Alligator Read online

  Alligator

  A J*mes B*nd Tale

  I*n Fl*m*ng

  1962

  1. Table 14

  THE glass tinkled slightly as the bartender extracted it from a dozen others. He held it to the light briefly and then slowly filled it from the shaker in his left hand. The green-brown liquid frothed over the two ice cubes in the old-fashioned glass, foamed slightly at the top and settled as he gave the shaker a deft twist. Swiftly he circled the rim with a lemon twist and dropped it into the glass.

  “To your specifications, sir,” smiled the waiter as he placed the drink on the table.

  J*mes B*nd raised the glass, sniffed, and swallowed deeply. A slight frown of concentration furrowed his brow as he tested the effect on his intestinal tract, and then he smiled at the waiter.

  “Perfect, George. Three more just like it please.”

  B*nd settled back and took out his pig iron cigarette case and lighter. He lit one of the special Arabian blends with the six red bands made expressly for him by Barrett’s of Wimpole Street. Softly he rubbed the small dent in the case, never quite hammered out by Langouste’s, and reflected on the bullet which had almost reached his heart in Italy. A grim smile crossed his face as he thought of the Irishman spread-eagled on the floor of U Express, his face split open in an idiot grin.

  The ice at the bottom of the second glass clinked as he set it down. He inhaled deeply. B*nd was bored and stale, and he knew it. Periods of boredom always brought periods of reflection and reflection brought regret—something a man in the double O section of the Secret Service couldn’t afford. He reached for the third glass. The double O section, the two ciphers which gave three men in the Service the license to kill. And he, number 007, was the senior member, sitting in St. Stephen’s Downstairs, Westminster, with nothing to do but pass the idle hours as best he could.

  B*nd extracted one of the six or seven packs of cigarettes he carried in his left-hand coat pocket and refilled the case. He shut it, weighed it briefly in the palm of his hand, and clicked it open. Slowly he extracted a cigarette and lit it. He thought of the pains * had gone to trying to make him cut down on his average 120 a day. He exhaled hard through his nose, savouring the sting of the sharp smoke in his nostrils.

  A rather harsh, shrill voice behind him made him turn. He had always favoured St. Stephens. Generally it was quiet, and he could sit alone or with a woman enjoying his drink (as only the superb bartender there could make it) undisturbed. The voice annoyed him.

  Four people brushed past him, and B*nd watched curiously as they sat down. There were three men and a woman.

  He looked at the woman appreciatively. Her hair was the palest silken blonde-to-the roots-and hung freely to her shoulders. She did not pat it or stroke it, but let it fall unselfconsciously, so that it swayed softly with the movement of her head.

  She was tall, perhaps five feet ten, and her light sunburn and trim arms and legs bespoke a healthy outdoor life. She wore no make-up except for a touch of colour in her wide, sensual mouth—a mouth now set in a tight-lipped defiance. It was a mouth which would have a lovely smile. Her nails were unpainted and cut short. On the third finger of her right hand glinted a magnificent Oriental amethyst. Her medium-length tailor-made was lasciviously tight against the thrust of her proud breasts, and the skirt flowered down from a narrow, supple waist. She wore a three-inch, hand-stitched purple belt, and her matching shoes were small and square-toed of baby alligator hide. Probably Field and Flint’s of Brockton, Massachusetts, B*nd observed, the most beautiful and expensive shoes in the world. The long supple legs were encased in the sheerest mauve-tinted nylons, of no more than seven denier. Her eyes were wide apart and deep blue, and they stared unwaveringly back at B*nd.

  The only note of discord was the dress—a brilliant violet which was wrong for her colouring. Black, thought B*nd, or scarlet. He turned his attention to the three men.

  The one with the shrill voice had seated himself immediately upon reaching the table and the two others stood behind him. The girl had eased herself gracefully into the chair opposite him as if accustomed to this outrageous lack of manners. B*nd looked at him with distaste.

