The Negro wrote 6.15 on the jockey’s slate.
Bond closed his eyes and wondered how he was going to slip the man his money. In the rest-room after the bath? There was presumably somewhere one went to lie down after all this. Or in the passage on the way out? Or in the bus? No. Better not in the bus. Better not be seen with him.
“All right. Nobody move now. Just take it easy and no one’ll get hurt.”
It was a hard, deadly voice that meant business.
Bond’s eyes snapped open and his body tingled at the reek of danger that had come into the room.
The door to the outside, the door through which the mud came, was standing open. A man stood in the opening and another man was advancing into the middle of the room. They both had guns in their hands and they both had black hoods over their heads with holes cut for the eyes and mouth.
There was silence in the room except for the sound of water falling in the shower cubicles. Each cubicle contained a naked man. They peered out into the room through the veil of water, their mouths gulping for air and the hair streaming into their eyes. The man with the cauliflower ear was a motionless pillar. His eyes shifted whitely and the hose in his hand poured water over his feet.
The moving man with the gun was now in the middle of the floor by the steaming pails of mud. He stopped in front of the Negro, who was standing with a full bucket in each hand. The Negro quivered slightly so that the handle on one of the buckets gave out a slight rattle.
While the man with the gun held the Negro’s eyes in his, Bond saw him turn the gun round in his hand so that he was holding it by the barrel. Suddenly, with a back-handed blow that had all his shoulder behind it, he lashed the butt of the revolver into the centre of the Negro’s huge belly.
There was only a sharp wet slap from the blow, but the buckets crashed to the floor as the Negro’s two hands leapt up and clutched at himself. He let out a soft moan and sagged forward on to his knees, his glistening shaven head bowing down almost to the man’s shoes so that he appeared to be worshipping him.
The man drew back a foot. “Where’s the jock?” he said menacingly. “Bell. Which box?”
The Negro’s right arm shot out.
The man with the gun brought his foot down. He turned and walked across to where Bond was lying toe to head with Tinga-ling Bell.
He came up and looked first down at Bond’s face. He seemed to stiffen. Two glittering eyes looked down through the diamond slits in the black hood. Then the man moved to the left and stood over the jockey.
For a moment he stood motionless, then he took a quick jump and hoisted himself up so that he was sitting on the lid of Tinga ling’s box, looking down into his eyes.
“Well, well. Damifitaint Tingaling Bell.” There was a ghasdy friendliness in his voice.
“Whatsamatter?” The jockey’s voice was shrill and terrified.
“Why, Tingaling.” The man was reasonable. “What would be the matter? Got anything on your mind?”
The jockey gulped.
“Mebbe you never heard of a horse called Shy Smile, Tingaling? Mebbe you weren’t there when he was rode foul at around 2.30 this afternoon?” The voice ended on a hard edge.
The jockey started to cry softly. “Jeesus, Boss. That weren’t my fault. Happen to anybody.” It was the whimper of a child who is going to be punished. Bond winced.
“My friends figure it may have been a doublecross.” The man was leaning close over the jockey and his voice was gaining heat. “My friends figure a jock like you could only done something like that intentional. My friends looked over your room and found a Grand plugged away in a lamp socket. My friends wish me to inquire where that lettuce come from.”
The sharp slap and the shrill cry were simultaneous.