Bond reached down for his drink. The ice rattled hollowly as he took the last deep swallow and put the glass down. He looked candidly up at Mr Spang. ‘I took the job from Peter Franks. He didn’t like the look of it and I needed the money.’
‘Don’t give me that crap,’ said Mr Spang flatly. ‘You’re a cop or a private eye of some sort and I’m going to find out who you are, and who you work for, and what you know – what you were doing in the Acme Baths alongside that crooked jock; why you carry a gun and where you learnt to handle it; how come you’re tied in with Pinkertons in the shape of that phoney cab-driver. Things like that. You look like an eye and you behave like one and,’ he turned with sudden anger on Tiffany Case, ‘how you fell for him, you silly bitch, I just can’t figure.’
‘The hell you can’t,’ flared Tiffany Case. ‘I get handed the guy by A B C and he acts okay. You think maybe I should have told A B C to try again. Not me, brother. I know my place in this outfit. And don’t think you can push me around. And for all you know this guy may be telling the truth.’ Her angry eyes swept over Bond and he caught the glint of fear, fear for him, behind them.
‘Well, we’re going to find out,’ said Mr Spang, ‘and go on finding out until the guy croaks, and if he thinks he can take it, he’s got another think coming.’ He looked over Bond’s head at the guard. ‘Wint, get Kidd and come back with the boots.’
The boots?
Bond sat silent, gathering his strength and his courage. It would be a waste of time to argue with Mr Spang or to try to escape, fifty miles out in the desert. He had got out of worse jams. So long as they didn’t intend to kill him yet. So long as he gave nothing away. There was Ernie Cureo and there was Felix Leiter. There might just possibly be Tiffany Case. He looked across at her. Her head was bent. She was looking carefully at her fingernails.
Bond heard the two guards come up behind him.
‘Take him out on the platform,’ said Mr Spang. Bond saw the corner of his tongue come out and slightly touch the thin lips. ‘Brooklyn stomping. Eighty percenter. ’Kay?’
‘Okay, Boss.’ It was the voice belonging to Wint. It sounded greedy.
The two hooded men came up and sat down side by side on a dark red chaise longue that ran down the car opposite Bond. They put football boots down on the thick carpet beside them and started to unlace their shoes.
20 | FLAMES COMING OUT OF THE TOP
The black frogman’s suit fitted tightly. It hurt everywhere. Why the hell hadn’t Strangways made certain the Admiralty got his measurements right? And it was very dark under the sea and the currents were strong, pulling him against the coral. He would have to swim hard against them. But now something had got him by the arm. What the hell ...?
‘James. For Chrissake. James.’ She took her mouth away from his ear. This time she pinched the naked bloodstained arm as hard as she could and at last Bond’s eyes opened between their puffed lids and he looked up at her from the wooden floor and gave a shuddering sigh.
She tugged at him, terrified that he would slip away from her again. He seemed to understand and he rolled over and struggled on to hands and knees, his head hanging down towards the ground like a wounded animal.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Wait.’ The thick whisper coming through the cracked lips sounded strange to him. Perhaps she hadn’t understood. ‘Wait,’ he said again, and his mind started exploring his body to see what was left of it. He could feel his feet and his hands. He could move his head from side to side. He could see the bars of moonlight on the floor. He had been able to hear her. It ought to be all right, but he just didn’t want to move. His will-power had gone. He just wanted to sleep. Or even to die. Anything to lessen the pain that was in him and all over him, stabbing, hammering, grinding him – and to kill the memory of the four boots thudding into him, and the grunts coming from the two hooded figures.
Directly he thought of the two men and of Mr Spang, the will to live came into Bond in a flood and he said ‘Okay.’ And then again ‘Okay’ so that she would be sure to understand.
‘We’re in the waiting room,’ whispered the girl. ‘We must get to the end of the station. Left, outside the door. Do you hear me, James?’ She reached out and brushed the damp, sticky hair away from his forehead.
‘Have to crawl,’ said Bond. ‘Follow you.’
The girl got to her feet and pushed open the door. Bond gritted his teeth and crawled out on to the moonlit platform and when he saw the dark patch on the ground, rage and revenge gave him strength and he got clumsily to his feet, shaking his head to keep the red-black waves from drowning him and, with Tiffany Case’s arm round him, he limped along the wooden boards to where they sloped down towards the ground beside the gleaming rails.
And there, in the single-line siding, was a railroad handcar.
Bond stopped and gazed at it. ‘Petrol?’ he said vaguely.
Tiffany Case gestured towards a row of cans against the station wall. ‘Just filled her up,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s what they use for inspecting the line. And I can work it. And I shifted the points. Hurry. Get aboard,’ she giggled breathlessly. ‘Next stop Rhyolite.’
‘My God, you’re a girl,’ whispered Bond. ‘But there’ll be a hell of a noise when we start that thing. Wait. Got an idea. Got some matches?’ Half his pain had fallen away from him. The breath came fast through his teeth as he turned away from her and focused on the silent, tinder-dry buildings.
She was wearing slacks and a shirt. She dug into the pocket of the slacks and handed him her lighter. ‘What’s the idea?’ she said. ‘We oughta be moving.’
But Bond lurched over to the row of petrol tins and started opening them and hurling the contents over the wooden walls and platform. When he had emptied half a dozen cans he went back to her. ‘Get her going.’ He bent agonizingly down and picked up a crumpled newspaper from beside the rails. There was the angry whine of the self-starter and then the little two-stroke engine caught and started hammering busily.
Bond flicked the lighter. The piece of paper flared and he flung it away from him amongst the petrol cans. The whoosh of flame almost caught him as he threw himself backwards on to the little platform of the car. But then the girl let in the clutch and the handcar started down the line.
There was a rattle and a sickening lurch at the points and then they were out on the main line and the speedometer was trembling at thirty and the girl’s hair was flowing back like a golden banner towards him.
Bond turned and looked back at the great bloom of flame they had left behind them. He could almost hear the dry boards crackling and the shouts of the sleepers as they dashed from their rooms. If only it would get Wint and Kidd and catch the paint on the Pullman and fire the wood in the tender of The Cannonball and finish off the gangster’s box of toys!
But he and the girl had their own problems. What time was it? Bond gulped down the cool night air and tried to get his mind to work again. The moon was low. Four o’clock? Bond hunched his way painfully up the platform to the two bucket seats and somehow scrambled over and got down beside the girl.
He put an arm round her shoulders, and she turned and smiled into his eyes. She raised her voice above the noise of the engine and the hammer of the iron wheels on the rails. ‘That was quite an exit. Like something out of an old Buster Keaton film. How d’you feel?’ She surveyed the battered face. ‘You look terrible.’