Bond sighed deeply. It would be a very troublesome coroner who brought in anything but misadventure. He went back to the boat-deck, gave it a final look over, disposed of the knife and the wet cloth, and went down the ladder to his bed in the well. It was two-fifteen. Bond was asleep inside ten minutes.
By pushing the speed up to twelve knots they made North Point by six o'clock that evening. Behind them the sky was ablaze with red and gold streaked across aquamarine. The two men, with the woman between them, stood at the rail of the well-deck and watched the brilliant shore slip by across the mother-of-pearl mirror of the sea. Liz Krest was wearing a white linen frock with a black belt and a black and white handkerchief round her neck. The mourning colours went well with the golden skin. The three people stood stiffly and rather self-consciously, each one nursing his own piece of secret knowledge, each one anxious to convey to the other two that their particular secrets were safe with him.
That morning there had seemed to be a conspiracy among the three to sleep late. Even Bond had not been awakened by the sun until ten o'clock. He showered in the crew's quarters and chatted with the helmsman before going below to see what had happened to Fidele Barbey. He was still in bed. He said he had a hangover. Had he been very rude to Mr Krest? He couldn't remember much about it except that he seemed to recall Mr Krest being very rude to him. "You remember what I said about him from the beginning, James? A grand slam redoubled in bastards. Now do you agree with me? One of these days someone's going to shut that soft ugly mouth of his for ever."
Inconclusive. Bond had fixed himself some breakfast in the galley and was eating it there when Liz Krest had come in to do the same. She was dressed in a pale blue shantung kimono to her knees. There were dark rings under her eyes and she ate her breakfast standing. But she seemed perfectly calm and at ease. She whispered conspiratorially: "I do apologize about last night. I suppose I'd had a bit too much to drink too. But do forgive Milt. He's really awfully nice. It's only when he's had a bit too much that he gets sort of difficult. He's always sorry the next morning. You'll see."
When eleven o'clock came and neither of the other two showed any signs of, so to speak, blowing the gaff, Bond decided to force the pace. He looked very hard at Liz Krest who was lying on her stomach in the well-deck reading a magazine. He said: "By the way, where's your husband? Still sleeping it off?"
She frowned. "I suppose so. He went up to his hammock on the boat-deck. I've no idea what time. I took a sleeping-pill and went straight off."
Fidele Barbey had a line out for amberjack. Without looking round he said: "He's probably in the pilot-house."
Bond said: "If he's still asleep on the boat-deck, he'll be getting the hell of a sunburn."
Liz Krest said: "Oh, poor Milt! I hadn't thought of that. I'll go and see."
She climbed the ladder. When her head was above the level of the boat-deck she stopped. She called down, anxiously: "Jim. He's not here. And the hammock's broken."
Bond said: "Fidele's probably right. I'll have a look forrard."
He went to the pilot-house. Fritz, the mate and the engineer were there. Bond said: "Anyone seen Mr Krest?"
Fritz looked puzzled. "No, sir. Why? Is anything wrong?"
Bond flooded his face with anxiety. "He's not aft. Here, come on! Look round everywhere. He was sleeping on the boat-deck. He's not there and his hammock's broken. He was rather the worse for wear last night. Come on! Get cracking!"
When the inevitable conclusion had been reached, Liz Krest had a short but credible fit of hysteria. Bond took her to her cabin and left her there in tears. "It's all right, Liz," he said. You stay out of this. I'll look after everything. We'll have to radio Port Victoria and so on. I'll tell Fritz to put on speed. I'm afraid it's hopeless turning back to look. There've been six hours of daylight when he couldn't have fallen overboard without being heard or seen. It must have been in the night. I'm afraid anything like six hours in these seas is just not on."
She stared at him, her eyes wide. "You mean — you mean sharks and things?"
Bond nodded.
"Oh Milt! Poor darling Milt! Oh, why did this have to happen?"
Bond went out and softly shut the door.
The yacht rounded Cannon Point and reduced speed. Keeping well away from the broken reef, it slid quietly across the broad bay, now lemon and gunmetal in the last light, towards the anchorage. The small township beneath the mountains was already dark with indigo shadow in which a sprinkling of yellow lights showed. Bond saw the Customs and Immigration launch move off from Long Pier to meet them. The little community would already be buzzing with the news that would have quickly leaked from the radio station to the Seychelles Club and then, through the members' chauffeurs and staffs, into the town.
Liz Krest turned to him. "I'm beginning to get nervous. Will you help me through the rest of this — these awful formalities and things?"
"Of course."
Fidele Barbey said: "Don't worry too much. All these people are my friends. And the Chief Justice is my uncle. We shall all have to make a statement. They'll probably have the inquest tomorrow. You'll be able to leave the day after."
"You really think so?" A dew of sweat had sprung below her eyes. "The trouble is, I don't really know where to leave for, or what to do next. I suppose," she hesitated, not looking at Bond. "I suppose, James, you wouldn't like to come on to Mombasa? I mean, you're going there, anyway, and I'd be able to get you there a day earlier than this ship of yours, this Camp something."
"Kampala." Bond lit a cigarette to cover his hesitation. Four days in a beautiful yacht with this girl! But the tail of that fish, sticking out of the mouth! Had she done it? Or had Fidele, who would know that his uncles and cousins on Mahe would somehow see that he came to no harm? If only one of them would make a slip. Bond said easily: "That's terribly nice of you, Liz. Of course I'd love to come."
Fidele Barbey chuckled. "Bravo, my friend. And I would love to be in your shoes, but for one thing. That damned fish. It is a great responsibility. I like to think of you both being deluged with cables from the Smithsonian about it. Don't forget that you are now both trustees of a scientific Koh-i-noor. And you know what these Americans are. They'll worry the life out of you until they've got their hands on it."
Bond's eyes were hard as flint as he watched the girl. Surely that put the finger on her. Now he would make some excuse — get out of the trip. There had been some thing about that particular way of killing a man . . .
But the beautiful, candid eyes did not flicker. She looked up into Fidele Barbey's face and said, easily, charmingly: "That won't be a problem. I've decided to give it to the British Museum."
James Bond noticed that the sweat dew had now gathered at her temples. But, after all, it was a desperately hot evening . . .
The thud of the engines stopped and the anchor chain roared down into the quiet bay.