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Instead he explored his present physical sensations. He felt the dry, uncomfortable gravel under his evening shoes, the bad, harsh taste in his mouth and the slight sweat under his arms.
He could feel his eyes filling their sockets. The front of his face, his nose and antrum, were congested.
He breathed the sweet night air deeply and focused his senses and his wits. He wanted to know if anyone had searched his room since he had left it before dinner.
He smiled at the concierge who gave him his key - No 45 on the first floor - and took the cable. It was the reply to a request Bond had sent that afternoon through Paris to his headquarters in London asking for more funds.
Paris had spoken to London where Clements, the head of Bond's department, had spoken to M, who had smiled wryly and told 'The Broker' to fix it with the Treasury.
Bond had once worked in Jamaica and his cover on the Royale assignment was that of a very rich client of Messrs Caffery, the principal import and export firm of Jamaica.
So he was being controlled through Jamaica, through a taciturn man who was head of the picture desk on the Daily Gleaner, the famous newspaper of the Caribbean.
This man on the Gleaner, whose name was Fawcett, had been book-keeper for one of the leading turtle-fisheries on the Cayman Islands.
One of the men from the Caymans who had volunteered on the outbreak of war, he had ended up as a Paymaster's clerk in a small Naval Intelligence organization in Malta.
At the end of the war, when, with a heavy heart, he was due to return to the Caymans, he was spotted by the section of the Secret Service concerned with the Caribbean.
He was strenuously trained in photography and in some other arts and, with the quiet connivance of an influential man in Jamaica, found his way to the picture desk of the Gleaner.
In the intervals between sifting photographs submitted by the great agencies - Keystone, Wide-World, Universal, INP, and Reuter-Photo - he would get peremptory instructions by telephone from a man he had never met to carry out certain simple operations requiring nothing but absolute discretion, speed, and accuracy.
For these occasional services he received twenty pounds a month paid into his account with the Royal Bank of Canada by a fictitious relative in England.
Fawcett's present assignment was to relay immediately to Bond, full rates, the text of messages which he received at home by telephone from his anonymous contact.
He had been told by this contact that nothing he would be asked to send would arouse the suspicion of the Jamaican post office. So he was not surprised to find himself suddenly appointed string correspondent for the 'Maritime Press and Photo Agency', with press-collect facilities to France and England, on a further monthly retainer of ten pounds.
He also bought a green eye-shade which he had long coveted and which helped him to impose his personality on the picture desk. Some of this background to his cable passed through Bond's mind.
He was used to oblique control and rather liked it. He felt it feather-bedded him a little, allowed him to give or take an hour or two in his communications with M.
He knew that this was probably a fallacy, that probably there was another member of the Service at Royale-les-Eaux who was reporting independently, but it did give the illusion that he wasn't only miles across the Channel from that deadly office building near Regent's Park, being watched and judged by those few cold brains that made the whole show work.
Just as Fawcett, the Cayman Islander in Kingston, knew that if he bought that Morris Minor outright instead of signing the hire-purchase agreement, someone in London would probably know and want to know where the money had come from.
Bond read the cable twice. He tore a telegram form off the pad on the desk why give them carbon copies?
The employers if any of the concierge could bribe a copy out of the local post office, if the concierge hadn't already steamed the envelope open or read the cable upside down in Bond's hands.
He took his key and said good night and turned to the stairs, shaking his head at the liftman. Bond knew what an obliging danger-signal a lift could be.
He didn't expect anyone to be moving on the first floor, but he preferred to be prudent. Walking quietly up on the balls of his feet, he regretted the hubris of his reply to M via Jamaica.
As a gambler he knew it was a mistake to rely on too small a capital. Anyway, M probably wouldn't let him have any more. He shrugged his shoulders and turned off the stairs into the corridor and walked softly to the door of his room.
Bond knew exactly where the switch was and it was with one flow of motion that he stood on the threshold with the door full open, the light on and a gun in his hand.
The safe, empty room sneered at him. He ignored the half-open door of the bathroom and, locking himself in, he turned up the bed-light and the mirror-light and threw his gun on the settee beside the window.
Then he bent down and inspected one of his own black hairs which still lay undisturbed where he had left it before dinner, wedged into the drawer of the writing-desk.
Next he examined a faint trace of talcum powder on the inner rim of the porcelain handle of the clothes cupboard.
It appeared immaculate. He went into the bathroom, lifted the cover of the lavatory cistern and verified the level of the water against a small scratch on the copper ball-cock.
Doing all this, inspecting these minute burglar-alarms, did not make him feel foolish or self-conscious.