  The first thing that struck him was that everything was out of proportion. He was short, not more than four feet eleven, but his hands as he signalled for the waiter were huge, blunt, and cruel. He gestured with an impressive precision and economy of movement. A massive head, the size of a football and matted with violently red hair, squatted like a toad on his shoulders. His large, pale, china-blue eyes swept the room, photographing every detail. They rested briefly on B*nd, and in that instant he felt an indescribable tension, felt his image being permanently impressed on the photo-sensitive plate of the man’s mind. The eyes were remarkable, round like a doll’s and ruthless The tiny pupils were completely surrounded by the whites, forming two pinpoints of burning energy. The high, refined forehead was that of a philosopher, but the eyes and heavy-lipped mouth formed an odd contrast. To sum up, thought B*nd, it was a face of extraordinary power—but a power that took its outlet in some horrible, twisted way. What could that outlet be? Wealth? Power? The beautiful blonde? All three, in all likelihood. Plug this man into a socket and you could supply the whole city of London with electricity for a month, thought B*nd.

  He examined him again. There was something peculiar about him. Something that B*nd could not immediately explain.

  The man turned to the waiter to order the drinks, and as he opened his mouth an involuntary shudder went through B*nd’s body. That was it. The light glanced off the man’s pointed teeth. They were made of burnished steel.

  Again B*nd felt the man’s eyes piercing him and he stared back. The man dropped his eyes and said a few words to the girl in a low voice.

  The waiter briefly interrupted B*nd’s line of vision. He lit another cigarette and smiled. An American, he thought, probably of German extraction. That was the only explanation for the purple suit of alligator hide and the mauve and violet shirt and tie. The two men behind him were thugs or bodyguards. They looked tough and stupid—obviously Bulgars.

  One of them detached himself from behind the chair and walked over to B*nd’s table. He dropped a note in front of him and returned to his post. B*nd picked it up. It was in purple ink.

  “You are invited to table 14 for a drink,” it read.

  2. A Spray of Violets

  “HAVE a seat, chum,” said the shrill voice as B*nd pulled up a chair. The man proffered a hairy hand and grasped B*nd’s powerfully, the round eyes fastened on his.

  “I am Lacertus Alligator, this is Miss Le Galion.” He jerked his thumb at the two men behind him. “Mr. Kynstondi, Mr. Pazardzhik. Deaf-mutes.” He chuckled.

  B*nd looked at them, noticing that the latter held his right arm in an awkward position. Artificial limb, he thought. Suddenly Alligator’s left hand came up from beneath the table and there was a soft hissing noise.

  B*nd winced as a fine spray covered his face. Instinctively his hands leapt to his eyes and as he drew them away he noted that they were purple. A small aerosol can rested in Alligator’s left hand. B*nd looked at him angrily.

  “Habit of mine,” said the man. “I like purple. Just vegetable colouring, it’s harmless, chum.”

  B*nd noticed for the first time that the faces of both the bodyguards were covered with the dye, and Alligator’s own was a network of tiny purple veins. The girl’s face alone at the table was its natural complexion.

  “Miss Le Galion was wondering about your drink. She has not taken too fondly to mine, I’m afraid, and is looking for something different.” Alligator’s voice was flat, and he looked at B*nd as if daring him to doubt it.

  B*nd turned to the girl, ignoring Alliga
tor. He signalled to the waiter.

  “I am very particular about what I eat and drink. It comes from a habit of taking a lot of trouble over details,” he said softly. He looked into the cold blue eyes. She was beautiful, even more beautiful than he had at first realised. It was a to-hell-with-you face that, B*nd thought, would become animal with passion. In bed she would be a tigress, biting and clawing and then suddenly melting in raging desire. He could almost see the wide, full-lipped mouth bared in a snarl of craving, and then, afterward, soften into a whispered moan of loving slavery.

  B*nd knew that he would have to break down the reserve, to turn the cold eyes soft with pain and desire and tear the warm, white body from the confines of the violet covering. He lit a cigarette and addressed himself as much to the waiter who stood at his elbow as to the girl.

  “This is one of the few places in the world where this drink has ever been made properly. First the glass must be chilled at 28° F. No more than two cubes of ice per measure. Basically it is two ounces of Wolfschmidt’s and two ounces of Beefeater’s with a half ounce of Cointreau. On the side the bartender should have mixed an ounce of creme de menthe with one of light Bacardi and a dash of Angostura and Falernum (not too heavy). The whole is then firmly shaken with a half cup of sugar and poured slowly over the ice in the glass. A twist of lemon once around the lip and into the glass and it is made.” He turned to the waiter. “A single for the lady and a triple for me, George,” he said quietly.

