if.goldfinger-第2章

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　for　his　head。　There　were　deep　blue　shadows　under　Aztec　cheek…bones。　In　one　corner　of　the　slash　of　a　mouth　there　was　a　toothpick　and　in　the　other　a　cigarette。　The　eyes　were　bright　pinpricks　of　marihuana。
　'You　like　woman？　Make　jigajig？'
　'No。'
　'Coloured　girl？　Fine　jungle　tail？'
　'No。'
　'Mebbe　pictures？'
　The　gesture　of　the　hand　slipping　into　the　coat　was　so　well　known　to　Bond；　so　full　of　old　dangers　that　when　the　hand　flashed　out　and　the　long　silver　finger　went　for　his　throat；　Bond　was　on　balance　and　ready　for　it。
　Almost　automatically；　Bond　went　into　the　'Parry　Defence　against　Underhand　Thrust'　out　of　the　book。　His　right　arm　cut　across；　his　body　swivelling　with　it。　The　two　forearms　met　mid…way　between　the　two　bodies；　banging　the　Mexican's　knife　arm　off　target　and　opening　his　guard　for　a　crashing　short…arm　chin　jab　with　Bond's　left。　Bond's　stiff；　locked　wrist　had　not　travelled　far；　perhaps　two　feet；　but　the　heel　of　his　palm；　with　ringers　spread　for　rigidity；　had　e　up　and　under　the　man's　chin　with　terrific　force。　The　blow　almost　lifted　the　man　off　the　sidewalk。　Perhaps　it　had　been　that　blow　that　had　killed　the　Mexican；　broken　his　neck；　but　as　he　staggered　back　on　his　way　to　the　ground；　Bond　had　drawn　back　his　right　hand　and　slashed　sideways　at　the　taut；　offered　throat。　It　was　the　deadly　hand…edge　blow　to　the　Adam's　apple；　delivered　with　the　fingers　locked　into　a　blade；　that　had　been　the　standby　of　the　mandos。　If　the　Mexican　was　still　alive；　he　was　certainly　dead　before　he　hit　the　ground。
　Bond　stood　for　a　moment；　his　chest　heaving；　and　looked　at　the　crumpled　pile　of　cheap　clothes　flung　down　in　the　dust。　He　glanced　up　and　down　the　street。　There　was　no　one。　Some　cars　passed。　Others　had　perhaps　passed　during　the　fight；　but　it　had　been　in　the　shadows。　Bond　knelt　down　beside　the　body。　There　was　no　pulse。　Already　the　eyes　that　had　been　so　bright　with　marihuana　were　glazing。　The　house　in　which　the　Mexican　had　lived　was　empty。　The　tenant　had　left。
　Bond　picked　up　the　body　and　laid　it　against　a　wall　in　deeper　shadow。　He　brushed　his　hands　down　his　clothes；　felt　to　see　if　his　tie　was　straight　and　went　on　to　his　hotel。
　At　dawn　Bond　had　got　up　and　shaved　and　driven　to　the　airport　where　he　took　the　first　plane　out　of　Mexico。　It　happened　to　be　going　to　Caracas。　Bond　flew　to　Caracas　and　hung　about　in　the　transit　lounge　until　there　was　a　plane　for　Miami；　a　Transamerica　Constellation　that　would　take　him　on　that　same　evening　to　New　York。
　Again　the　Tannoy　buzzed　and　echoed。　'Transamerica　regrets　to　announce　a　delay　on　their　flight　TR　618　to　New　York　due　to　a　mechanical　defect。　The　new　departure　time　will　be　at　eight　am。　Will　all　passengers　please　report　to　the
　Transamerica　ticket　counter　where　arrangements　for　their　overnight　acmodation　will　be　made。　Thank　you。'
　So！　That　too！　Should　he　transfer　to　another　flight　or　spend　the　night　in　Miami？　Bond　had　forgotten　his　drink。　He　picked　it　up　and；　tilting　his　head　back；　swallowed　the　bourbon　to　the　last　drop。　The　ice　tinkled　cheerfully　against　his　teeth。　That　was　it。　That　was　an　idea。　He　would　spend　the　night　in　Miami　and　get　drunk；　stinking　drunk　so　that　he　would　have　to　be　carried　to　bed　by　whatever　tart　he　had　picked　up。　He　hadn't　been　drunk　for　years。　It　was　high　time。　This　extra　night；　thrown　at　him　out　of　the　blue；　was　a　spare　night；　a　gone　night。　He　would　put　it　to　good　purpose。　It　was　time　he　let　himself　go。　He　was　too　tense；　too　introspective。　What　the　hell　was　he　doing；　glooming　about　this　Mexican；　this　capungo　who　had　been　sent　to　kill　him？　It　had　been　kill　or　get　killed。　Anyway；　people　were　killing　other　people　all　the　time；　all　over　the　world。　People　were　using　their　motor　cars　to　kill　with。　They　were　carrying　infectious　diseases　around；　blowing　microbes　in　other　people's　faces；　leaving　gasjets　turned　on　in　kitchens；　pumping　out　carbon　monoxide　in　closed　garages。　How　many　people；　for　instance；　were　involved　in　manufacturing　H…bombs；　from　the　miners　who　mined　the　uranium　to　the　shareholders　who　owned　the　mining　shares？　Was　there　any　person　in　the　world　who　wasn't　somehow；　perhaps　only　statistically；　involved　in　killing　his　neighbour？
