Apart from the background noise of the insects, the wide empty street was quiet. The wealthy owners of the big, withdrawn2 houses-the bank managers, company directors and top civil servants-had been home since five o'clock and they would be discussing the day with their wives or taking a shower and changing their clothes. In half an hour the street would come to life again with the cocktail3 traffic, but now this very superior half mile of 'Rich Road', as it was known to the tradesmen of Kingston, held nothing but the suspense4 of an empty stage and the heavy perfume of night-scented jasmine.
Richmond Road is the 'best' road in all Jamaica. It is Jamaica's Park Avenue, its Kensington Palace Gardens, its Avenue D'lena. The 'best' people live in its big old-fashioned houses, each in an acre or two of beautiful lawn set, too trimly, with the finest trees and flowers from the Botanical Gardens at Hope. The long, straight road is cool and quiet and withdrawn from the hot, vulgar sprawl5 of Kingston where its residents earn their money, and, on the other side of the T-inter-section at its top, lie the grounds of King's House, where the Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Jamaica lives with his family. In Jamaica, no road could have a finer ending.
On the eastern corner of the top intersection6 stands No 1 Richmond Road, a substantial two-storey house with broad white-painted verandas7 running round both floors. From the road a gravel8 path leads up to the pillared entrance through wide lawns marked out with tennis courts on which this evening, as on all evenings, the sprinklers are at work. This mansion9 is the social Mecca of Kingston. It is Queen's Club, which, for fifty years, has boasted the power and frequency of its blackballs.
Such stubborn retreats will not long survive in modern Jamaica. One day Queen's Club will have its windows smashed and perhaps be burned to the ground, but for the time being it is a useful place to find in a sub-tropical island-well run, well staffed and with the finest cuisine10 and cellar in the Caribbean. At that-time of day, on most evenings of the year, you would find the same four motor cars standing11 in the road outside the club. They were the cars belonging to the high bridge game that assembled punctually at five and played until around midnight. You could almost set your watch by these cars. They belonged, reading from the order in which they now stood against the kerb, to the Brigadier in command of the Caribbean Defence Force, to Kingston's leading criminal lawyer, and to the Mathematics Professor from Kingston University. At the tail of the line* stood the black Sunbeam Alpine12 of Commander John Strangways, RN (Ret.), Regional Control Officer for the Caribbean-or, less discreetly13, the local representative of the British Secret Service.
Just before six-fifteen, the silence of Richmond Road was softly broken. Three blind beggars came round the corner of the intersection and moved slowly down the pavement towards the four cars. They were Chigroes-Chinese Negroes-bulky men, but bowed as they shuffled14 along, tapping at the kerb with their white sticks. They walked in file. The first man, who wore blue glasses and could presumably see better than the others, walked in front holding a tin cup against the crook15 of the stick in his left hand. The right hand of the second man rested on his shoulder and the right hand of the third on the shoulder of the second. The eyes of the second and third men were shut. The three men were dressed in rags and wore dirty jippa-jappa baseball caps with long peaks. They said nothing and no noise came from them except the soft tapping of their sticks as they came slowly down the shadowed pavement towards the group of cars.
The three blind men would not have been incongruous in Kingston, where there are many diseased people on the streets, but, in this quiet rich empty street, they made an unpleasant impression. And it was odd that they should all be Chinese Negroes. This is not a common mixture of bloods.
In the cardroom, the sunburned hand reached out into the green pool of the centre table and gathered up the four cards. There was a quiet snap as the trick went to join the rest.
"Hundred honours," said Strangways, "and ninety below!" He looked at his watch and stood up. "Back in twenty minutes. Your deal, Bill. Order some drinks. Usual for me. Don't bother to cook a hand for me while I'm gone. I always spot them."
Bill Templar, the Brigadier, laughed shortly. He pinged the bell by his side and raked the cards in towards him. He said, "Hurry up, blast you. You always let the cards go cold just as your partner's in the money."
Strangways was already out of the door. The three men sat back resignedly in their chairs. The coloured steward16 came in and they ordered drinks for themselves and a whisky and water for Strangways.
There was this maddening interruption every evening at six-fifteen, about halfway17 through their second rubber. At this time precisely18, even if they were in the middle of a hand, Strangways had to go to his 'office' and 'make a call'. It was a damned nuisance. But Strangways was a vital part of their four and they put up with it. It was never explained what 'the call' was, and no one asked. Strangways's job was 'hush19' and that was that. He was rarely away for more than twenty minutes and it was understood that he paid for his absence with a round of drinks.
The drinks came and the three men began to talk racing20.
In fact, this was the most important moment in Strangways's day-the time of his duty radio contact with the powerful transmitter on the roof of the building in Regent's Park that is the headquarters of the Secret Service. Every day, at eighteen-thirty local time, unless he gave' warning the day before that he would not be on the air-when he had business on one of the other islands in his territory, for instance, or was seriously ill-he would transmit his daily report and receive his orders. If he failed to come on the air precisely at six-thirty, there would be a second call, the 'Blue' call, at seven, and, finally, the 'Red' call at seven-thirty. After this, if his transmitter remained silent, it was 'Emergency', and Section III, his controlling authority in London, would urgently get on the job of finding out what had happened to him.
