouser　pocket　under　the　white　smock。　He　wrote　figures　on　the　chart。　The　nurse　held　the　door　open；　and　the　three　people　went　out　into　the　corridor。　The　doctor　talked　to　the　matron。　The　nurse　was　allowed　to　listen。　〃He's　going　to　be　all　right。　Temperature　well　down。　Pulse　a　little　fast；　but　that　may　have　been　the　result　of　his　waking。　Reduce　the　antibiotics。　I'll　talk　to　the　floor　sister　about　that　later。　Keep　on　with　the　intravenous　feeding。　Dr。　Macdonald　will　be　up　later　to　attend　to　the　dressings。　He'll　be　waking　again。　If　he　asks　for　something　to　drink；　give　him　fruit　juice。　He　should　be　on　soft　foods　soon。　Miracle　really。　Missed　the　abdominal　viscera。　Didn't　even　shave　a　kidney。　Muscle　only。　That　bullet　was　dipped　in　enough　poison　to　kill　a　horse。　Thank　God　that　man　at　Sav'　La　Mar　recognized　the　symptoms　of　snake　venom　and　gave　him　those　massive　anti…snakebite　injections。　Remind　me　to　write　to　him；　matron。　He　saved　the　man's　life。　Now　then；　no　visitors　of　course；　for　at　least　another　week。　You　can　tell　the　police　and　the　High　missioner's　Office　that　he's　on　the　mend。　I　don't　know　who　he　is；　but　apparently　London　keeps　on　worrying　us　about　him。　Something　to　do　with　the　Ministry　of　Defence。　From　now　on；　put　them　and　all　other　inquiries　through　to　the　High　missioner's　Office。　They　seem　to　think　they're　in　charge　of　him。〃　He　paused。　〃By　the　way；　how's　his　friend　getting　on　in　Number　Twelve？　The　one　the　American　ambassador　and　Washington　have　been　on　about。　He's　not　on　my　list；　but　he　keeps　on　asking　to　see　this　Mr。　Bond。〃
　〃pound　fracture　of　the　tibia；〃　said　the　matron。　〃No　plications。〃　She　smiled。　〃Except　that　he's　a　bit　fresh　with　the　nurses。　He　should　be　walking　with　a　stick　in　ten　days。　He's　already　seen　the　police。　I　suppose　it's　all　to　do　with　that　story　in　the　Gleaner　about　those　American　tourists　being　killed　when　the　Orange　River　Bridge　collapsed。　But　the　missioner's　handling　it　all　personally。　The　story　in　the　Gleaner's　very　vague。〃
　The　doctor　smiled。　〃Nobody　tells　me　anything。　Just　as　well。　I　haven't　got　the　tune　to　listen　to　them。　Well；　thank　you；　matron。　I　must　get　along。　Multiple　crash　at　Halfway　Tree。　The　ambulances'll　be　here　any　minute。〃　He　hurried　away。　The　matron　went　about　her　business。　The　nurse；　excited　by　all　this　high…level　talk；　went　softly　back　into　the　green…shaded　room；　tidied　the　sheet　over　the　naked　right　shoulder　of　her　patient　where　the　doctor　had　pulled　it　down；　and　went　back　to　her　chair　at　the　end　of　the　bed　and　her　copy　of　Ebony。
　Ten　days　later；　the　little　room　was　crowded。　James　Bond；　propped　up　among　extra　pillows；　was　amused　by　the　galaxy　of　officialdom　that　had　been　assembled。　On　his　left　was　the　missioner　of　Police；　resplendent　in　his　black　uniform　with　sil