The James Bond Anthology

‘All right. But for God’s sake let’s get out of the middle of this field.’ Without waiting, Bond rose on hands and knees and started to crawl again. Now he must get the initiative and hold it. Whoever this damned girl was, she would have to be disposed of quickly and discreetly before the shooting-match began. God, as if there wasn’t enough to think of already!

Bond reached the trunk of the tree. He got carefully to his feet and took a quick look through the blazing leaves. Most of the blinds had gone up. Two slow-moving coloured maids were laying a large breakfast table on the patio. He had been right. The field of vision over the tops of the trees that now fell sharply to the lake was perfect. Bond unslung his rifle and knapsack and sat down with his back against the trunk of the tree. The girl came out of the edge of the grass and stood up under the maple. She kept her distance. The arrow was still held in the bow but the bow was unpulled. They looked warily at each other.

The girl looked like a beautiful unkempt dryad in ragged shirt and trousers. The shirt and trousers were olive green, crumpled and splashed with mud and stains and torn in places, and she had bound her pale blonde hair with golden-rod to conceal its brightness for her crawl through the meadow. The beauty of her face was wild and rather animal, with a wide sensuous mouth, high cheekbones and silvery grey, disdainful eyes. There was the blood of scratches on her forearms and down one cheek, and a bruise had puffed and slightly blackened the same cheekbone. The metal feathers of a quiver full of arrows showed above her left shoulder. Apart from the bow, she carried nothing but a hunting-knife at her belt and, at her other hip, a small brown canvas bag that presumably carried her food. She looked like a beautiful, dangerous customer who knew wild country and forests and was not afraid of them. She would walk alone through life and have little use for civilization.

Bond thought she was wonderful. He smiled at her. He said softly, reassuringly: ‘I suppose you’re Robina Hood. My name’s James Bond.’ He reached for his flask and unscrewed the top and held it out. ‘Sit down and have a drink of this – firewater and coffee. And I’ve got some biltong. Or do you live on dew and berries?’

She came a little closer and sat down a yard from him. She sat like a Red Indian, her knees splayed wide and her ankles tucked up high under her thighs. She reached for the flask and drank deeply with her head thrown back. She handed it back without comment. She did not smile. She said ‘Thanks’ grudgingly, and took her arrow and thrust it over her back to join the others in the quiver. She said, watching him closely: ‘I suppose you’re a poacher. The deer-hunting season doesn’t open for another three weeks. But you won’t find any deer down here. They only come so low at night. You ought to be higher up during the day, much higher. If you like, I’ll tell you where there are some. Quite a big herd. It’s a bit late in the day, but you could still get to them. They’re up-wind from here and you seem to know about stalking. You don’t make much noise.’

‘Is that what you’re doing here – hunting? Let’s see your licence.’

Her shirt had buttoned-down breast pockets. Without protest she took out from one of them the white paper and handed it over.

The licence had been issued in Bennington, Vermont. It had been issued in the name of Judy Havelock. There was a list of types of permit. ‘Non-resident hunting’ and ‘Non-resident bow and arrow’ had been ticked. The cost had been $18.50, payable to the Fish and Game Service, Montpelier, Vermont. Judy Havelock had given her age as twenty-five and her place of birth as Jamaica.

Bond thought: ‘God Almighty!’ He handed the paper back. So that was the score! He said with sympathy and respect: ‘You’re quite a girl, Judy. It’s a long walk from Jamaica. And you were going to take him on with your bow and arrow. You know what they say in China: “Before you set out on revenge, dig two graves.” Have you done that, or did you expect to get away with it?’

The girl was staring at him. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you know about it?’

Bond reflected. There was only one way out of this mess and that was to join forces with the girl. What a hell of a business! He said resignedly: ‘I’ve told you my name. I’ve been sent out from London by, er, Scotland Yard. I know all about your troubles and I’ve come out here to pay off some of the score and see you’re not bothered by these people. In London we think that the man in that house might start putting pressure on you, about your property, and there’s no other way of stopping him.’