Leiter said decisively, “You do just that. And I’ll file a copy to C.I.A and endorse it. What’s more, I’m going to call up the Manta and tell her to get the hell over here.”
“You are?” Bond was amazed at this change of tune. “What’s got into you all of a sudden?”
“Well, I was sculling around the Casino taking a good look at anyone I thought might be a shareholder or a treasure hunter. They were mostly in groups, standing around trying to put up the front of having a good time—sunshine holiday and all that. They weren’t succeeding. Largo was doing all the work, being gay and boyish. The others looked like private dicks or the rest of the Torrio gang just after the St. Valentine Day massacre. Never seen such a bunch of thugs in my life—dressed up in tuxedos and smoking cigars and drinking champagne and all that—just a glass or two to show the Christmas spirit. Orders, I suppose. But all of them with that smell one gets to know in the Service, or in Pinkertons for the matter of that. You know, careful, cold-fish, thinking-of-something-else kinda look the pros have. Well, none of the faces meant anything to me until I came across a little guy with a furrowed brow and a big egghead with pebble glasses who looked like a Mormon who’s got into a whorehouse by mistake. He was peering about nervously and every time one of these other guys spoke to him he blushed and said what a wonderful place it was and he was having a swell time. I got close enough to hear him say the same thing to two different guys. Rest of the time he just mooned around, sort of helpless and almost sucking a corner of his handkerchief, if you get me. Well that face meant something to me. I knew I’d seen it before somewhere. You know how it is. So after puzzling for a bit I went to the reception and told one of the guys behind the desk in a cheery fashion that I thought I’d located an old classmate who’d migrated to Europe, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. Very embarrassing as he seemed to recognize me. Would the guy help? So he came along and I pointed this feller out and he went back to his desk and went through the membership cards and came up with the one I wanted. Seemed he was a man called Traut, Emil Traut. Swiss passport. One of Mr. Largo’s group from the yacht.” Leiter paused. “Well, I guess it was the Swiss passport that did it.” He turned to Bond. “Remember a fellow called Kotze, East German physicist? Came over to the West about five years ago and sang all he knew to the Joint Scientific Intelligence boys? Then he disappeared, thanks to a fat payment for the info, and went to ground in Switzerland. Well, James. Take my word for it. That’s the same guy. The file went through my hands when I was still with C.I.A. doing desk work in Washington. All came back to me. It was one hell of a scoop at the time. Only saw his mug on the file, but there’s absolutely no doubt about it. That man’s Kotze. And now what the hell is a top physicist doing on board the Disco ? Fits, doesn’t it?”
They had come to police headquarters. Lights burned only on the ground floor. Bond waited until they had reported to the duty sergeant and had gone up to their room before he answered. He stood in the middle of the room and looked at Leiter. He said, “That’s the clincher, Felix. So now what do we do?”
“With what you got this evening, I’d pull the whole lot in on suspicion. No question at all.”
“Suspicion of what? Largo would reach for his lawyer and they’d be out in five minutes. Democratic processes of the law and so forth. And what single fact have we got that Largo couldn’t dodge? All right, so Traut is Kotze. We’re hunting for treasure, gentlemen, we need an expert mineralogist. This man offered his services. Said his name was Traut. No doubt he’s still worried about the Russians getting after him. Next question? Yes, we’ve got an underwater compartment on the Disco . We’re going to hunt treasure through it. Inspect it? Well, if you must. There you are gentlemen—underwater gear, skids, perhaps even a small bathyscaphe. Underwater sentry? Of course. People have spent six months trying to find out what we’re after, how we’re going to get it. We’re professionals, gentlemen. We like to keep our secrets. And anyway, what was this Mr. Bond, this rich gentleman looking for a property in Nassau, doing underneath my ship in the middle of the night? Petacchi? Never heard of him. Don’t care what Miss Vitali’s family name was. Always known her as Vitali . . .” Bond made a throwaway gesture with one hand. “See what I mean? This treasure-hunting cover is perfect. It explains everything. And what are we left with? Largo pulls himself up to his full height and says, `Thanks gentlemen. So I may go now? And so I shall, within the hour. I shall find another base for my work and you will be hearing from my lawyers forthwith—wrongful detention and trespass. And good luck to your tourist trade, gentlemen.’ ” Bond smiled grimly. “See what I mean?”