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Mary Goodnight looked worried. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t exactly know. He went off last week on some job to Trinidad. It was to try and locate a man called Scaramanga. He’s a local gunman of some sort. I don’t know much about him. Apparently Headquarters want him traced for some reason.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Nobody ever tells me anything that’s interesting. I just do the donkey work. Well, Commander Ross was due back two days ago and he hasn’t turned up. I’ve had to send off a Red Warning, but I’ve been told to give him another week.’
‘Well, I’m glad he’s out of the way. I’d rather have his Number Two. Last question. What about this 3½ Love Lane? Did you get anywhere?’
Mary Goodnight blushed. ‘Did I not! That was a fine question to get me mixed up with. Alexander’s were non-committal and I finally had to go to the Special Branch. I shan’t be able to show my face there for weeks. Heaven knows what they must think of you. That place is a, is a, er –’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s a famous disorderly house in Sav’ La Mar.’
Bond laughed out loud at her discomfiture. He teased her with malicious but gentle sadism. ‘You mean it’s a whorehouse?’
‘James! For heaven’s sake! Must you be so crude?’
5 | NO. 3½ LOVE LANE
The south coast of Jamaica is not as beautiful as the north, and it is a long 120-mile hack over very mixed road surfaces from Kingston to Sava
Spanish Town, May Pen, Alligator Pond, Black River, Whitehouse I
Except for the old quarter on the waterfront, it is not a typically Jamaican town, nor a very attractive one. The villas, built for the senior staff of the Frome sugar estates, are drably respectable, and the small straight streets smack of a most un-Jamaican bout of town pla
It must once have had importance, perhaps as the private house of a merchant. It was of two storeys with balconies ru
Wooden steps ran up to an open front door, over whose lintel, whereas few of the other buildings in the street bore numbers, a big enamelled metal sign a
Bond walked across the street and up the steps and parted the bead curtain that hung over the entrance. He walked over to the counter and was inspecting its contents, a plate of dry-looking ginger cakes, a pile of packeted banana crisps, and some sweet jars, when he heard quick steps outside. The girl from the garden came in. The beads clashed softly behind her. She was an octoroon, pretty as, in Bond’s imagination, the word octoroon suggested. She had bold, brown eyes, slightly uptilted at the corners, beneath a fringe of silken black hair. (Bond reflected that there would be Chinese blood somewhere in her past.) She was dressed in a short frock of shocking pink which went well with the coffee and cream of her skin. Her wrists and ankles were tiny. She smiled politely. The eyes flirted. ‘Evenin’. ’
‘Good evening. Could I have a Red Stripe?’
‘Sure.’ She went behind the counter. She gave him a quick glimpse of fine bosoms as she bent to the door of the icebox – a glimpse not dictated by the geography of the place. She nudged the door shut with a knee, deftly uncapped the bottle and put it on the counter beside an almost clean glass. ‘That’ll be one and six.’
Bond paid. She rang the money into the cash register. Bond drew up a stool to the counter and sat down. She rested her arms on the wooden top and looked across at him. ‘Passing through?’
‘More or less. I saw this place was for sale in yesterday’s Gleaner. I thought I’d take a look at it. Nice big house. Does it belong to you?’
She laughed. It was a pity, because she was a pretty girl, but the teeth had been sharpened by munching raw sugar cane. ‘What a hope! I’m sort of, well sort of manager. There’s the café’ (she pronounced it caif) ‘and mebbe you heard we got other attractions.’
Bond looked puzzled. ‘What sort?’
‘Girls. Six bedrooms upstairs. Very clean. It only cost a pound. There’s Sarah up there now. Care to meet up with her?’
‘Not today, thanks. It’s too hot. But do you only have one at a time?’
‘There’s Lindy, but she’s engaged. She’s a big girl. If you like them big, she’ll be free in half an hour.’ She glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall behind her. ‘Around six o’clock. It’ll be cooler then.’
‘I prefer girls like you. What’s your name?’
She giggled. ‘I only do it for love. I told you I just manage the place. They call me Tiffy.’