meantime, is there anyone you wish to see on my staff?’
‘I’d like to have a word with the Colonial Secretary, sir.’
‘Really? And why, pray?’
‘There’s been some trouble on Crab Key. Something about a bird sanctuary. The case was passed to us by the Colonial Office. My Chief asked me to look into it while I’m here.’
The Governor looked relieved. ‘Certainly, certainly. I’ll see that Mr Pleydell-Smith receives you straight away. So you feel we can leave the Strangways case to sort itself out? They’ll turn up before long, never fear.’ He reached over and rang a bell. The A.D.C. came in. ‘This gentleman would like to see the Colonial Secretary, A.D.C. Take him along, would you? I’ll call Mr Pleydell-Smith myself and ask him to make himself available.’ He got up and came round the desk. He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye then, Mr Bond. And I’m so glad we see eye to eye. Crab Key, eh? Never been there myself, but I’m sure it would repay a visit.’
Bond shook hands. ‘That was what I was thinking. Goodbye, sir.’
‘Goodbye, goodbye.’ The Governor watched Bond’s back retreating out of the door and himself returned well satisfied to his desk. ‘Young whippersnapper,’ he said to the empty room. He sat down and said a few peremptory words down the telephone to the Colonial Secretary. Then he picked up the Times Weekly and turned to the Stock Exchange prices.
The Colonial Secretary was a youngish shaggy-haired man with bright, boyish eyes. He was one of those nervous pipe smokers who are constantly patting their pockets for matches, shaking the box to see how many are left in it, or knocking the dottle out of their pipes. After he had gone through this routine two or three times in his first ten minutes with Bond, Bond wondered if he ever got any smoke into his lungs at all.
After pumping energetically at Bond’s hand and waving vaguely at a chair, Pleydell-Smith walked up and down the room scratching his temple with the stem of his pipe. ‘Bond. Bond. Bond! Rings a bell. Now let me see. Yes, by jove! You were the chap who was mixed up in that treasure business here. By jove, yes! Four, five years ago. Found the file lying around only the other day. Splendid show. What a lark! I say, wish you’d start another bonfire like that here. Stir the place up a bit. All they think of nowadays is Federation and their bloody self-importance. Self-determination indeed! They can’t even run a bus service. And the colour problem! My dear chap, there’s far more colour problem between the straight-haired and the crinkly-haired Jamaicans than there is between me and my black cook. However,’ Pleydell-Smith came to rest beside his desk. He sat down opposite Bond and draped one leg over the arm of his chair. Reaching for a tobacco jar with the arms of King’s College, Cambridge, on it, he dug into it and started filling his pipe. ‘I mean to say I don’t want to bore you with all that. You go ahead and bore me. What’s your problem? Glad to help. I bet it’s more interesting than this muck,’ he waved at the pile of papers in his In tray.
Bond grinned at him. This was more like it. He had found an ally, and an intelligent one at that. ‘Well,’ he said seriously, ‘I’m here on the Strangways case. But first of all I want to ask you a question that may sound odd. Exactly how did you come to be looking at that other case of mine? You say you found the file lying about. How was that? Had someone asked for it? I don’t want to be indiscreet, so don’t answer if you don’t want to. I’m just inquisitive.’
Pleydell-Smith cocked an eye at him. ‘I suppose that’s your job.’ He reflected, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Well, now I come to think of it I saw it on my secretary’s desk. She’s a new girl. Said she was trying to get up to date with the files. Mark you,’ the Colonial Secretary hastened to exonerate his girl, ‘there were plenty of other files on her desk. It was just this one that caught my eye.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Bond. ‘It was like that.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, but various people seem to be rather interested in me being here. What I really wanted to talk to you about was Crab Key. Anything you know about the place. And about this Chinaman, Doctor No, who bought it. And anything you can tell me about his guano business. Rather a tall order, I’m afraid, but any scraps will help.’
Pleydell-Smith laughed shortly through the stem of his pipe. He jerked the pipe out of his mouth and talked while he tamped down the burning tobacco with his matchbox. ‘Bitten off a bit more than you can chew on guano. Talk to you for hours about it. Started in the Consular before I transferred to the Colonial Office. First job was in Peru. Had a lot to do with their people who administer the whole trade – Compania Aministradora del Guano. Nice people.’ The pipe was going now and Pleydell-Smith threw his matchbox down on the table. ‘As for the rest, it’s just a question of getting the file.’ He rang a bell. In a minute the door opened behind Bond. ‘Miss Taro, the file on Crab Key, please. The one on the sale of the place and the other one on that warden fellow who turned up before Christmas. Miss Longfellow will know where to find them.’
A soft voice said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Bond heard the door close.
‘Now then, guano.’ Pleydell-Smith tilted his chair back. Bond prepared to be bored. ‘As you know, it’s bird dung. Comes from the rear end of two birds, the masked booby and the guanay. So far as Crab Key is concerned, it’s only the guanay, otherwise known as the green cormorant, same bird as you find in England. The guanay is a machine for converting fish into guano. They mostly eat anchovies. Just to show you how much fish they eat, they’ve found up to seventy anchovies inside one bird!’ Pleydell-Smith took out his pipe and pointed it impressively at Bond. ‘The whole population of Peru eats four thousand tons of fish a year. The sea birds of the country eat five hundred thousand tons!’
Bond pursed his lips to show he was impressed. ‘Really.’
‘Well, now,’ continued the Colonial Secretary, ‘every day each one of these hundreds of thousands of guanays eat a pound or so of fish and deposit an ounce of guano on the guanera – that’s the guano island.’
Bond interrupted, ‘Why don’t they do it in the sea?’
‘Don’t know.’ Pleydell-Smith took the question and turned it over in his mind. ‘Never occurred to me. Anyway they don’t. They do it on the land and they’ve been doing it since before Genesis. That makes the hell of a lot of bird dung – millions of tons of it on the Pescadores and the other guanera. Then, around 1850 someone discovered it was the greatest natural fertilizer in the world – stuffed with nitrates and phosphates and what have you. And the ships and the men came to the guaneras and simply ravaged them for twenty years or more. It’s a time known as the “Saturnalia” in Peru. It was like the Klondyke. People fought over the muck, hi-jacked each other’s ships, shot the workers, sold phoney maps of secret guano islands – anything you like. And people made fortunes out of the stuff.’
‘Where does Crab Key come in?’ Bond wanted to get down to cases.
‘That was the only worthwhile guanera so far north. It was worked too, God knows who by. But the stuff had a low nitrate content. Water’s not as rich round here as it is down along the Humboldt Current. So the fish aren’t so rich in chemicals. So the guano isn’t so rich either. Crab Key got worked on and off when the price was high enough, but the whole industry went bust, with Crab Key and the other poor-quality deposits in the van, when the Germans invented artificial chemical manure. By this time Peru had realized that she had squandered a fantastic capital asset and she set about organizing the remains of the industry and protecting the guanera. She nationalized the industry and protected the birds, and slowly, very slowly, the supplies built up again. Then people found that there were snags about the German stuff, it impoverishes the soil, which guano doesn’t do, and gradually the price of guano improved and the industry staggered back to its feet. Now it’s going fine, except
