a spring. Should make for a quicker draw than that,’ he gestured towards the desk. ‘Three-fifths of a second to hit a man at twenty feet would be about right.’
‘That’s settled then.’ M.’s voice was final. ‘And what about something bigger?’
‘There’s only one gun for that, sir,’ said Major Boothroyd stolidly. ‘Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight. Revolver. .38 calibre. Hammerless, so it won’t catch in clothing. Overall length of six and a half inches and it only weighs thirteen ounces. To keep down the weight, the cylinder holds only five cartridges. But by the time they’re gone,’ Major Boothroyd allowed himself a wintry smile, ‘somebody’s been killed. Fires the .38 S & W Special. Very accurate cartridge indeed. With standard loading it has a muzzle velocity of eight hundred and sixty feet per second and muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty foot-pounds. There are various barrel lengths, three and a half inch, five inch …’
‘All right, all right.’ M.’s voice was testy. ‘Take it as read. If you say it’s the best I’ll believe you. So it’s the Walther and the Smith & Wesson. Send up one of each to 007. With the harness. And arrange for him to fire them in. Starting today. He’s got to be expert in a week. All right? Then thank you very much, Armourer. I won’t detain you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly out of the room.
There was a moment’s silence. The sleet tore at the windows. M. swivelled his chair and watched the streaming panes. Bond took the opportunity to glance at his watch. Ten o’clock. His eyes slid to the gun and holster on the desk. He thought of his fifteen years’ marriage to the ugly bit of metal. He remembered the times its single word had saved his life – and the times when its threat alone had been enough. He thought of the days when he had literally dressed to kill – when he had dismantled the gun and oiled it and packed the bullets carefully into the springloaded magazine and tried the action once or twice, pumping the cartridges out on to the bedspread in some hotel bedroom somewhere round the world. Then the last wipe of a dry rag and the gun into the little holster and a pause in front of the mirror to see that nothing showed. And then out of the door and on his way to the rendezvous that was to end with either darkness or light. How many times had it saved his life? How many death sentences had it signed? Bond felt unreasonably sad. How could one have such ties with an inanimate object, an ugly one at that, and, he had to admit it, with a weapon that was not in the same class as the ones chosen by the Armourer? But he had the ties and M. was going to cut them.
M. swivelled back to face him. ‘Sorry, James,’ he said, and there was no sympathy in his voice. ‘I know how you like that bit of iron. But I’m afraid it’s got to go. Never give a weapon a second chance – any more than a man. I can’t afford to gamble with the double-0 section. They’ve got to be properly equipped. You understand that? A gun’s more important than a hand or a foot in your job.’
Bond smiled thinly. ‘I know, sir. I shan’t argue. I’m just sorry to see it go.’
‘All right then. We’ll say no more about it. Now I’ve got some more news for you. There’s a job come up. In Jamaica. Personnel problem. Or that’s what it looks like. Routine investigation and report. The sunshine’ll do you good and you can practise your new guns on the turtles or whatever they have down there. You can do with a bit of holiday. Like to take it on?’
Bond thought: He’s got it in for me over the last job. Feels I let him down. Won’t trust me with anything tough. Wants to see. Oh well! He said: ‘Sounds rather like the soft life, sir. I’ve had almost too much of that lately. But if it’s got to be done … If you say so, sir …’
‘Yes,’ said M. ‘I say so.’
3. HOLIDAY TASK
IT WAS getting dark. Outside the weather was thickening. M. reached over and switched on the green-shaded desklight. The centre of the room became a warm yellow pool in which the leather top of the desk glowed blood-red.
M. pulled the thick file towards him. Bond noticed it for the first time. He read the reversed lettering without difficulty. What had Strangways been up to? Who was Trueblood?
M. pressed a button on his desk. ‘I’ll get the Chief of Staff in on this,’ he said. ‘I know the bones of the case, but he can fill in the flesh. It’s a drab little story, I’m afraid.’
The Chief of Staff came in. He was a colonel in the Sappers, a man of about Bond’s age, but his hair was prematurely grey at the temples from the endless grind of work and responsibility. He was saved from a nervous breakdown by physical toughness and a sense of humour. He was Bond’s best friend at headquarters. They smiled at each other.
‘Bring up a chair, Chief of Staff. I’ve given 007 the Strangways case. Got to get the mess cleared up before we make a new appointment there. 007 can be acting Head of Station in the meantime. I want him to leave in a week. Would you fix that with the Colonial Office and the Governor? And now let’s go over the case.’ He turned to Bond. ‘I think you knew Strangways, 007. See you worked with him on that treasure business about five years ago. What did you think of him?’
‘Good man, sir. Bit highly strung. I’d have thought he’d have been relieved by now. Five years is a long time in the tropics.’
M. ignored the comment. ‘And his number two, this girl Trueblood, Mary Trueblood. Ever come across her?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I see she’s got a good record. Chief Officer W.R.N.S. and then came to us. Nothing against her on her Confidential Record. Good-looker to judge from her photographs. That probably explains it. Would you say Strangways was a bit of a womanizer?’
‘Could have been,’ said Bond carefully, not wanting to say anything against Strangways, but remembering the dashing good looks. ‘But what’s happened to them, sir?’
‘That’s what we want to find out,’ said M. ‘They’ve gone, vanished into thin air. Both went on the same evening about three weeks ago. Left Strangways’s bungalow burned to the ground – radio, codebooks, files. Nothing left but a few charred scraps. The girl left all her things intact. Must have taken only what she stood up in. Even her passport was in her room. But it would have been easy for Strangways to cook up two passports. He had plenty of blanks. He was Passport Control Officer for the island. Any number of planes they could have taken – to Florida or South America or one of the other islands in his area. Police are still checking the passenger lists. Nothing’s come up yet, but they could always have gone to ground for a day or two and then done a bunk. Dyed the girl’s hair and so forth. Airport security doesn’t amount to much in that part of the world. Isn’t that so, Chief of Staff?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Chief of Staff sounded dubious. ‘But I still can’t understand that last radio contact.’ He turned to Bond. ‘You see, they began to make their routine contact at eighteen-thirty Jamaican time. Someone, Radio Security thinks it was the girl, acknowledged our WWW and then went off the air. We tried to regain contact but there was obviously something fishy and we broke off. No answer to the Blue Call, or to the Red. So that was that. Next day Section III sent 258 down from Washington. By that time the police had taken over and the Governor had already made up his mind and was trying to get the case hushed up. It all seemed pretty obvious to him. Strangways has had occasional girl trouble down there. Can’t blame the chap myself. It’s a quiet station. Not much to occupy his time. The