  B*nd lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I’ve never named it,” he said, returning his gaze to the girl’s eyes. “Perhaps this would be a fitting time. What’s your name?” There was a note of challenge in his voice.

  “Anagram.” Her voice was clear and level and her eyes did not falter. “And yours?”

  “B*nd. J*mes B*nd. I’m in export.”

  “Really?” She had flung back the challenge, and B*nd noted a subtle new warmth in her eyes.

  “Anagram,” he said.

  The waiter appeared with the two frosted glasses and placed the tall one with the six ice cubes in front of B*nd and the short one with two in front of the girl.

  “To the Anagram.” B*nd smiled and raised his glass. For a moment a shadow seemed to cross the girl’s eyes and then she smiled back.

  “I can see that you are a man who knows what he wants, chum.” Alligator’s voice cut like a knife through B*nd’s thoughts. “I too have very definite tastes. In liquor I drink nothing but bourbon and grape juice, and in women . . .” he chuckled, and B*nd could feel the two tiny pupils boring into Anagram’s very soul.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment, chum? I have to go to the bathroom.” Alligator flashed the horrible steel teeth at them and hefted himself from his chair. B*nd squinted sideways at him and nodded. The man bowed with mock politeness and turned, his two companions close behind him. B*nd looked back at the girl. There was a pause.

  “Your drink is very good,” she said. All the reserve was gone now, and her eyes plainly showed a deep hidden fear. She grasped his hand.

  “Please,” she said, her voice suddenly low and urgent. “You’ve got to take me away. Now. Before he comes back. My car is in front. Please.” She leaned forward and the deep cleft of her bosom rose and fell with the sharp intake of her breath.

  Without hesitating B*nd was on his feet, his hand tight around her wrist. Her skin was soft and smooth, and he could feel the quick thrum of her pulse and the steady tick of the small plain gold Cartier watch tight against his palm.

  Upstairs in the grey of the late London afternoon she pulled him quickly onto the street and stood for an instant looking fearfully behind her. Then they were seated in a chocolate brown Mercedes 300SL with deep purple upholstery, purring through the London traffic.

  “He lets me keep it brown,” she said.

  B*nd distrusted women drivers as instinctively as he distrusted mad elephants. But this girl drove like a man. Her face was set as she concentrated on the traffic and on her rearview mirror, and she used the blinkers to indicate turns. And, what’s more, she took a man’s pleasure in her machine, in the timing of her gear changes and the hard thrusts of acceleration. Suddenly she trembled, pulled the car over and turned to him.

  “I . . . I can’t.” She had started in a scream and choked off sobbing. She looked at him, gaining control of herself. Her eyes were hard and defiant again and her voice was cold. “You must get out. You must. Quickly.”

  B*nd looked at her narrowly. Something had happened, made her change her mind. Beneath he knew she was a cornered fawn, her every sense alert to her danger, her every nerve searching for some avenue of escape.

  “Please,” she said.

  B*nd opened the door and closed it firmly behind him. With a squeal of Michelins the car was in the stream of traffic and swallowed up in the city.

  “Bitch,” he said, and lit a cigarette.

  3. “Give Oop This Life O’ Yourn”

  BOND sat quietly, his hands in his lap, waiting for * to break the silence. He knew better than to interrupt the quiet workings of this great mind.

  Only minutes before, he was finishing breakfast in his little Chelsea flat, served up as only Llewylla, his treasure of a Welsh housemaid, could serve it. He had awakened to her loud knock on his door, and had swung his naked body out of bed with a curse.

  “Them words’ll do ye no good, Mr. J*mes,” she had cried through the door. “Ye arsked me t’ awaken ye at 8:00 and I’ll no do’t otherwise. Ye know I hain’t th’ one tay brak me worrds.” He listened with a half smile as her feet clumped away. A real treasure.

  Carefully he tested his body, noting the reflex of each muscle as he twitched it. His eyes felt hollow and there was a dull ache at the back of his neck. His mouth was dry and stale with too much tobacco and too much liquor. He thought of the events of the day before.

