As the car stopped, a man stepped off the pavement and sauntered round the car. “Everything okay?” he said to the driver.
“Sure. Boss in?”
“Yeah. Want me to park the heap?”
“Be glad if you would.” The driver turned to Bond. “This is it, bud. Let’s get the bags out.”
Bond got out and opened the rear door. He picked up his small attaché case and reached for the golf clubs.
“I’ll take the sticks,” said the driver behind him. Obediently Bond hauled out his suitcase. The driver reached in for the clubs and slammed the door of the car. The other man was already in the driver’s seat and the car moved off into the traffic as Bond followed the driver across the sidewalk and through’ the inconspicuous door.
There was a man in a porter’s lodge in the small hallway. As they came in, he looked up from the sports section of The News. “Hi,” he said to the driver. He looked sharply at Bond.
“Hi,” said the driver. “Mind if we leave the bags with you?”
“Go ahead,” said the man. “Be okay in here.” He jerked his head back.
The driver, with Bond’s clubs over his shoulder, waited for Bond beside the doors of an elevator across the hall. When Bond followed him inside, he pressed the button for the fourth floor and they rode up in silence. They emerged into another small hallway. It contained two chairs, a table, a large brass spittoon and a smell of stale heat.
They crossed the frayed carpet to a glass-fronted door and the driver knocked and walked through without waiting for an answer. Bond followed him and shut the door.
A man with very bright red hair and a big peaceful moon-shaped face was sitting at a desk. There was a glass of milk in front of him. He stood up as they came in and Bond saw he was a hunchback. Bond didn’t remember having seen a red-haired hunchback before. He could imagine that the combination would be useful for frightening the small fry who worked for the gang.
The hunchback moved slowly round the desk and over to where Bond was standing. He walked round-Bond, making a show of examining him minutely from head to foot, and then he came and stood close in front of Bond and looked up into his face. Bond looked impassively back into a pair of china eyes that were so empty and motionless that they might have been hired from a taxidermist. Bond had the feeling that he was being subjected to some sort of test. Casually he looked back at the hunchback, noting the big ears with rather exaggerated lobes, the dry red lips of the big half-open mouth, the almost complete absence of a neck, and the short powerful arms in the expensive yellow silk shirt, cut to make room for the barrel-like chest and its sharp hump.
“I like to have a good look at the people we employ, Mr Bond.” The voice was sharp and pitched high.
Bond smiled politely.
“London tells me you have killed a man. I believe them. I can see you are capable of it. Would you like to do more work for us?”
“It depends what it is,” said Bond. “Or rather,” he hoped he was not being too theatrical, “how much you pay.”
The hunchback gave a short squeal of laughter. He turned abruptly to the driver. “Rocky, get those balls out of the bag and cut them open. Here”; he gave a quick shake of his right arm and held his open hand out to the driver. On it lay a double-bladed knife with a flat handle bound with adhesive tape. Bond recognized it as a throwing knife. He had to admit that the bit of legerdemain had been neatly executed.
“Yes, boss,” said the driver, and Bond noticed the alacrity with which he took the knife and knelt on the floor to unstrap the ball-pocket of the golf bag.
The hunchback walked away from Bond and back to his chair. He sat down and picked up the glass of milk. He looked at it with distaste and swallowed the contents in two huge gulps. He looked at Bond as if for comment.