The James Bond Anthology

Agatha’s face was impassive. She said: ‘Yes’m. But we done need more bottles.’

‘Why? It was only last year I got you two dozen of the best I could find at Henriques.’

‘Yes’m. Someone done mash five, six of dose.’

‘Oh dear. How did that happen?’

‘Couldn’t say’m.’ Agatha picked up the big silver tray and waited, watching Mrs Havelock’s face.

Mrs Havelock had not lived most of her life in Jamaica without learning that a mash is a mash and that one would not get anywhere hunting for a culprit. So she just said cheerfully: ‘Oh, all right, Agatha. I’ll get some more when I go into Kingston.’

‘Yes’m.’ Agatha, followed by the young girl, went back into the house.

Mrs Havelock picked up a piece of petit-point and began stitching, her fingers moving automatically. Her eyes went back to the big bushes of Japanese Hat and Monkeyfiddle. Yes, the two male birds were back. With gracefully cocked tails they moved among the flowers. The sun was low on the horizon and every now and then there was a flash of almost piercingly beautiful green. A mocking-bird, on the topmost branch of a frangipani, started on its evening repertoire. The tinkle of an early tree-frog announced the beginning of the short violet dusk.

Content, twenty thousand acres in the foothills of Candlefly Peak, one of the most easterly of the Blue Mountains in the county of Portland, had been given to an early Havelock by Oliver Cromwell as a reward for having been one of the signatories to King Charles’s death warrant. Unlike so many other settlers of those and later times the Havelocks had maintained the plantation through three centuries, through earthquakes and hurricanes and through the boom and bust of cocoa, sugar, citrus and copra. Now it was in bananas and cattle, and it was one of the richest and best run of all the private estates in the island. The house, patched up or rebuilt after earthquake or hurricane, was a hybrid – a mahogany-pillared, two-storeyed central block on the old stone foundations flanked by two single-storeyed wings with widely overhung, flat-pitched Jamaican roofs of silver cedar shingles. The Havelocks were now sitting on the deep veranda of the central block facing the gently sloping garden beyond which a vast tumbling jungle vista stretched away twenty miles to the sea.

Colonel Havelock put down his Gleaner. ‘I thought I heard a car.’

Mrs Havelock said firmly: ‘If it’s those ghastly Feddens from Port Antonio, you’ve simply got to get rid of them. I can’t stand any more of their moans about England. And last time they were both quite drunk when they left and dinner was cold.’ She got up quickly. ‘I’m going to tell Agatha to say I’ve got a migraine.’

Agatha came out through the drawing-room door. She looked fussed. She was followed closely by three men. She said hurriedly: ‘Gemmun from Kingston’m. To see de Colonel.’

The leading man slid past the housekeeper. He was still wearing his hat, a panama with a short very upcurled brim. He took this off with his left hand and held it against his stomach. The rays of the sun glittered on hair-grease and on a mouthful of smiling white teeth. He went up to Colonel Havelock, his outstretched hand held straight in front of him. ‘Major Gonzales. From Havana. Pleased to meet you, Colonel.’

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.’