THE BADDEST VILLAINS - James Bond Edition. Ian Fleming
stopping over in Miami tonight I'd reckon it a real favour if you'd allow me to be your host.' Mr Du Pont held up his hand. 'Now, I think I can promise to make you comfortable. So happens I own a piece of the Floridiana. Maybe you heard we opened around Christmas time? Doing a great business I'm happy to say. Really pushing that little old Fountain Blue.' Mr Du Pont laughed indulgently. 'That's what we call the Fontainebleau down here. Now, what do you say, Mr Bond? You shall have the best suite—even if it means putting some good paying customers out on the sidewalk. And you'd be doing me a real favour.' Mr Du Pont looked imploring.
Bond had already decided to accept—blind. Whatever Mr Du Pont's problem—blackmail, gangsters, women—it would be some typical form of rich man's worry. Here was a slice of the easy life he had been asking for. Take it. Bond started to say something politely deprecating. Mr Du Pont interrupted. 'Please, please, Mr Bond. And believe me, I'm grateful, very grateful indeed.' He snapped his fingers for the waitress. When she came, he turned away from Bond and settled the bill out of Bond's sight. Like many very rich men he considered that showing his money, letting someone see how much he tipped, amounted to indecent exposure. He thrust his roll back into his trousers pocket (the hip pocket is not the place among the rich) and took Bond by the arm. He sensed Bond's resistance to the contact and removed his hand. They went down the stairs to the main hall.
'Now, let's just straighten out your reservation.' Mr Du Pont headed for the Transamerica ticket counter. In a few curt phrases Mr Du Pont showed his power and efficiency in his own, his American, realm.
'Yes, Mr Du Pont. Surely, Mr Du Pont. I'll take care of that, Mr Du Pont.'
Outside, a gleaming Chrysler Imperial sighed up to the kerb. A tough-looking chauffeur in a biscuit-coloured uniform hurried to open the door. Bond stepped in and settled down in the soft upholstery. The interior of the car was deliciously cool, almost cold. The Transamerican representative bustled out with Bond's suitcase, handed it to the chauffeur and, with a half-bow, went back into the Terminal. 'Bill's on the Beach,' said Mr Du Pont to the chauffeur and the big car slid away through the crowded parking lots and out on to the parkway.
Mr Du Pont settled back. 'Hope you like stone crabs, Mr Bond. Ever tried them?'
Bond said he had, that he liked them very much.
Mr Du Pont talked about Bill's on the Beach and about the relative merits of stone and Alaska crab meat while the Chrysler Imperial sped through downtown Miami, along Biscayne Boulevard and across Biscayne Bay by the Douglas MacArthur Causeway. Bond made appropriate comments, letting himself be carried along on the gracious stream of speed and comfort and rich small-talk.
They drew up at a white-painted, mock-Regency frontage in clapboard and stucco. A scrawl of pink neon said: BILL'S ON THE BEACH. While Bond got out, Mr Du Pont gave his instructions to the chauffeur. Bond heard the words. 'The Aloha Suite,' and 'If there's any trouble, tell Mr Fairlie to call me here. Right?'
They went up the steps. Inside, the big room was decorated in white with pink muslin swags over the windows. There were pink lights on the tables. The restaurant was crowded with sunburned people in expensive tropical get-ups—brilliant garish shirts, jangling gold bangles, dark glasses with jewelled rims, cute native straw hats. There was a confusion of scents. The wry smell of bodies that had been all day in the sun came through.
Bill, a pansified Italian, hurried towards them. 'Why, Mr Du Pont. Is a pleasure, sir. Little crowded tonight. Soon fix you up. Please this way please.' Holding a large leather-bound menu above his head the man weaved his way between the diners to the best table in the room, a corner table for six. He pulled out two chairs, snapped his fingers for the maître d'hôtel and the wine waiter, spread two menus in front of them, exchanged compliments with Mr Du Pont and left them.
Mr Du Pont slapped his menu shut. He said to Bond, 'Now, why don't you just leave this to me? If there's anything you don't like, send it back.' And to the head waiter, 'Stone crabs. Not frozen. Fresh. Melted butter. Thick toast. Right?'
