The James Bond Anthology

The accent was the sham American of a Jamaican taxi-driver. Colonel Havelock had got to his feet. He touched the outstretched hand briefly. He looked over the Major’s shoulder at the other two men who had stationed themselves on either side of the door. They were both carrying that new holdall of the tropics – a Pan American overnight bag. The bags looked heavy. Now the two men bent down together and placed them beside their yellowish shoes. They straightened themselves. They wore flat white caps with transparent green visors that cast green shadows down to their cheekbones. Through the green shadows their intelligent animal eyes fixed themselves on the Major, reading his behaviour.

‘They are my secretaries.’

Colonel Havelock took a pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it. His direct blue eyes took in the sharp clothes, the natty shoes, the glistening finger-nails of the Major and the blue jeans and calypso shirts of the other two. He wondered how he could get these men into his study and near the revolver in the top drawer of his desk. He said: ‘What can I do for you?’ As he lit his pipe he watched the Major’s eyes and mouth through the smoke.

Major Gonzales spread his hands. The width of his smile remained constant. The liquid, almost golden eyes were amused, friendly. ‘It is a matter of business, Colonel. I represent a certain gentleman in Havana’ – he made a throw-away gesture with his right hand. ‘A powerful gentleman. A very fine guy.’ Major Gonzales assumed an expression of sincerity. ‘You would like him, Colonel. He asked me to present his compliments and to inquire the price of your property.’

Mrs Havelock, who had been watching the scene with a polite half-smile on her lips, moved to stand beside her husband. She said kindly, so as not to embarrass the poor man: ‘What a shame, Major. All this way on these dusty roads! Your friend really should have written first, or asked anyone in Kingston or at Government House. You see, my husband’s family have lived here for nearly three hundred years.’ She looked at him sweetly, apologetically. ‘I’m afraid there just isn’t any question of selling Content. There never has been. I wonder where your important friend can possibly have got the idea from.’

Major Gonzales bowed briefly. His smiling face turned back to Colonel Havelock. He said, as if Mrs Havelock had not opened her mouth: ‘My gentleman is told this is one of the finest estancias in Jamaica. He is a most generous man. You may mention any sum that is reasonable.’

Colonel Havelock said firmly: ‘You heard what Mrs Havelock said. The property is not for sale.’

Major Gonzales laughed. It sounded quite genuine laughter. He shook his head as if he was explaining something to a rather dense child. ‘You misunderstand me, Colonel. My gentleman desires this property and no other property in Jamaica. He has some funds, some extra funds, to invest. These funds are seeking a home in Jamaica. My gentleman wishes this to be their home.’

Colonel Havelock said patiently: ‘I quite understand, Major. And I am so sorry you have wasted your time. Content will never be for sale in my lifetime. And now, if you’ll forgive me. My wife and I always dine early, and you have a long way to go.’ He made a gesture to the left, along the veranda. ‘I think you’ll find this is the quickest way to your car. Let me show you.’

Colonel Havelock moved invitingly, but when Major Gonzales stayed where he was, he stopped. The blue eyes began to freeze.

There was perhaps one less tooth in Major Gonzales’s smile and his eyes had become watchful. But his ma

The Havelocks now looked at the Major with the same expression – a mixture of anger and disgust. One could imagine Mrs Havelock telling the story next day. ‘Such a common, greasy little man. And those filthy plastic bags full of money! Timmy was wonderful. He just told him to get out and take the dirty stuff away with him.’

Colonel Havelock’s mouth turned down with distaste. He said: ‘I thought I had made myself clear, Major. The property is not for sale at any price. And I do not share the popular thirst for American dollars. I must now ask you to leave.’ Colonel Havelock laid his cold pipe on the table as if he was preparing to roll up his sleeves.

For the first time Major Gonzales’s smile lost its warmth. The mouth continued to grin but it was now shaped in an angry grimace. The liquid golden eyes were suddenly brassy and hard. He said softly: ‘Colonel. It is I who have not made myself clear. Not you. My gentleman has instructed me to say that if you will not accept his most generous terms we must proceed to other measures.’

Mrs Havelock was suddenly afraid. She put her hand on Colonel Havelock’s arm and pressed it hard. He put his hand over hers in reassurance. He said through tight lips: ‘Please leave us alone and go, Major. Otherwise I shall communicate with the police.’

The pink tip of Major Gonzales’s tongue came out and slowly licked along his lips. All the light had gone out of his face and it had become taut and hard. He said harshly. ‘So the property is not for sale in your lifetime, Colonel. Is that your last word?’ His right hand went behind his back and he clicked his fingers softly, once. Behind him the gun-hands of the two men slid through the opening of their gay shirts above the waistbands. The sharp animal eyes watched the Major’s fingers behind his back.

Mrs Havelock’s hand went up to her mouth. Colonel Havelock tried to say yes, but his mouth was dry. He swallowed noisily. He could not believe it. This mangy Cuban crook must be bluffing. He managed to say thickly: ‘Yes, it is.’

Major Gonzales nodded curtly. ‘In that case, Colonel, my gentleman will carry on the negotiations with the next owner – with your daughter.’

The fingers clicked. Major Gonzales stepped to one side to give a clear field of fire. The brown monkey-hands came out from under the gay shirts. The ugly sausage-shaped hunks of metal spat and thudded – again and again, even when the two bodies were on their way to the ground.

Major Gonzales bent down and verified where the bullets had hit. Then the three small men walked quickly back through the rose and white drawing-room and across the dark carved mahogany hall and out through the elegant front door. They climbed unhurriedly into a black Ford Consul Sedan with Jamaican number plates and, with Major Gonzales driving and the two gunmen sitting upright in the back seat, they drove off at an easy pace down the long avenue of Royal Palms. At the junction of the drive and the road to Port Antonio the cut telephone wires hung down through the trees like bright lianas. Major Gonzales slalomed the car carefully and expertly down the rough parochial road until he was on the metalled strip near the coast. Then he put on speed. Twenty minutes after the killing he came to the outer sprawl of the little banana port. There he ran the stolen car on to the grass verge beside the road and the three men got out and walked the quarter of a mile through the sparsely lit main street to the banana wharves. The speed-boat was waiting, its exhaust bubbling. The three men got in and the boat zoomed off across the still waters of what an American poetess has called the most beautiful harbour in the world. The anchor chain was already half up on the glittering fifty-ton Chriscraft. She was flying the Stars and Stripes. The two graceful ante