“Ulcers?” asked Bond sympathetically.
“Who spoke to you?” said the hunchback angrily. His anger was transferred to the driver. “What are you waiting for, Rocky? Put those balls on the table where I can see what you’re doing. The number on the ball is the centre of the plug. Dig ’em out.”
“Coming, boss,” said the driver. He stood up from the floor and put the six new balls on the desk. Five of them were still in their black wrapping. He took the sixth and turned it round in his fingers. Then he picked up the knife and dug its point into the cover of the ball and levered. A half-inch circular section of the ball came away on the tip of the blade and he passed the ball across the desk to the hunchback, who tipped the contents, three uncut stones of ten to fifteen carats, on to the leather surface of the desk.
The hunchback moodily poked the stones with his finger.
The driver went on with his work until Bond counted eighteen stones on the table. They were unimpressive in their rough state but if they were of top quality Bond could easily believe they might be worth £100,000 after cutting.
“Okay, Rocky,” said the hunchback. “Eighteen. That’s the lot. Now get those goddam golf-sticks out of here and send the boy to the Astor with them and this guy’s bags. He’s registered there. Have them sent up to his room. Okay?”
“Okay, boss.” The driver left the knife and the empty golf balls on the table, strapped up the ball-pocket on Bond’s bag, hoisted the bag on his shoulder and left the room.
Bond went over to a chair against the wall, pulled it over to face the hunchback across the desk and sat down. He took a cigarette and lit it. He looked across at the hunchback and said “And now, if you’re happy, I’d be glad of those $5000.”
The hunchback, who had been carefully watching Bond’s movements, lowered his eyes to the untidy pile of diamonds in front of him. He poked them into a circle. Then he looked up at Bond.
“You will be paid in full, Mr Bond,” the high voice was precise and businesslike. “And you may get more than $5000. But the method of payment will be devised as much for your protection as for ours. There will be no direct payment. And you will understand why, Mr Bond, because you will have made pay-offs during your career of burglary. It is very dangerous for a man suddenly to be flush with money. He talks about it. He throws it around. And if the cops catch up with him and ask him where it all came from he hasn’t got an answer. Agree?”
“Yes,” said Bond surprised by the sanity and authority of what the man was saying. “That makes sense.”
“So,” said the hunchback, “I and my friends pay only very seldom and in small amounts for services rendered. Instead, we arrange for the guy to make the money on his own account. Take yourself. How much money have you got in your pocket?”
“About three pounds and some silver,” said Bond.
“All right,” said the hunchback. “Today you met your friend Mr Tree.” He pointed a finger at his chest. “Which is me. A perfectly respectable citizen whom you knew in England in 1945 when he was concerned with the disposal of Army surplus goods. Remember?”
“Yes.”
“I owed you $500 for a bridge game we had at the Savoy. Remember?”
Bond nodded.
“When we meet today I toss you double or quits for it. And you win. Okay? So you now have $1000 and I, a tax-paying citizen, will support your story. Here is the money.” The hunchback took a wallet out of his hip-pocket and pushed ten $100 bills across the table.
Bond picked them up and put them casually in the pocket of his coat.
“And then,” continued the hunchback, “you say you’d like to see some horse-racing while you’re over here. So I say to you ‘Why not go and take a look at Saratoga? The meeting begins on Monday.’ And you say okay, and you go on up to Saratoga, with your thousand bucks in your pocket. Okay?”