if.liveandletdie-第23部分

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they　sit　squashed　together　in　droves　on　things　called　〃Sidewalk　Davenports〃；　rows　of　benches　up　and　down　the　sidewalks　of　the　main　streets。　They　just　sit　in　the　sun　and　gossip　and　doze。　It's　a　terrifying　sight；　all　these　old　people　with　their　spectacles　and　hearing…aids　and　clicking　false…teeth。'
　'Sounds　pretty　grim；'　said　Bond。　'Why　the　hell　did　Mr。　Big　choose　this　place　to　operate　from？'
　'It's　perfect　for　him；'　said　Solitaire　seriously。　'There's　practically　no　crime；　except　cheating　at　bridge　and　Canasta。　So　there's　a　very　small　police　force。　There's　quite　a　big　Coastguard　Station　but　it's　mainly　concerned　with　smuggling　between　Tampa　and　Cuba；　and　sponge…fishing　out　of　season　at　Tarpon　Springs。　I　don't　really　know　what　he　does　there　except　that　he's　got　a　big　agent　called　〃The　Robber〃。　Something　to　do　with　Cuba；　I　expect；'　she　added　thoughtfully。　'Probably　mixed　up　with　munism。　I　believe　Cuba　conies　under　Harlem　and　runs　red　agents　all　through　the　Caribbean。
　'Anyway；'　she　went　on；　'St。　Petersburg　is　probably　the　most　innocent　town　in　America。　Everything's　very　〃folksy〃　and　〃gracious〃。　It's　true　there's　a　place　called　〃The　Res…torium〃；　a　hospital　for　alcoholics。　But　very　old　ones；　I　suppose；'　she　laughed；　'and　I　expect　they're　past　doing　anyone　any　harm。　You'll　love　it；'　she　smiled　maliciously　at　Bond。　'You'll　probably　want　to　settle　down　there　for　life　and　be　an　〃Oldster〃　too。　That's　the　great　word　down　there。。。　〃oldster〃。'
　'God　forbid；'　said　Bond　fervently。　'It　sounds　rather　like　Bournemouth　or　Torquay。　But　a　million　times　worse。　I　hope　we　don't　get　into　a　shooting　match　with　〃The　Robber〃　and　his　friends。　We'd　probably　hurry　a　few　hundred　oldsters　off　to　the　cemetery　with　heart…failure。　But　isn't　there　anyone　young　in　this　place？'
　'Oh　yes；'　laughed　Solitaire。　'Plenty　of　them。　All　the　local　inhabitants　who　take　the　money　off　the　oldsters；　for　instance。　The　people　who　own　the　motels　and　the　trailer…camps。　You　could　make　plenty　of　money　running　the　bingo　tournaments。　I'll　be　your　〃barker〃　…　the　girl　outside　who　gets　the　suckers　in。　Dear　Mr。　Bond；'　she　reached　over　and　pressed　his　hand；　'will　you　settle　down　with　me　and　grow　old　gracefully　in　St。　Petersburg？'
　Bond　sat　back　and　looked　at　her　critically。　'I　want　a　long　time　of　disgraceful　living　with　you　first；'　he　said　with　a　grin。　'I'm　probably　better　at　that。　But　it　suits　me　that　they　go　to　bed　at　nine　down　there。'
　Her　eyes　smiled　back　at　him。　She　took　her　hand　away　from　his　as　their　breakfast　arrived。　'Yes；'　she　said。　'You　go　to　bed　at　nine。　Then　I　shall　slip　out　by　the　back　door　and　go　on　the　tiles　with　the　Kids　and　the　Kubs。'
　The　breakfast　was　as　bad　as　Bond　had　prophesied。
　When　they　had　paid　they　wandered　over　to　the　station　waiting…room。
　The　sun　had　risen　and　the　light　swarmed　in　dusty　bars　into　the　vaulted；　empty　hall。　They　sat　together　in　a　corner　and　until　the　Silver　Meteor　came　in　Bond　plied　her　with　questions　about　The　Big　Man　and　all　she　could　tell　him　about　his　operations。
　Occasionally　he　made　a　note　of　a　date　or　a　name　but　there　was　little　she　could　add　to　what　he　knew。　She　had　an　apartment　to　herself　in　the　same　Harlem　block　as　Mr。　Big　and　she　had　been　kept　virtually　a　prisoner　there　for　the　past　year。　She　had　two　tough　negresses　as　'panions'　and　was　never　allowed　out　without　a　guard。
　From　time　to　time　Mr。　Big　would　have　her　brought　over　to　the　room　where　Bond　had　seen　him。　There　she　would　be　told　to　divine　whether　some　man　or　woman；　generally　bound　to　the　chair；　was　lying　or　not。　She　varied　her　replies　according　to　whether　she　sensed　these　people　were　good　or　evil。　She　knew　that　her　verdict　might　often　be　a　death　sentence　but　she　felt　indifferent　to　the　fate　of　those　she　judged　to　be　evil。　Very　few　of　them　were　white。
　Bond　jotted　down　the　dates　and　details　of　all　these　occasions。
　Everything　she　told　him　added　to　the　picture　of　a　very　powerful　and　active　man；　ruthless　and　cruel；　manding　a　huge　network　of　operations。
　All　she　knew　of　the　gold　coins　was　that　she　had　several　times　had　to　question　men　on　how　many　they　had　passed　and　the　price　they　had　been　paid　for　them。　Very　often；　she　said；　they　were　lying　on　both　counts。
