Bond half turned his head. “Bourbon and branch-water,” he said. “Half and half.”
There was an angry grunt and Bond heard the woodwork creak as the heavy man walked back down the Pullman.
Bond didn’t much like Mr Spang’s question. He went back over his story. It still looked all right. He sat and smoked and looked at Mr Spang, weighing him up.
The drink came and the guard thrust it into his hand so that some of it slopped on to the carpet. “Thank you, Wint,” said Bond. He took a deep swallow. It was strong and good. He took another. Then he put the glass down on the floor beside him.
He looked up again into the tense, hard face. “I just don’t like being leant on,” he said easily. “I did my job and got paid. If I chose to gamble with the money, that was my affair. I could have lost. And then a lot of your men started breathing down my neck and I got impatient. If you wanted to talk to me, why didn’t you just call me on the telephone? Putting that tail on was unfriendly. And when they got rude and started shooting I thought it was time to do some leaning of my own.”
The black-and-white face against the coloured books didn’t yield. “You don’t get the message, feller,” Mr Spang said softly. “Mebbe I better bring you up to date. Gotta coded signal yesterday from London.” His hand went to the breast pocket of his black Western shirt and he slowly pulled out a piece of paper, holding Bond’s eyes with his.
Bond knew the piece of paper was bad news, really bad news, just as surely as you do when you read the word “deeply” at the beginning of a telegram.
“This is from a good friend in London,” said Mr Spang. He slowly released Bond’s eyes and looked down at the piece of paper. “It says ‘Reliably informed Peter Franks held by police on unspecified charge. Endeavour at all costs hold substitute carrier ascertain if operations endangered eliminate him and report’.”
There was silence in the car. Mr Spang’s eyes rose from the paper and glittered redly down on Bond. “Well, Mister Whosis, this looks like a good year for something horrible to happen to you.”
Bond knew he was for it and part of his mind slowly digested the knowledge, wondering how it was going to be done. But at the same time another part told him that he had discovered what he wanted to know, what he had come to America to find out. The two Spangs did represent the beginning and the end of the diamond pipeline. At this moment, he had completed the job he had set out to do. He knew the answers. Now, somehow, he must get the answers back to M.
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 ABC and he acts okay. You think maybe I should have told ABC 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.