  “Bitch,” he said under his breath.

  He had walked slowly back to his flat and there had proceeded in a very business-like manner to kill the night and a bottle of Grande Fine Champagne Arbellot 1794 brandy. At 4:00 a.m. he had gone to bed, more angry than drunk, and had slept only fitfully.

  He padded into the bathroom and in fifteen minutes he had showered, for two minutes in searing and three minutes in icy water, shaved, and rinsed his mouth with a biting astringent. Now he sat before his breakfast. Six scrambled eggs with a dozen Jones sausages, slightly crisped, and a pint of iced orange juice stood on the table. B*nd would have preferred bacon, but even Llewylla had been unable to procure the Dubuque’s sweet hickory smoked Royal Buffet bacon imported from America which was his favourite. Llewylla appeared with a large pot, and the fresh-roasted aroma of Yuban, the best coffee in the world filled the room. She looked at him disapprovingly.

  “Llngwyll gog chwydrobll,” she muttered. “Ye’re nay the lookin’ well this mornin’, Mr. J*mes. Llan goch, but ye ought ter give oop this life o’ yourn. I knoo more haboot it ’an ye think sir—well an’ how could I not a workin’ fer ye these twelve years? Comin’ home a’ strange hours wi’ yer ’ead abandaged ’n’ bladin’ ter kill—saying ye ha’ bin naccidented. ‘Tain’t th’ accident Llewylla did seen could leave leetle round ’oles come that in a man. Gerwych yndrobwll!” She put the coffee pot down and lurched out of the room.

  B*nd finished the double strength coffee and lit a cigarette, luxuriating in the folds of his fine red silk bathrobe from the House of Shung. The telephone rang. It was *’s chief of staff.

  “Sorry to disturb you, old man,” said the pleasant voice, “but the chief seems to have something on. Think you could come by?”

  B*nd’s pulses quickened.

  “Any clue you can give me over the phone, Bill?” he asked.

  “Sorry, old son. The old boy was quite mysterious. Even looked a bit embarrassed when he spoke to me. Deuced odd I’d say. Anyway you’d best pop ’round. Penny says he’s been in a hell of a dither last couple of days.”

  “Thanks Bill.” B*nd rang off.

&nb
sp; In ten minutes he was downstairs and the mechanic who had brought his car around was standing proudly by the machine.

  B*nd’s car was his only hobby. It was a 7 1/2 litre Stutz Bearcat which he had bought almost new in 1924 and was lovingly kept in perfect shape by a former Stutz mechanic who worked in a garage near his flat. He had installed a Rolls Royce supercharger and Mercedes fuel-injection system. The big pig-iron brown convertible coupe was capable of touring at one hundred and five, with thirty miles in reserve. B*nd drove it hard, fast, and well, with an almost sensual pleasure.

  He eased the car away from the curb and out onto the street, and soon the idling thunder of the three-inch exhaust was an echoing, dull roar off the houses on King’s Road. He felt excited at the prospect of his interview with *, the man who was, and still is, the head of the Secret Service.

  B*nd did a swift racing change from third into neutral, slowed briefly for a light, and reversed into Sloane Street. He had found that this driving backwards into Hyde Park set him up perfectly for a quick shift into first, and by the time he reached the Marble Arch exit he would be doing seventy. And he was. He hit eighty-five on Baker Street, and the speedometer was edging ninety when he slammed to a halt in Regent’s Park. He thought cheerfully of the screaming nursemaids in the park and the cursing drivers he had passed. As he drew into the mews he gave the mighty klaxons one last blast, his signal to Lil, his secretary, that he had arrived.

  The gaunt, high building looked innocuous enough. A large sign proclaimed “World-Wide Import and Export Ltd.,” and few knew that this was the headquarters for H.M. Secret Service. B*nd thought of the few innocents who occasionally wandered in trying to import or export something. They were taken to the dummy offices on the fifth floor where they were politely, but firmly, shot.

  The lift operator smiled a cheerful good morning as B*nd stepped in, and in seconds he was on the eighth and top floor.

  Miss Pennyfarthing, *’s desirable and all-powerful private secretary, looked up as B*nd came in.