It was a fine large cabin paneled in mahogany with a deep wine-Red carpet and comfortable dark blue leather club chairs. The sun shining through the slats of Venetian blinds over the broad square ports added a touch of gay light to an otherwise rather somber and masculine room, its long center table littered with papers and charts, glass-fronted cabinets containing fishing gear and an array of guns and other weapons, and a black rubber underwater diving suit and aqualung suspended, almost like the skeleton in a sorcerer’s den, from a rack in one corner. The air-conditioning made the cabin deliciously cool, and Bond felt his damp shirt slowly freeing itself from his skin.
“Please take a chair, gentlemen.” Largo carelessly brushed aside the charts and papers on the table as if they were of no importance. “Cigarettes?” He placed a large silver box between them. “And now what can I get you to drink?” He went to the loaded sideboard. “Something cool and not too strong perhaps? A Planter’s Punch? Gin and tonic? Or there are various beers. You must have had a hot journey in that open launch. I would have sent my boat for you if only I had known.”
They both asked for a plain tonic. Bond said, “I’m very sorry to barge in like this, Mr. Largo, No idea I could have got you on the telephone. We just got in this morning, and as I’ve only a few days I have to get a move on. The point is, I’m looking for a property down here.”
“Oh, yes?” Largo brought the glasses and bottles of tonic to the table and sat down so that they formed a comfortable group. “What a good idea. Wonderful place. I’ve been here f9r six months and already I’d like to stay forever. But the prices they’re asking—” Largo threw up his hands. “These Bay Street pirates. And the millionaires, they are even worse. But you are wise to come at the end of the season. Perhaps some of the owners are disappointed not to have sold. Perhaps they will not open their mouths so wide.”
“That’s what I thought.” Bond sat comfortably back and lit a cigarette. “Or rather what my lawyer, Mr. Larkin, advised.” Leiter shook his head pessimistically. “He had made some inquiries and he frankly advised that real-estate values down here have gone mad.” Bond turned politely toward Leiter to bring him into the conversation. “Isn’t that so?”
“Daft, Mr. Largo, quite daft. Worse even than Florida. Out of
this world. I wouldn’t advise any client of mine to invest at these prices.”
“Quite so.” Largo obviously didn’t want to get drawn too deeply into these matters. “You mentioned something about Palmyra. Is there anything I can do to help in that respect?”
Bond said, “I understand you have a lease of the property, Mr. Largo. And there is talk that you may be leaving the house before long. Only gossip, of course. You know what they are in these small islands. But it sounds more or less what I’m looking for and I gather the owner, this Englishman, Bryce, might sell if he got the right price. What I was going to ask you”—Bond looked apologetic—“was whether we might drive out and look the place over. Some time when you weren’t there of course. Any time that might suit you.”
Largo flashed his teeth warmly. He spread his hands. “But of course, of course, my dear fellow. Whenever you wish. There is no one in residence but my niece and a few servants. And she is out most of the time. Please just call her up on the telephone. I shall tell her that you will be doing so. It is indeed a charming property—so imaginative. A beautiful piece of design. If only all rich men had such good taste.”
Bond got to his feet and Leiter followed suit. “Well, that’s extraordinarily kind of you, Mr. Largo. And now we’ll leave you in peace. Perhaps we may meet again in the town some time. You must come and have lunch. But”—Bond poured admiration and flattery into his voice—“with a yacht like this, I don’t suppose you ever want to come ashore. Must be the only one on this side of the Atlantic. Didn’t one used to run between Venice and Trieste? I seem to remember reading about it somewhere.”