Liz Krest turned to him. “I’m beginning to get nervous. Will you help me through the rest of this – these awful formalities and things?”
“Of course.”
Fidele Barbey said: “Don’t worry too much. All these people are my friends. And the Chief Justice is my uncle. We shall all have to make a statement. They’ll probably have the inquest tomorrow. You’ll be able to leave the day after.”
“You really think so?” A dew of sweat had sprung below her eyes. “The trouble is, I don’t really know where to leave for, or what to do next. I suppose,” she hesitated, not looking at Bond. “I suppose, James, you wouldn’t like to come on to Mombasa? I mean, you’re going there, anyway, and I’d be able to get you there a day earlier than this ship of yours, this Camp something.”
“Kampala.” Bond lit a cigarette to cover his hesitation. Four days in a beautiful yacht with this girl! But the tail of that fish, sticking out of the mouth! Had she done it? Or had Fidele, who would know that his uncles and cousins on Mahe would somehow see that he came to no harm? If only one of them would make a slip. Bond said easily: “That’s terribly nice of you, Liz. Of course I’d love to come.”
Fidele Barbey chuckled. “Bravo, my friend. And I would love to be in your shoes, but for one thing. That damned fish. It is a great responsibility. I like to think of you both being deluged with cables from the Smithsonian about it. Don’t forget that you are now both trustees of a scientific Koh-i-noor. And you know what these Americans are. They’ll worry the life out of you until they’ve got their hands on it.”
Bond’s eyes were hard as flint as he watched the girl. Surely that put the finger on her. Now he would make some excuse – get out of the trip. There had been some thing about that particular way of killing a man . . .
But the beautiful, candid eyes did not flicker. She looked up into Fidele Barbey’s face and said, easily, charmingly: “That won’t be a problem. I’ve decided to give it to the British Museum.”
James Bond noticed that the sweat dew had now gathered at her temples. But, after all, it was a desperately hot evening . . .
The thud of the engines stopped and the anchor chain roared down into the quiet bay.