Live and Let Die: A James Bond Novel by Ian Fleming Page A
Authors: Ian Fleming
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, British, New York, New York (State), Men's Adventure, Fiction - Espionage, N.Y.), Intrigue, spy stories, James (Fictitious character), British - New York (State) - New York, James (Fictitious charac, Bond, Bond; James (Fictitious character), Harlem (New York, Harlem (New York; N.Y.)
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And so have you. You’ve got to take me. I’ll help you. I know a lot of his secrets. But be quick. I’m risking my life here talking to you.’ She gave a sob of exasperation and panic. ‘For God’s sake trust me. You must. You must!’
Bond still paused, his mind working furiously.
‘Listen,’ she spoke again, but this time dully, almost hopelessly. ‘If you don’t take me, I shall kill myself. Now will you? Do you want to murder me?’
If it was acting, it was too good acting. It was still an unpardonable gamble, but Bond decided. Fie spoke directly into the telephone, his voice low.
‘If this is a double-cross, Solitaire, I’ll get at you and kill you if it’s the last thing I do. Have you got a pencil and paper?’
‘Wait,’ said the girl, excitedly. ‘Yes, yes.’
If it had been a plant, reflected Bond, all that would have been ready.
‘Be at Pennsylvania Station at ten-twenty exactly. The Silver Phantom to…’ he hesitated. ‘… to
Washington
. Car 245, Compartment H. Say you’re Mrs. Bryce. Conductor has the ticket in case I’m not there already. Go straight to the compartment and wait for me. Got that?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘and thank you, thank you.’
‘Don’t be seen,’ said Bond. ‘Wear a veil or something.’
‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘I promise. I really promise. I must go.’ She rang off.
Bond looked at the dead receiver, then put it down on the cradle. ‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s torn it.’
He got up and stretched. He walked to the window and looked out, seeing nothing. His thoughts raced. Then he shrugged and turned back to the telephone. He looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.
‘Room Service, good morning,’ said the golden voice.
‘Breakfast, please,’ said Bond. ‘Pineapple juice, double. Cornflakes and cream. Shirred eggs with bacon. Double portion of Cafe Espresso. Toast and marmalade.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the girl. She repeated the order. ‘Right away.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Bond grinned to himself.
‘The condemned man made a hearty breakfast,’ he reflected. He sat down by the window and gazed up at the clear sky, into the future.
Up in
Harlem
, at the big switchboard, The Whisper was talking to the town again, passing Bond’s description again to all Eyes : ‘All de railroads, all de airports.
Fifth Avenue
an’
55th Street
doors of da San Regis. Mr. Big sez we gotta chance da highways. Pass it down da line. All de railroads, all de airports…’
Live and Let Die
CHAPTER X
THE SILVER PHANTOM
BOND, the collar of his new raincoat up round his ears, was missed as he came out of the entrance of the St. Regis Drugstore on
55th Street
, which has a connecting door into the hotel.
He waited in the entrance and leaped at a cruising cab, hooking the door open with the thumb of his injured hand and throwing his light suitcase in ahead of him. The cab hardly checked. The negro with the collecting-box for the Coloured Veterans of Korea and his colleague fumbling under the bonnet of his stalled car stayed on the job until, much later, they were called off by a man who drove past and sounded two shorts and a long on his horn.
But Bond was immediately spotted as he left his cab at the drive-in to the Pennsylvania Station. A lounging negro with a wicker basket walked quickly into a call-box. It was ten-fifteen.
Only fifteen minutes to go and yet, just before the train started, one of the waiters in the diner reported sick and was hurriedly replaced by a man who had received a full and careful briefing on the telephone. The chef swore there was something fishy, but the new man said a word or two to him and the chef showed the whites of his eyes and went silent, surreptitiously touching the lucky bean that hung round his neck on a string.
Bond had walked quickly through the great glass-covered concourse and through Gate 14 down to his train.
It lay, a quarter of a mile of silver carriages, quietly in the dusk of the
Bond still paused, his mind working furiously.
‘Listen,’ she spoke again, but this time dully, almost hopelessly. ‘If you don’t take me, I shall kill myself. Now will you? Do you want to murder me?’
If it was acting, it was too good acting. It was still an unpardonable gamble, but Bond decided. Fie spoke directly into the telephone, his voice low.
‘If this is a double-cross, Solitaire, I’ll get at you and kill you if it’s the last thing I do. Have you got a pencil and paper?’
‘Wait,’ said the girl, excitedly. ‘Yes, yes.’
If it had been a plant, reflected Bond, all that would have been ready.
‘Be at Pennsylvania Station at ten-twenty exactly. The Silver Phantom to…’ he hesitated. ‘… to
Washington
. Car 245, Compartment H. Say you’re Mrs. Bryce. Conductor has the ticket in case I’m not there already. Go straight to the compartment and wait for me. Got that?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘and thank you, thank you.’
‘Don’t be seen,’ said Bond. ‘Wear a veil or something.’
‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘I promise. I really promise. I must go.’ She rang off.
Bond looked at the dead receiver, then put it down on the cradle. ‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s torn it.’
He got up and stretched. He walked to the window and looked out, seeing nothing. His thoughts raced. Then he shrugged and turned back to the telephone. He looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.
‘Room Service, good morning,’ said the golden voice.
‘Breakfast, please,’ said Bond. ‘Pineapple juice, double. Cornflakes and cream. Shirred eggs with bacon. Double portion of Cafe Espresso. Toast and marmalade.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the girl. She repeated the order. ‘Right away.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Bond grinned to himself.
‘The condemned man made a hearty breakfast,’ he reflected. He sat down by the window and gazed up at the clear sky, into the future.
Up in
Harlem
, at the big switchboard, The Whisper was talking to the town again, passing Bond’s description again to all Eyes : ‘All de railroads, all de airports.
Fifth Avenue
an’
55th Street
doors of da San Regis. Mr. Big sez we gotta chance da highways. Pass it down da line. All de railroads, all de airports…’
Live and Let Die
CHAPTER X
THE SILVER PHANTOM
BOND, the collar of his new raincoat up round his ears, was missed as he came out of the entrance of the St. Regis Drugstore on
55th Street
, which has a connecting door into the hotel.
He waited in the entrance and leaped at a cruising cab, hooking the door open with the thumb of his injured hand and throwing his light suitcase in ahead of him. The cab hardly checked. The negro with the collecting-box for the Coloured Veterans of Korea and his colleague fumbling under the bonnet of his stalled car stayed on the job until, much later, they were called off by a man who drove past and sounded two shorts and a long on his horn.
But Bond was immediately spotted as he left his cab at the drive-in to the Pennsylvania Station. A lounging negro with a wicker basket walked quickly into a call-box. It was ten-fifteen.
Only fifteen minutes to go and yet, just before the train started, one of the waiters in the diner reported sick and was hurriedly replaced by a man who had received a full and careful briefing on the telephone. The chef swore there was something fishy, but the new man said a word or two to him and the chef showed the whites of his eyes and went silent, surreptitiously touching the lucky bean that hung round his neck on a string.
Bond had walked quickly through the great glass-covered concourse and through Gate 14 down to his train.
It lay, a quarter of a mile of silver carriages, quietly in the dusk of the
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