“The rest of the battle outside had disappeared down the stairs after the gunmen, but a wounded Mountie suddenly appeared at the entrance to my room on hands and knees to help me. He said, ‘Want a hand, feller?’ and Uhlmann fired through the door at the voice and—and, well, he killed the man. But that gave me the height of Uhlmann’s gun and I fired almost as he did, and then I ran out into the center of the room to give him some more if need be. But he didn’t need any more. He was still alive, and when the remains of the Mounties came back up the stairs we took him down and into an ambulance and tried to get him to talk in hospital. But he wouldn’t—a mixture of Gestapo and SPECTRE is a good one—and he died the next morning.”
James Bond looked me in the eyes, but his own didn’t see me. He said, “We lost two of our side and another wounded. They lost the German, and one of theirs, and the other two won’t last long. But the battlefield was a nasty sight and, well”—his face looked suddenly drawn and tired—”I’ve seen enough of this sort of thing. After the various post-mortems were over I wanted to get away. My headquarters, and the Mounties backed them up, wanted me to report the whole case to Washington, to our opposite numbers there, to get their help in cleaning up the American end of the Mechanics gang. The Mechanics had been given a nasty jolt, and the Mounties Special Branch thought it would be a good idea to follow up while they were still groggy. I said all right, but that I would like to drive down and not just dash off in an aeroplane or train. That was allowed so long as I didn’t take more than three days, and I hired this car and started at dawn this morning. I was going all right, pretty fast, when I ran into the hell of a storm, the tail of yours I suppose. I got through it as far as Lake George, and I meant to stay the night there, but it looked such a hellish place that when I saw a sign up at a side road advertising this motel I took a chance.” He smiled at me, and now he looked quite cheerful again. “Perhaps something told me you were at the end of the road and that you were in trouble. Anyway, I had a puncture a mile from here, and here I am.” He smiled again, and reached out and put his hand on mine on the counter. “Funny the way things work out!”
“But you must be absolutely beat, driving all that way.”
“I’ve got something for that. Be a good girl and give me another cup of coffee.”
While I busied myself with the percolator, he opened his case and took out a small bottle of white pills. He took out two and when I gave him the coffee he swallowed them down. “Benzedrine. That’ll keep me awake for tonight. I’ll fit in some sleep tomorrow.” His eyes went to the mirror. “Hullo. Here they come.” He gave me a smile of encouragement. “Now just don’t worry. Get some sleep. I’ll be around to see there’s no trouble.”
The music on the radio faded, and musical chimes sounded midnight.
Twelve: To Sleep—Perchance to Die!
WHILE Sluggsy made for the back door and went out into the night, the thin man came slowly over to us. He leaned against the edge of the counter. “Okay, folks. Break it up. It’s midnight. We’re turning off the electricity. My friend’s getting emergency oil-lamps from the storehouse. No sense wasting juice. Mr. Sanguinetti’s orders.” The words were friendly and reasonable. Had they decided to give up their plans, whatever they were, because of this man Bond? I doubted it. The thoughts that listening to James Bond’s story had driven away came flooding back. I was going to have to sleep with these two men in the adjoining cabins on both sides of me. I must make my room impregnable. But they had the passkey! I must get this man Bond to help me.