　Bond　was　careful　to　divulge…very　little　of　what　he　himself　knew　or　guessed。　His　growing　warmth　towards　Solitaire　and　his　desire　for　her　body　were　in　a　partment　which　had　no　municating　door　with　his　professional　life。
　The　Silver　Meteor　came　in　on　time　and　they　were　both　relieved　to　be　on　their　way　again　and　to　get　away　from　the　dreary　world　of　the　big　junction。
　The　train　sped　on　down　through　Florida；　through　the　forests　and　swamps；　stark　and　bewitched　with　Spanish　moss；　and　through　the　mile　upon　mile　of　citrus　groves。
　All　through　the　centre　of　the　state　the　moss　lent　a　dead；　spectral　feeling　to　the　landscape。　Even　the　little　townships　through　which　they　passed　had　a　grey　skeletal　aspect　with　their　dried…up；　sun…sucked　clapboard　houses。　Only　the　citrus　groves　laden　with　fruit　looked　green　and　alive。　Everything　else　seemed　baked　and　desiccated　with　the　heat。
　Looking　out　at　the　gloomy　silent　withered　forests；　Bond　thought　that　nothing　could　be　living　in　them　except　bats　and　scorpions；　horned　toads　and　black　widow　spiders。
　They　had　lunch　and　then　suddenly　the　train　was　running　along　the　Gulf　of　Mexico；　through　the　mangrove　swamps　and　palm　groves；　endless　motels　and　caravan　sites；　and　Bond　caught　the　smell　of　the　other　Florida；　the　Florida　of　the　advertisements；　the　land　of　'Miss　Orange　Blossom　I954'。
　They　left　the　train　at　Clearwater；　the　last　station　before　St。　Petersburg。　Bond　took　a　cab　and　gave　the　address　on　Treasure　Island；　half　an　hour's　drive　away。　It　was　two　o'clock　and　the　sun　blazed　down　out　of　a　cloudless　sky。　Solitaire　insisted　on　taking　off　her　hat　and　veil。　'It's　sticking　to　my　face；'　she　said。　'Hardly　a　soul　has　ever　seen　me　down　here。'
　
　A　big　negro　with　a　face　pitted　with　ancient　smallpox　was　held　up　in　his　cab　at　the　same　time　as　they　were　checked　at　the　intersection　of　Park　Street　and　Central　Avenue；　where　the　Avenue　runs　on　to　the　long　Treasure　Island　causeway　across　the　shallow　waters　of　Boca　Ciega　Bay。
　When　the　negro　saw　Solitaire's　profile　his　mouth　fell　open。　He　pulled　his　cab　into　the　kerb　and　dived　into　a　drugstore。　He　called　a　St。　Petersburg　number。
　'Dis　is　Poxy；'　he　said　urgently　into　the　mouthpiece。　'Gimme　da　Robber'n　step　on　it。　Dat　you；　Robber？　Lissen；　Da　Big　Man　muss　be　n'town。　Whaddya　mean　yuh　jes　talked　wit　him　'n　New　York？　Ah　jes　seen　his　gal　'n　a　Clear…water　cab；　one　of　da　Stassen　pany's。　Headin'　over　da　Causeway。　Sho　Ahm　sartin。　Cross　ma　heart。　Couldn　mistake　dat　eyeful。　Wid　a　man　'n　a　blue　suit；　grey　Stetson。　Seemed　like　a　scar　down　his　face。　Whaddya　mean；　follow　'em？　Ah　jes　couldn　believe　yuh　wouldn　tell　me　da　Big　Man　wuz　'n　town　ef　he　wuz。　Thought　mebbe　Ahd　better　check　'n　make　sho。　Okay；　okay。　Ah'll　ketch　da　cab　when　he　es　back　over　da　Causeway；　else　at　Clearwater。　Okay；　okay。　Keep　yo　shirt　on。　Ah　ain't　done　nuthen　wrong。'
　The　man　called　'The　Robber'　was　through　to　New　York　in　five　minutes。　He　had　been　warned　about　Bond　but　he　couldn't　understand　where　Solitaire　tied　in　to　the　picture。　When　he　had　finished　talking　to　The　Big　Man　he　still　didn't　know；　but　his　instructions　were　quite　definite。
　He　rang　off　and　sat　for　a　while　drumming　his　fingers　on　his　desk。　Ten　Grand　for　the　job。　He'd　need　two　men。　That　would　leave　eight　Grand　for　him。　He　licked　his　lips　and　called　a　poolroom　in　a　downtown　bar　in　Tampa。
　
　Bond　paid　off　the　cab　at　The　Everglades；　a　group　of　neat　white…and…yellow　clapboard　cottages　set　on　three　sides　of　a　square　of　Bahama　grass　which　ran　fifty　yards　down　to　a　bone…white　beach　and　then　to　the　sea。　From　there；　the　whole　Gulf　of　Mexico　stretched　away；　as　calm　as　a　mirror；　until　the　heat…haze　on　the　horizon　married　it　into　the　cloudless　sky。
　After　London；　after　New　York；　after　Jacksonville；　it　was　a　sparkling　transition。
　Bond　went　through　a　door　marked　'Office'　with　Solitaire　demurely　at　his　heels。　He　rang　a　bell　that　said；　'Manageress　：　Mrs。　Stuyvesant'；　and　a　withered　shrimp　of　a　woman　with　blue…rinsed　hair　appeared　and　smiled　with　her　pinched　lips。　'Yes？'
　'Mr。　Leiter？'
　'Oh　yes；　you're　Mr。　Bryce。　Cabana　Numbe