Read Online Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill by John Gardner - Free Book Online
Authors: John Gardner
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Mr Krest.’
‘Looks like someone’s on the job, then.’
‘I just hope it isn’t you, James.’
‘Never heard of this fellow Krest. Don’t know any warehouses.’
‘I wonder. We know you came into the Charter Boat Dock, in a dinghy, with Leiter’s friend Sharky. The information indicates you could have just made it from that warehouse if Sharky rowed fast enough.’
Bond smiled pleasantly. ‘Mr Hawkins, you’ve a vivid imagination. Why don’t you ask Sharky?’
‘Oh, they’re going to – the cops, I mean. You see, the DA’s tearing his hair out and yelling blue murder. He wants the truth, and fast. We’ve got laws in this country, you know.’
With a sigh, Bond realised he would have to get over to the Charter Boat Dock as quickly as possible. Leiter’s house could wait.
‘Laws,’ repeated Hawkins.
‘You got a law against what they did to Felix?’
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Bond trying to think of a way to dodge Hawkins, and Hawkins obviously becoming more and more tense. Finally, Hawkins turned and stopped directly in front of Bond, his voice now harsh and completely unsympathetic. ‘Look, Mr Bond, you’re in over your head. This is where it ends as far as you’re concerned.’
Bond cursed himself. He had been so intent on trying to get away from Hawkins that he had not even noticed the appearance of anyone else. Now he was flanked by two young, and very fit, men. They were dressed in lightweight suits: one grey and the other blue. Bond thought he vaguely recognised the one in the grey suit.
Bond looked at each in turn, and then at Hawkins. He was blocked in, unless he did something violent, not a good idea in streets that were already filling up with cars and people making their way on foot to the many good restaurants in the area.
He looked up and realised where he was. A gate which led into a pleasantly laid-out garden, and behind this a house, with a balcony surrounding the whole of the second floor. There was a bust of Ernest Hemingway above the gate, and a sign which said ‘Historical Monument, Hemingway House. CLOSED’. So, he was at the famous place. On his previous visit to Key West he had planned to visit this house where Ernest Hemingway had lived from the early thirties until 1961, and where he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls, Green Hills of Africa , and The Snows of Kilimanjaro , among many others. Someone had once told him that the Hemingway house had the saddest atmosphere he had ever encountered in any home.
‘Take no notice of the sign, sir. Just go straight in.’ The one in the grey suit was firm-voiced, and Bond now knew where he had seen him before. He even remembered the man’s name. The accent was very English.
He nodded and walked inside the garden, the newcomers flanking him, directing him around to the right. There were cats everywhere. Hemingway had loved cats and had some hybrid variety with extra toes.
They led him past the swimming pool, where Hemingway had thrown down his last quarter into the wet cement, saying that was all he had left. They had left the quarter for all to see – though the infant son of an English author had secretly prised out the quarter on a visit. It turned out to have been minted in 1970.
Very gently, the pair of bodyguards – for that is what they were – led Bond up the flight of steps taking them up to the veranda. Even on this structure, Bond could feel the sorrow. Someone had been very unhappy here. He hoped he was not about to join in with the sense of despair which permeated the place.
His guards shouldered him to that part of the veranda which looked out on to the street – Whitehead Street. The man who stood there had not been so positioned when they entered the garden, but he was certainly there now, his back immediately recognisable.
From somewhere, maybe the church where Felix and Della had so happily married, a bell tolled once. Bond shrugged. He did not believe in omens. ‘Sir?’ he said
‘Looks like someone’s on the job, then.’
‘I just hope it isn’t you, James.’
‘Never heard of this fellow Krest. Don’t know any warehouses.’
‘I wonder. We know you came into the Charter Boat Dock, in a dinghy, with Leiter’s friend Sharky. The information indicates you could have just made it from that warehouse if Sharky rowed fast enough.’
Bond smiled pleasantly. ‘Mr Hawkins, you’ve a vivid imagination. Why don’t you ask Sharky?’
‘Oh, they’re going to – the cops, I mean. You see, the DA’s tearing his hair out and yelling blue murder. He wants the truth, and fast. We’ve got laws in this country, you know.’
With a sigh, Bond realised he would have to get over to the Charter Boat Dock as quickly as possible. Leiter’s house could wait.
‘Laws,’ repeated Hawkins.
‘You got a law against what they did to Felix?’
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Bond trying to think of a way to dodge Hawkins, and Hawkins obviously becoming more and more tense. Finally, Hawkins turned and stopped directly in front of Bond, his voice now harsh and completely unsympathetic. ‘Look, Mr Bond, you’re in over your head. This is where it ends as far as you’re concerned.’
Bond cursed himself. He had been so intent on trying to get away from Hawkins that he had not even noticed the appearance of anyone else. Now he was flanked by two young, and very fit, men. They were dressed in lightweight suits: one grey and the other blue. Bond thought he vaguely recognised the one in the grey suit.
Bond looked at each in turn, and then at Hawkins. He was blocked in, unless he did something violent, not a good idea in streets that were already filling up with cars and people making their way on foot to the many good restaurants in the area.
He looked up and realised where he was. A gate which led into a pleasantly laid-out garden, and behind this a house, with a balcony surrounding the whole of the second floor. There was a bust of Ernest Hemingway above the gate, and a sign which said ‘Historical Monument, Hemingway House. CLOSED’. So, he was at the famous place. On his previous visit to Key West he had planned to visit this house where Ernest Hemingway had lived from the early thirties until 1961, and where he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls, Green Hills of Africa , and The Snows of Kilimanjaro , among many others. Someone had once told him that the Hemingway house had the saddest atmosphere he had ever encountered in any home.
‘Take no notice of the sign, sir. Just go straight in.’ The one in the grey suit was firm-voiced, and Bond now knew where he had seen him before. He even remembered the man’s name. The accent was very English.
He nodded and walked inside the garden, the newcomers flanking him, directing him around to the right. There were cats everywhere. Hemingway had loved cats and had some hybrid variety with extra toes.
They led him past the swimming pool, where Hemingway had thrown down his last quarter into the wet cement, saying that was all he had left. They had left the quarter for all to see – though the infant son of an English author had secretly prised out the quarter on a visit. It turned out to have been minted in 1970.
Very gently, the pair of bodyguards – for that is what they were – led Bond up the flight of steps taking them up to the veranda. Even on this structure, Bond could feel the sorrow. Someone had been very unhappy here. He hoped he was not about to join in with the sense of despair which permeated the place.
His guards shouldered him to that part of the veranda which looked out on to the street – Whitehead Street. The man who stood there had not been so positioned when they entered the garden, but he was certainly there now, his back immediately recognisable.
From somewhere, maybe the church where Felix and Della had so happily married, a bell tolled once. Bond shrugged. He did not believe in omens. ‘Sir?’ he said
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