Bond looked at the dead receiver, then put it down on the cradle. ‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s torn it.’
He got up and stretched. He walked to the window and looked out, seeing nothing. His thoughts raced. Then he shrugged and turned back to the telephone. He looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.
‘Room Service, good morning,’ said the golden voice.
‘Breakfast, please,’ said Bond. ‘Pineapple juice, double. Cornflakes and cream. Shirred eggs with bacon. Double portion of Cafe Espresso. Toast and marmalade.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the girl. She repeated the order. ‘Right away.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Bond grinned to himself.
‘The condemned man made a hearty breakfast,’ he reflected. He sat down by the window and gazed up at the clear sky, into the future.
Up in Harlem, at the big switchboard, The Whisper was talking to the town again, passing Bond’s description again to all Eyes : ‘All de railroads, all de airports. Fifth Avenue an’ 55th Street doors of da San Regis. Mr. Big sez we gotta chance da highways. Pass it down da line. All de railroads, all de airports…’
CHAPTER X
THE SILVER PHANTOM
BOND, the collar of his new raincoat up round his ears, was missed as he came out of the entrance of the St. Regis Drugstore on 55th Street, which has a connecting door into the hotel.
He waited in the entrance and leaped at a cruising cab, hooking the door open with the thumb of his injured hand and throwing his light suitcase in ahead of him. The cab hardly checked. The negro with the collecting-box for the Coloured Veterans of Korea and his colleague fumbling under the bonnet of his stalled car stayed on the job until, much later, they were called off by a man who drove past and sounded two shorts and a long on his horn.
But Bond was immediately spotted as he left his cab at the drive-in to the Pennsylvania Station. A lounging negro with a wicker basket walked quickly into a call-box. It was ten-fifteen.
Only fifteen minutes to go and yet, just before the train started, one of the waiters in the diner reported sick and was hurriedly replaced by a man who had received a full and careful briefing on the telephone. The chef swore there was something fishy, but the new man said a word or two to him and the chef showed the whites of his eyes and went silent, surreptitiously touching the lucky bean that hung round his neck on a string.
Bond had walked quickly through the great glass-covered concourse and through Gate 14 down to his train.
It lay, a quarter of a mile of silver carriages, quietly in the dusk of the underground station. Up front, the auxiliary generators of the 4000 horsepower twin Diesel electric units ticked busily. Under the bare electric bulbs the horizontal purple and gold bands, the colours of the Seaboard Railroad, glowed regally on the streamlined locomotives. The engineman and fireman who would take the great train on the first two hundred mile lap into the south lolled in the spotless aluminium cabin, twelve feet above the track, watching the ammeter and the air-pressure dial, ready to go-It was quiet in the great concrete cavern below the city and every noise threw an echo.
There were not many passengers. More would be taken on at Newark, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington. Bond walked a hundred yards, his feet ringing on the empty platform, before he found Car 245 towards the rear of the train. A Pullman porter stood at the door. He wore spectacles. His black face was bored but friendly. Below the windows of the carriage, in broad letters of brown and gold, was written ‘Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac’, and below that ‘Bellesylvania’, the name of the Pullman car. A thin wisp of steam rose from the couplings of the central heating near the door.
‘Compartment H,’ said Bond.
‘Mr. Bryce, Suh? Yassuh. Mrs. Bryce just come aboard. Straight down da cyar.’
Bond stepped on to the train and turned down the drab olive green corridor. The carpet was thick. There was the usual American train-smell of old cigar-smoke. A notice said ‘Need a second pillow? For any extra comfort ring for your Pullman Attendant. His name is,’ then a printed card, slipped in : ‘Samuel D. Baldwin.’