LITMIR.BIZ

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Pus-Feller. Closer to da kitchen dan da music.’

      The big man chuckled. He led them down towards the sea and placed them at a quiet table under a palm tree that grew out of the base of the restaurant building. ‘Drinks gemmun?’

      Bond ordered his gin and tonic with a lime, and Quarrel a Red Stripe beer. They scanned the menu and both decided on broiled lobster followed by a rare steak with native vegetables.

      The drinks came. The glasses were dripping with condensation. The small fact reminded Bond of other times in hot climates. A few yards away the sea lisped on the flat sand. The three-piece began playing ‘Kitch’. Above them the palm fronds clashed softly in the night breeze. A gecko chuckled somewhere in the garden. Bond thought of the London he had left the day before. He said, ‘I like this place, Quarrel.’

      Quarrel was pleased. ‘Him a good fren of mine, da Pus-Feller. Him knows mostly what goes hon hin Kingston case you got hany questions, cap’n. Him come from da Caymans. Him an’ me once share a boat. Then him go hoff one day catching boobies’ heggs hat Crab Key. Went swimmin’ to a rock for more heggs an’ dis big hoctopus get him. Dey mos’ly small fellers roun’ here but dey come bigger at da Crab seein’ how its alongside de Cuba Deep, da deepest waters roun’ dese parts. Pus-Feller have himself a bad time wit dis hanimal. Bust one lung cuttin’ hisself free. Dat scare him an’ him sell me his half of da boat an’ come to Kingston. Dat were ’fore da war. Now him rich man whiles I go hon fishin’.’ Quarrel chuckled at the quirk of fate.

      ‘Crab Key,’ said Bond. ‘What sort of a place is that?’

      Quarrel looked at him sharply. ‘Dat a bad luck place now, cap’n,’ he said shortly. ‘Chinee gemmun buy hit durin’ da war and bring in men and dig bird-dirt. Don’ let nobody land dere and don’ let no one get hoff. We gives it a wide bert’ . ’

      ‘Why’s that?’

      ‘Him have plenty watchmen. An’ guns – machine guns. An’ a radar. An’ a spottin’ plane. Frens o’ mine have landed dere and him never been seen again. Dat Chinee keep him island plenty private. Tell da trut’, cap’n,’ Quarrel was apologetic, ‘dat Crab Key scare me plenty.’

      Bond said thoughtfully, ‘Well, well.’

      The food came. They ordered another round of drinks and ate. While they ate, Bond gave Quarrel an outline of the Strangways case. Quarrel listened carefully, occasionally asking questions. He was particularly interested in the birds on Crab Key, and what the watchmen had said, and how the plane was supposed to have crashed. Finally he pushed his plate away. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He leant forward. ‘Cap’n,’ he said softly, ‘I no mind if hit was birds or butterflies or bees. If dey was on Crab Key and da Commander was stickin’ his nose into da business, yo kin bet yo bottom dollar him been mashed. Him and him girl. Da Chinee mash dem for sho.’

      Bond looked carefully into the urgent grey eyes. ‘What makes you so certain?’

      Quarrel spread his hands. To him the answer was simple. ‘Dat Chinee love him privacy. Him want be left alone. I know him kill ma frens order keep folk away from da Crab. Him a mos’ powerful man. Him kill hanyone what hinterfere with him.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Don’ rightly know, cap’n,’ said Quarrel indifferently. ‘People dem want different tings in dis world. An’ what dem want sufficient dem gits.’

      A glint of light caught the corner of Bond’s eye. He turned quickly. The Chinese girl from the airport was standing in the nearby shadows. Now she was dressed in a tight-fitting sheath of black satin slashed up one side almost to her hip. She had a Leica with a flash attachment in one hand. The other was in a leather case at her side. The hand came out holding a flashbulb. The girl slipped the base into her mouth to wet it and improve the contact and made to screw it into the reflector.

      ‘Get that girl,’ said Bond quickly.

      In two strides Quarrel was up with her. He held out his hand. ‘Evenin’, missy,’ he said softly.

      The girl smiled. She let the Leica hang on the thin strap round her neck. She took Quarrel’s hand. Quarrel swung her round like a ballet dancer. Now he had her hand behind her back and she was in the crook of his arm.

      She looked up at him angrily. ‘Don’t. You’re hurting.’

      Quarrel smiled down into the flashing dark eyes in the pale, almond-shaped face. ‘Cap’n like you take a drink wit’ we,’ he said soothingly. He came back to the table, moving the girl along with him. He hooked a chair out with his foot and sat her down beside him, keeping the grip on her wrist behind her back. They sat bolt upright, like quarrelling lovers.

      Bond looked into the pretty, angry little face. ‘Good evening. What are you doing here? Why do you want another picture of me?’

      ‘I’m doing the nightspots,’ the Cupid’s bow of a mouth parted persuasively. ‘The first picture of you didn’t come out. Tell this man to leave me alone.’

      ‘So you work for the Gleaner? What’s your name?’

      ‘I won’t tell you.’

      Bond cocked an eyebrow at Quarrel.

      Quarrel’s eyes narrowed. His hand behind the girl’s back turned slowly. The girl struggled like an eel, her teeth clenched on her lower lip. Quarrel went on twisting. Suddenly she said ‘Ow!’ sharply and gasped, ‘I’ll tell!’ Quarrel eased his grip. The girl looked furiously at Bond: ‘Annabel Chung.’

      Bond said to Quarrel, ‘Call the Pus-Feller.’

      Quarrel picked up a fork with his free hand and clanged it against a glass. The big negro hurried up.

      Bond looked up at him. ‘Ever seen this girl before?’

      ‘Yes, boss. She come here sometimes. She bein’ a nuisance? Want for me to send her away?’

      ‘No. We like her,’ said Bond amiably, ‘but she wants to take a studio portrait of me and I don’t know if she’s worth the money. Would you call up the Gleaner and ask if they’ve got a photographer called Annabel Chung? If she really is one of their people she ought to be good enough.’

      ‘Sure, boss.’ The man hurried away.

      Bond smiled at the girl. ‘Why didn’t you ask that man to rescue you?’

      The girl glowered at him.

      ‘I’m sorry to have to exert pressure,’ said Bond, ‘but my export manager in London said that Kingston was full of shady characters. I’m sure you’re not one of them, but I really can’t understand why you’re so anxious to get my picture. Tell me why.’

      ‘What I told you,’ said the girl sulkily. ‘It’s my job.’

      Bond tried other questions. She didn’t answer them.

      The Pus-Feller came up. ‘That’s right, boss. Annabel Chung. One of their freelance girls. They say she takes fine pictures. You’ll be okay with her.’ He looked bland. Studio portrait! Studio bed, more like.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Bond. The negro went away. Bond turned back to the girl. ‘Freelance,’ he said softly. ‘That still doesn’t explain who wanted my picture.’ His face went cold. ‘Now give!’

      ‘No,’ said the girl sullenly.

      ‘All right, Quarrel. Go ahead.’ Bond sat back. His instincts told him that this was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If he could get the answer out of the girl he might be saved weeks of legwork.

      Quarrel’s right shoulder started to dip downwards. The girl squirmed towards him to ease the pressure, but he held her body away with his free hand. The girl’s face strained towards Quarrel’s. Suddenly she spat full in his eyes. Quarrel grinned and increased the twist. The girl’s feet kicked wildly under the table. She hissed out words in Chinese.

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