'Very good, Mr Du Pont.' The wine waiter, washing his hands, took the waiter's place.
'Two pints of pink champagne. The Pommery '50. Silver tankards. Right?'
'Vairry good, Mr Du Pont. A cocktail to start?'
Mr Du Pont turned to Bond. He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
Bond said, 'Vodka martini, please. With a slice of lemon peel.'
'Make it two,' said Mr Du Pont. 'Doubles.' The wine waiter hurried off. Mr Du Pont sat back and produced his cigarettes and lighter. He looked round the room, answered one or two waves with a smile and a lift of the hand and glanced at the neighbouring tables. He edged his chair nearer to Bond's. 'Can't help the noise, I'm afraid,' he said apologetically. 'Only come here for the crabs. They're out of this world. Hope you're not allergic to them. Once brought a girl here and fed her crabs and her lips swelled up like cycle tyres.'
Bond was amused at the change in Mr Du Pont—this racy talk, the authority of manner once Mr Du Pont thought he had got Bond on the hook, on his payroll. He was a different man from the shy embarrassed suitor who had solicited Bond at the airport. What did Mr Du Pont want from Bond? It would be coming any minute now, the proposition. Bond said, 'I haven't got any allergies.'
'Good, good.'
There was a pause. Mr Du Pont snapped the lid of his lighter up and down several times. He realized he was making an irritating noise and pushed it away from him. He made up his mind. He said, speaking at his hands on the table in front of him, 'You ever play Canasta, Mr Bond?'
'Yes, it's a good game. I like it.'
'Two-handed Canasta?'
'I have done. It's not so much fun. If you don't make a fool of yourself—if neither of you do—it tends to even out. Law of averages in the cards. No chance of making much difference in the play.'
Mr Du Pont nodded emphatically. 'Just so. That's what I've said to myself. Over a hundred games or so, two equal players will end up equal. Not such a good game as Gin or Oklahoma, but in a way that's just what I like about it. You pass the time, you handle plenty of cards, you have your ups and downs, no one gets hurt. Right?'
Bond nodded. The martinis came. Mr Du Pont said to the wine waiter, 'Bring two more in ten minutes.' They drank. Mr Du Pont turned and faced Bond. His face was petulant, crumpled. He said, 'What would you say, Mr Bond, if I told you I'd lost twenty-five thousand dollars in a week playing two-handed Canasta?' Bond was about to reply. Mr Du Pont held up his hand. 'And mark you, I'm a good card player. Member of the Regency Club. Play a lot with people like Charlie Goren, Johnny Crawford—at bridge that is. But what I mean, I know my way around at the card table.' Mr Du Pont probed Bond's eyes.
'If you've been playing with the same man all the time, you've been cheated.'
'Ex-actly.' Mr Du Pont slapped the table-cloth. He sat back. 'Ex-actly. That's what I said to myself after I'd lost—lost for four whole days. So I said to myself, this bastard is cheating me and by golly I'll find out how he does it and have him hounded out of Miami. So I doubled the stakes and then doubled them again. He was quite happy about it. And I watched every card he played, every movement. Nothing! Not a hint or a sign. Cards not marked. New pack whenever I wanted one. My own cards. Never looked at my hand—couldn't, as I always sat dead opposite him. No kibitzer to tip him off. And he just went on winning and winning. Won again this morning. And again this afternoon. Finally I got so mad at the game—I didn't show it, mind you—' Bond might think he had not been a sport—'I paid up politely. But, without telling this guy, I just packed my bag and got me to the airport and booked on the first plane to New York. Think of that!' Mr Du Pont threw up his hands. 'Running away. But twenty-five grand is twenty-five grand. I could see it getting to fifty, a hundred. And I just couldn't stand another of these damned games and I couldn't stand not being able to catch this guy out. So I took off. What do you think of that? Me, Junius Du Pont, throwing in the towel because I couldn't take the licking any more!'
Bond grunted sympathetically. The second round of drinks came. Bond was mildly interested, he was always interested in anything to do with cards. He could see the scene, the two men playing and playing and