The flash came from low down near the floor and Bond guessed that the first negro had somehow managed to reach his gun.
There were no other shots and no sound came from the blank faces of the buildings behind him. As he went through the gears he could see nothing in the driving-mirror except the broad bar of light from the garage shining out across the dark empty street.
Bond had no idea where he was or where he was heading. It was a wide featureless street and he kept going. He found himself driving on the left-hand side and quickly swerved over to the right. His hand hurt terribly but the thumb and forefinger helped to steady the wheel. He tried to remember to keep his left side away from the blood on the door and window. The endless street was populated only by the little ghosts of steam that wavered up out of the gratings in the asphalt that gave access to the piped heat system of the city. The ugly bonnet of the car mowed them down one by one, but in the driving-mirror Bond could see them rising again behind him in a diminishing vista of mildly gesticulating white wraiths.
He kept the big car at fifty. He came to some red traffic lights and jumped them. Several more dark blocks and then there was a lighted avenue. There was traffic and he paused until the lights went green. He turned left and was rewarded by a succession of green lights, each one sweeping him on and further away from the enemy. He checked at an intersection and read the signs. He was on Park Avenue and 116th Street. He slowed again at the next street. It was 115th. He was heading downtown, away from Harlem, back into the City. He kept going. He turned off at Goth Street. It was deserted. He switched off the engine and left the car opposite a fire hydrant. He took the gun off the seat, shoved it down the waistband of his trousers and walked back to Park Avenue.
A few minutes later he flagged a prowling cab and then suddenly he was walking up the steps of the St. Regis.
‘Message for you, Mr. Bond,’ said the night porter. Bond kept his left side away from him. He opened the message with his right hand. It was from Felix Leiter, timed at four a.m. ‘Call me at once,’ it said.
Bond walked to the elevator and was carried up to his floor. He let himself into 21:00 and went through into the sitting-room.
So both of them were alive. Bond fell into a chair beside the telephone.
‘God Almighty,’ said Bond with deep gratitude. ‘What a break.’
CHAPTER IX
TRUE OR FALSE?
BOND looked at the telephone, then he got up and walked over to the sideboard. He put a handful of wilted icecubes into a tall glass, poured in three inches of Haig and Haig and swilled the mixture round in the glass to cool and dilute it. Then he drank down half the glass in one long swallow. He put the glass down and eased himself out of his coat. His left hand was so swollen that he could only just get it through the sleeve. His little finger was still crooked back and the pain was vicious as it scraped against the cloth. The ringer was nearly black. He pulled down his tie and undid the top of his shirt. Then he picked up his glass, took another deep swallow, and walked back to the telephone.
Leiter answered at once.
‘Thank God,’ said Leiter with real feeling. ‘What’s the damage?”
‘Broken finger,’ said Bond. ‘How about you?’
‘Blackjack. Knocked out. Nothing serious. They started off by considering all sorts of ingenious things. Wanted to couple me to the compressed-air pump in the garage. Start on the ears and then proceed elsewhere. When no instructions came from The Big Man they got bored and I got to arguing the finer points of Jazz with Blabbermouth, the man with the fancy six-shooter. We got on to Duke Ellington and agreed that we liked our band-leaders to be percussion men, not wind. We agreed the piano or the drums held the band together better than any other solo instrument — Jelly-roll Morton, for instance. Apropos the Duke, I told him the crack about the clarinet – “an ill woodwind that nobody blows good”. That made him laugh fit to bust. Suddenly we were friends. The other man – The Flannel, he was called – got sour and Blabbermouth told him he could go off duty, he’d look after me. Then The Big Man rang down.’