　The　last　light　of　the　day　had　gone。　Below　the　indigo　sky　the　flare　paths　twinkled　green　and　yellow　and　threw　tiny　reflections　off　the　oily　skin　of　the　tarmac。　With　a　shattering　roar　a　DC　7　hurtled　down　the　main　green　lane。　The　windows　in　the　transit　lounge　rattled　softly。　People　got　up　to　watch。　Bond　tried　to　read　their　expressions。　Did　they　hope　the　plane　would　crash　…　give　them　something　to　watch；　something　to　talk　about；　something　to　fill　their　empty　lives？　Or　did　they　wish　it　well？　Which　way　were　they　willing　the　sixty　passengers？　To　live　or　to　die？
　Bond's　lips　turned　down。　Cut　it　out。　Stop　being　so　damned　morbid。　All　this　is　just　reaction　from　a　dirty　assignment。　You're　stale；　tired　of　having　to　be　tough。　You　want　a　change。　You've　seen　too　much　death。　You　want　a　slice　of　life　…　easy；　soft；　high。
　Bond　was　conscious　of　steps　approaching。　They　stopped　at　his　side。　Bond　looked　up。　It　was　a　clean；　rich…looking；　middleaged　man。　His　expression　was　embarrassed；　deprecating。
　'Pardon　me；　but　surely　it's　Mr　Bond。。。　Mr　…　er　…　James　Bond？'
　
　CHAPTER　TWO
　
　LIVING　IT　UP
　
　BOND　LIKED　anonymity。　His　'Yes；　it　is'　was　discouraging。
　'Well；　that's　a　mighty　rare　coincidence。'　The　man　held　out　his　hand。　Bond　rose　slowly；　took　the　hand　and　released　it。　The　hand　was　pulpy　and　unarticulated　…　like　a　hand…shaped　mud　pack；　or　an　inflated　rubber　glove。　'My　name　is　Du　Pont。　Junius　Du　Pont。　I　guess　you　won't　remember　me；　but　we've　met　before。　Mind　if　I　sit　down？'
　The　face；　the　name？　Yes；　there　was　something　familiar。　Long　ago。　Not　in　America。　Bond　searched　the　files　while　he　summed　the　man　up。　Mr　Du　Pont　was　about　fifty　…　pink；　clean…shaven　and　dressed　in　the　conventional　disguise　with　which　Brooks　Brothers　cover　the　shame　of　American　millionaires。　He　wore　a　single…breasted　dark　tan　tropical　suit　and　a　white　silk　shirt　with　a　shallow　collar。　The　rolled　ends　of　the　collar　were　joined　by　a　gold　safety　pin　beneath　the　knot　of　a　narrow　dark　red　and　blue　striped　tie　that　fractionally　wasn't　the　Brigade　of　Guards'。　The　cuffs　of　the　shirt　protruded　half　an　inch　below　the　cuffs　of　the　coat　and　showed　cabochon　crystal　links　containing　miniature　trout　flies。　The　socks　were　charcoal…grey　silk　and　the　shoes　were　old　and　polished　mahogany　and　hinted　Peal。　The　man　carried　a　dark；　narrow…brimmed　straw　Homburg　with　a　wide　claret　ribbon。
　Mr　Du　Pont　sat　down　opposite　Bond　and　produced　cigarettes　and　a　plain　gold　Zippo　lighter。　Bond　noticed　that　he　was　sweating　slightly。　He　decided　that　Mr　Du　Pont　was　what　he　appeared　to　be；　a　very　rich　American；　mildly　embarrassed。　He　knew　he　had　seen　him　before；　but　he　had　no　idea　where　or　when。
　'Smoke？'
　'Thank　you。'　It　was　a　Parliament。　Bond　affected　not　to　notice　the　offered　lighter。　He　disliked　held…out　lighters。　He　picked　up　his　own　and　lit　the　cigarette。
　Trance；　'51；　Royale　les　Eaux。'　Mr　Du　Pont　looked　eagerly　at　Bond。　'That　Casino。　Ethel；　that's　Mrs　Du　Pont；　and　me　were　next　to　you　at　the　table　the　night　you　had　the　big　game　with　the　Frenchman。'
　Bond's　memory　raced　back。　Yes；　of　course。　The　Du　Ponts　had　been　Nos　4　and　5　at　the　baccarat　table。　Bond　had　been　6。　They　had　seemed　harmless　people。　He　had　been　glad　to　have　such　a　solid　bulwark　on　his　left　。on　that　fantastic　night　when　he　had　broken　Le　Chiffre。　Now　Bond　saw　it　all　again　…　the　bright　pool　of　light　on　the　green　baize；　the　pink　crab　hands　across　the　table　scuttling　out　for　the　cards。　He　smelled　the　smoke　and　the　harsh　tang　of　his　own　sweat。　That　had　been　a　night！　Bond　looked　across　at　Mr　Du　Pont　and　smiled　at　the　memory。　'Yes；　of　course　I　remember。　Sorry　I　was　slow。　But　that　was　quite　a　night。　I　wasn't　thinking　of　much　except　my　cards。'
　Mr　Du　Pont　grinned　back；　happy　and　relieved。　'Why；　gosh；　Mr　Bond。　Of　course　I　understand。　And　I　do　hope　you'll　pardon　me　for　butting　in。　You　see。。。'　He　snapped　his　ringers　for　a　waitress。　'But　we　must　have　a　drink　to　celebrate。　What'll　you　have？'
　'Thanks。　Bourbon　on　the　rocks。'
　'And　dimple　Haig　and　water。'　The　waitress　went　away。
　Mr　Du　Pont　leant　forward；　beaming。　A　whiff　of　soap　or　after…shave　l