Even a 'Blue' call means a bad mark for an agent unless his 'Reasons in Writing' are unanswerable. London's radio schedules round the world are desperately21 tight and their minute disruption by even one extra call is a dangerous nuisance. Strangways had never suffered the ignominy of a 'Blue' call, let alone a 'Red', and was as certain as could be that he never would do so. Every evening, at precisely six-fifteen, he left Queen's Club, got into his car and drove for ten minutes up into the foothills of the Blue Mountains to his neat bungalow22 with the fabulous23 view over Kingston harbour. At six twenty-five he walked through the hall to the office at the back. He unlocked the door and locked it again behind him. Miss Trueblood, who passed as his secretary, but was in fact his No. 2 and a former Chief Officer WRNS, would already be sitting in front of the dials inside the dummy24 filing cabinet. She would have the earphones on and would be making first contact, tapping out his call-sign, WXN, on 14 megacycles. There would be a shorthand pad on her elegant knees. Strangways would drop into the chair beside her and pick up the other pair of headphones and, at exactly six twenty-eight, he would take over from her and wait for the sudden hollowness in the ether that meant that WWW in London was coming in to acknowledge.
It was an iron routine. Strangways was a man of iron routine. Unfortunately, strict patterns of behaviour can be deadly if they are read by an enemy.
Strangways, a tall lean man with a black patch over the right eye and the sort of aquiline25 good looks you associate with the bridge of a destroyer, walked quickly across the mahogany panelled hallway of Queen's Club and pushed through the light mosquito-wired doors and ran down the three steps to the path.
There was nothing very much on his mind except the sensual pleasure of the clean fresh evening air and the memory of the finesse26 that had given him his three spades. There was this case, of course, the case he was working on, a curious and complicated affair that M had rather nonchalantly tossed over the air at him two weeks earlier. But it was going well. A chance lead into the Chinese community had paid off. Some-odd angles had come to light-for the present the merest shadows of angles-but if they jelled, thought Strangways as. he strode down the gravel path and into Richmond Road, he might find himself involved in something very odd indeed.
Strangways shrugged27 his shoulders. Of course it wouldn't turn out like that. The fantastic never materialized in his line of business. There would be some drab solution that had been embroidered28 by overheated imaginations and the usual hysteria of the Chinese.
Automatically, another part of Strangways's mind took in the three blind men. They were tapping slowly towards him down the sidewalk. They were about twenty yards away. He calculated that they would pass him a second or two before he reached his car. Out of shame for his own health and gratitude29 for it, Strangways felt for a coin. He ran his thumbnail down its edge to make sure it was a florin and not a penny. He took it out. He was parallel with the beggars. How odd, they were all Chigroes! How very odd! Strangways's hand went out. The coin clanged in the tin cup.
"Bless you, Master," said the leading man. "Bless you," echoed the other two.
The car key was in Strangways's hand. Vaguely30 he registered the moment of silence as the tapping of the white sticks ceased. It was too late.
As Strangways had passed the last man, all three had swivelled. The back two had fanned out a step to have a clear field of fire. Three revolvers, ungainly with their sausage-shaped silencers, whipped out of holsters concealed31 among the rags. With disciplined precision the three men aimed at different points down Strangways's spine-one between the shoulders, one in the small of the back, one at the pelvis.
The three heavy coughs were almost one. Strangways's body was hurled32 forward as if it had been kicked. It lay absolutely still in the small puff33 of dust from the sidewalk.
It was six-seventeen. With a squeal34 of tyres, a dingy35 motor hearse with black plumes36 flying from the four corners of its roof took the T-intersection into Richmond Road and shot down towards the group on the pavement. The three men had just had time to pick up Strangways's body when the hearse slid to a stop abreast37 of them. The double doors at the back were open. So was the plain deal coffin38 inside. The three men manhandled the body through the doors and into the coffin. They climbed in. The lid was put on and the doors pulled shut. The three Negroes sat down on three of the four little seats at the corners of the coffin and unhurriedly laid their white sticks beside them. Roomy black alpaca coats hung over the backs of the seats. They put the coats on over their rags. Then they took off their baseball caps and reached down to the floor and picked up black top hats and put them on their heads.
The driver, who also was a Chinese Negro, looked nervously39 over his shoulder.
"Go, man. Go!" said the biggest of the killers41. He glanced down at the luminous42 dial of his wrist watch. It said six-twenty. Just three minutes for the job. Dead on time.
The hearse made a decorous U-turn and moved at a sedate43 speed up to the intersection. There it turned right and at thirty miles an hour it cruised genteelry up the tarmac highway towards the hills, its black plumes streaming the doleful signal of its burden and the three mourners sitting bolt upright with their arms crossed respectfully over their hearts.