The idea was a straight swop. The girl against his cheque for forty million. Well, he wouldnt play: wouldnt think of playing. She was in the Service and knew what she was up against.
He wouldnt even ask M. This job was more important than her. It was just too bad. She was a fine girl, but he wasnt going to fall for this childish trick.
No dice. He would have done his stuff - tried to rescue her before they got her off to some hideout - but if he didnt catch up with them he would get back to his hotel and go to sleep and say no more about it.
The next morning he would ask Mathis what had happened to her and show him the note. If Le Chiffre put the touch on Bond for the money in exchange for the girl, Bond would do nothing and tell no one.
The girl would just have to take it. If the commissionaire came along with the story of what he had seen, Bond would bluff it out by saying he had had a drunken row with the girl.
Bonds mind raged furiously on with the problem as he flung the great car down the coast road, automatically taking the curves and watching out for carts or cyclists on their way into Royale.
On straight stretches the Amherst Villiers supercharger dug spurs into the Bentleys twenty-five horses and the engine sent a high-pitched scream of pain into the night.
Then the revolutions mounted until he was past and on to the mph mark on the speedometer. He knew he must be gaining fast. On an impulse he slowed down to seventy, turned on his fog-lights, and dowsed the twin Marchals.
With this, if he was lucky with the surface of the road, he could hope to get their tyres or their petrol tank at anything up to a hundred yards.
Then he switched on the big lights again and screamed off in pursuit. He felt calm and at ease. The problem of Vespers life was a problem no longer.
His face in the blue light from the dashboard was grim but serene. Le Chiffre was driving, his big fluid body hunched forward, his hands light and delicate on the wheel.
Beside him sat the squat man who had carried the stick in the Casino. In his left hand he grasped a thick lever which protruded beside him almost level with the floor.
It might have been a lever to adjust the driving seat. In the back seat was the tall thin gunman. He lay back relaxed, gazing at the ceiling, apparently uninterested in the wild speed of the car.
His right hand lay caressingly on Vespers left thigh which stretched out naked beside him. Apart from her legs, which were naked to the hips, Vesper was only a parcel.
Her long black velvet skirt had been lifted over her arms and head and tied above her head with a piece of rope.
Where her face was, a small gap had been torn in the velvet so that she could breathe. She was not bound in any other way and she lay quiet, her body moving sluggishly with the swaying of the car.
Le Chiffre was concentrating half on the road ahead and half on the onrushing glare of Bonds headlights in the driving-mirror.
He seemed undisturbed when not more than a mile separated the hare from the hounds and he even brought the car down from eighty to sixty miles an hour.
Now, as he swept round a bend he slowed down still further. A few hundred yards ahead a Michelin post showed where a small parochial road crossed with the highway.
Attention, he said sharply to the man beside him. The mans hand tightened on the lever. A hundred yards from the cross-roads he slowed to thirty.
In the mirror Bonds great headlights were lighting up the bend. Le Chiffre seemed to make up his mind. The man beside him pulled the lever sharply upwards.
The boot at the back of the car yawned open like a whales mouth. There was a tinkling clatter on the road and then a rhythmic jangling as if the car was towing lengths of chain behind it.
The man depressed the lever sharply and the jangling stopped with a final clatter. Le Chiffre glanced again in the mirror. Bonds car was just entering the bend.
He stopped the car with a jerk and all three men got swiftly out and doubled back under cover of a low hedge to the cross-roads, now fiercely illuminated by the lights of the Bentley.
Each of them carried a revolver and the thin man also had what looked like a large black egg in his right hand.
The Bentley screamed down towards them like an express train. He imagined that the enemy driver would try to dodge off into a side-road if he got the chance.
So when he got round the bend and saw no lights ahead, it was a normal reflex to ease up on the accelerator and, when he saw the Michelin post, to prepare to brake.
He was only doing about sixty as he approached the black patch across the right-hand crown of the road which he assumed to be the shadow cast by a wayside tree.
Even so, there was no time to save himself. There was suddenly a small carpet of glinting steel spikes right under his off-side wing. Then he was on top of it.
Bond automatically slammed the brakes full on and braced all his sinews against the wheel to correct the inevitable slew to the left, but he only kept control for a split second.
As the rubber was flayed from his off-side wheels and the rims for an instant tore up the tarmac, the heavy car whirled across the road in a tearing dry skid, slammed the left bank with a crash that knocked Bond out of the driving-seat on to the floor, and then, facing back up the road, it reared slowly up, its front wheels spinning and its great headlights searching the sky.