'WXN calling WWW… WXN calling WWW…
WXN… WXN… WXN…'
The centre finger of Mary Trueblood's right hand stabbed softly, elegantly, at the key. She lifted her left wrist. Six twenty-eight. He was a minute late. Mary Trueblood smiled at the thought of the little open Sunbeam tearing up the road towards her. Now, in a second, she would hear the quick step, then the key in the lock and he would be sitting beside her. There would be the apologetic smile as he reached for the earphones. "Sorry, Mary. Damned car wouldn't start." Or, "You'd think the blasted police knew my number by now. Stopped me at Halfway Tree." Mary Trueblood took the second pair of earphones off their hook and put them on his chair to save him half a second.
'… WXN calling WWW____WXN calling WWW____'
She tuned44 the dial a hair's breadth and tried again. Her watch said six-twenty-nine. She began to worry. In a matter of seconds, London would be coming in. Suddenly she thought, God, what could she do if Strangways wasn't on time! It was useless for her to acknowledge London and pretend she was him-useless and dangerous. Radio Security would be monitoring the call, as they monitored every call from an agent. Those instruments which measured the minute peculiarities45 in an operator's 'fist' would at once detect it wasn't Strangways at the key. Mary Trueblood had been shown the forest of dials in the quiet room on the top floor at headquarters, had watched as the dancing hands registered the weight of each pulse, the speed of each cipher46 group, the stumble over a particular letter. The Controller had explained it all to her when she had joined the Caribbean station five years before-how a buzzer47 would sound and the contact be automatically broken if the wrong operator had come on the air. It was the basic protection against a Secret Service'transmitter falling into enemy hands. And, if an agent had been captured and was being forced to contact London under torture, he had only to add a few hairbreadth peculiarities to his usual 'fist' and they would tell the story of his capture as clearly as if he had announced it en clair.
Now it had come! Now she was hearing the hollowness in the ether that meant London was coming in. Mary Trueblood glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. Panic! But now, at last, there were the footsteps in the hall. Thank God! In a second he would come in. She must protect him! Desperately she decided48 to take a chance and keep the circuit open.
'WWW calling WXN____WWW calling WXN____Can
you hear me?… can you hear me?' London was coming over strong, searching for the Jamaica station.
The footsteps were at the door.
Coolly, confidently, she tapped back: 'Hear you loud and clear… Hear you loud and clear… Hear you…"
Behind her there was an explosion. Something hit her on the ankle. She looked down. It was the lock of the door.
Mary Trueblood swivelled sharply on her chair. A man stood in the doorway49. It wasn't Strangways. It was a big Negro with yellowish skin and slanting50 eyes. There was a gun in his hand. It ended in a thick black cylinder51.
Mary Trueblood opened her mouth to scream.
The man smiled broadly. Slowly, lovingly, he lifted the gun and shot her three times in and around the left breast.
The girl slumped52 sideways off her chair. The earphones slipped off her golden hair on to the floor. For perhaps a second the tiny chirrup of London sounded out into the room. Then it stopped. The buzzer at the Controller's desk in Radio Security had signalled that something was wrong on WXN.
The killer40 walked out of the door. He. came back carrying a box with a coloured label on it that said PRESTO53 FIRE, and a big sugar sack marked TATE & LYLE. He put the box down on the floor and went to the body and roughly forced the sack over the head and down to the ankles. The feet stuck out. He bent54 them and crammed55 them in. He dragged the bulky sack out into the hall and came back. In the corner of the room the safe stood open, as he had been told it would, and the cipher books had been taken out and laid on the desk ready for work on the London signals. The man threw these and all the papers in the safe into the centre of the room. He tore down the curtains and added them to the pile. He topped it up with a couple of chairs. He opened the box of Presto firelighters and took out a handful and tucked them into the pile and lit them. Then he went out into the hall and lit similar bonfires in appropriate places. The tinder-dry furniture caught quickly and the flames began to lick up the panelling. .The man went to the front door and opened it. Through the hibiscus hedge he could see the glint of the hearse. There was no noise except the zing of crickets and the soft tick-over of the car's engine. Up and down the road there was no other sign of life. The man went back into the smoke-filled hall and easily shouldered the sack and came out again, leaving the door open to make a draught56. He walked swiftly down the path to the road. The back doors of the hearse were open. He handed in the sack and watched the two men force it into the coffin on top of Strangways's body. Then he climbed in and shut the doors and sat down and put on his top hat. .
As the first flames showed in the upper windows of the bungalow, the hearse moved quietly from the sidewalk and went on its way up towards the Mona Reservoir. There the weighted coffin would slip down into its fifty-fathom grave and, in just forty-five minutes, the personnel and records of the Caribbean station of the Secret Service would have been utterly57 destroyed.
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1
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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3
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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4
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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5
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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6
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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7
verandas
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| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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9
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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10
cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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11
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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12
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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13
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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14
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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15
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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16
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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17
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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18
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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19
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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21
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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24
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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27
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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28
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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32
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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33
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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34
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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41
killers
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| 凶手( killer的名词复数 )； 消灭…者； 致命物； 极难的事 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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44
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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45
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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46
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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47
buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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50
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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51
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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52
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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53
presto
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| adv.急速地；n.急板乐段；adj.急板的 | |
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54
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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55
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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56
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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57
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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