Coldfinger *

The door to M’s office bounced open. Without looking up at the visitor or away from the sheaf of papers on his desk, M scratched a match, set fire to the Mac Baren’s Scottish Blend in his pipe bowl and peered through the smoke at the title on the cover page.

“Top(ish) Secret,” it read, and so did M, out loud. “Do you think the North African Desk is trying to be cute, Bond?”

Dropping into the single visitor’s chair facing M, James Bond crossed his legs. He stopped himself giving a little squeak as his inner thighs, once again, pinched his privates. “Perhaps I should dress to the left in future,” he thought before replying to M: “I wouldn’t trust that shower. Each one strikes me as being a man’s man, if you’re with me.”

M was. Personally, he had nothing philosophical against the more outré social lives of some at MI6 but, surely, by loitering in the St James Park loos on a wet Tuesday night in February to pick up off-duty Guardsmen, these chaps risked catching more than a cold? Intelligence gatherers needed to focus on, well, gathering intelligence not worrying about that burning sensation during urination.

A glance at the clock on the wall behind Bond’s head told M that his 7^th best secret agent was late. “What kept you? Hopefully you weren’t giving Miss Moneypenny a quick how’s-your-father in the storeroom cupboard again.”

“Not since that accident when she knocked over a broom handle. Made my eyes water. No, I was at my Jermyn Street tailors, Swallow & Lovett, picking up some après ski kit.”

Folding back the cover page, M gave a smile as cold as a marketer’s handshake. “You won’t need a turtleneck sweater amongst the snake charmers and hawkers of Jemaa el Fna.”

Geography wasn’t Bond’s strong suit but it didn’t sound like an Alpine lodge in Gstaad.

“Marrakesh,” explained M.

“Ah,” said Bond, regaining his confidence, “near Minsk.”

Sighing, M continued the briefing. A criminal group called the Transvaal Cabal had based itself in the Moroccan city to facilitate plans to run guns, stashed amongst dates and spices, across the borders into the Western Sahara and Algeria to destabilise the governments.

“How dare they? Dates give me wind.”

“It’s the guns we're after.”

“Of course,” said Bond, trying to keep up with the giddy whirl of instructions and place names.

“Oh, and one more thing,” said M. “Hands off Miss Moneypenny, at least until she’s booked your flights.”

“Roger that.”

“Yes,” said M, tapping the Mac Baren embers into a glass ashtray, “that’s what I’m afraid of.”

 

With a bump and a scream of engines in reverse thrust, the BEA Vickers Viscount made a three-point landing before taxiing towards the Marrakesh terminal.

After the chill of the cabin’s air-conditioning, the dry desert heat slapped Bond’s face as he descended the aircraft steps onto the tarmac. He was a man who could tolerate a slap, as long as it wasn’t too hard and was delivered by someone in suspenders – preferably a woman, although, given it was 1964, he had Swinging London on offer.

Through the runway’s shimmering heat, he made out a slight figure in a white cotton robe striding towards him, hand held out.

“Welcome to Marrakesh, Mr Bond. I’m Omar Sharif, your driver from the British Honorary Consulate.”

“Sawasdee khap, Sharif.” All these international assignments had taught Bond the advantage of conversing fluently with Johnny Foreigner.

“I think you’ll find that’s Thai,” said Sharif, plucking a leather suitcase from Bond’s hand before pitching forward onto the hot ground.

“Careful there, lad. It’s heavy. I’ve got half of Q’s arsenal stitched into the lining. And you’ll ruin your frock.”

“It’s a gandora …” began Sharif before realising Bond had lost interest and was lighting a Morland of Grosvenor Street cigarette while standing near a jet fuel bowser. “This way, Effendi, hurry!”

 

Dusted with dust, the black Mercedes careered through the Medina’s narrow streets, scattering stallholders and panhandlers, and splattering the odd wayward hen. In the backseat, Bond watched the scenery and the occasional shaken fist slipping past the car’s grimy windows.

“Damn’d unusual looking churches, eh, Sharif?”

“Actually, they’re …”

“Synagogues. Silly me. I know you Middle Eastern chappies and your new-fangled religions. All saffron robes, shaven heads and rice begging bowls in there, I fancy."

Another stamp on the accelerator sent the car forward, taking out two cyclists and a wide-eyed donkey. Ten minutes later, a screech of what remained of the brakes heralded the Mercedes’ arrival in an alley off the sprawling Jemaa el Fna marketplace. Locking the car then fixing a clamp to a front wheel, Sharif led Bond up steep stairs on the side of a drab building to a rooftop terrace: Le Grand Balcon du Café Glace. “نلقي نظرة على ذلك!” exclaimed Sharif, waving at the massive open-air marketplace below. Acrid smoke coupled with the aroma of roasting lamb entrails rose to meet them. 

At a faux bistro metal table overlooking the square, they sipped heavily-sugared fresh mint tea from chipped glass tumblers while Sharif pointed out the sights – one in particular: the Transvaal Cabal. A few yards away, the Cabal members were crammed awkwardly around a circular table drinking lukewarm orange cordial and arguing over the lunch bill.

Sharif whispered descriptions, starting with the Chairman: Leonardo Duffy, aka Coldfinger, a bolshie-looking party in a black suit, possibly whipped up by a 24-hour-turnaround tailor Kowloon-side. He affected a Kabbalah bracelet and a moistened cigar stub. Adonis Van Graan, a carefully sculptured greying beard graced his chin; eyes as dark as sin sat either side of a patrician nasal bridge. Dickie Brand, his shaven head, black T- shirt fitted over another black T-shirt, and signature dyspeptic grimace had prompted his nom de guerre – Sour Man. Blade Cravings, bifocals perched raffishly on the end of a broken nose, had a reputation for taking bribes, barbiturates and, when visiting aged care homes, biscuits off the residents’ afternoon tea trays. Tom McArran, onetime editor of the Marrakesh Express newspaper before being fired for feigning he was planning a Michelin Star-style rating supplement featuring the city’s bordellos and then undertaking an intensive, cost-free sampling program. Chris “Numbers Man” Tagalog, described on his Interpol Wanted poster as a certifiable chartered accountant – with the law enforcement agency confirming it wasn’t a typo. Al “Twinkle Toes” Prance, given to practising optimised search and entry when frisking newcomers to the Cabal’s HQ. Madeleine Dubois, currently being hunted by France’s Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. She claimed to be Mauritian or Mauritanian depending on who’s asking. Mary Carberry, alleged to have at least three husbands on the go, one in Sydney, and known to barmen from Shanghai to Kinshasa for her opening line: “Usually I don’t drink alcohol but it’s been a difficult day.” And, finally, a crafty smirker who’d renamed themselves Greg Flyin after a penis implant in Bangkok – and now wore a buttock tattoo reading: “Pussy Nomore.”

With the dispute over the bill settled – Cravings picked up the tab while holding a dampened hanky to his new black eye – the gang separated, with only Duffy pausing to study the two nearby men. A moment later, he tiptoed away.

Lips atremble, face bright, the Riad El Fenn’s receptionist peered up at the tall, dashing guest.

“Don’t look so needy, my dear,” said Bond. “Frankly I’d never get any assignments finished if I bonked every eager beaver.”

“I was going to say you have a piece of mint leaf stuck between your teeth.”

Graciously he allowed her to carry his suitcase to his first-floor suite. Stepping through the doorway, Bond smelt a mix of old goat and sour grapes. The Walther PPK 7.65mm pressed against his Sea Island cotton shirt beneath his unstructured linen jacket gave him little comfort. Sitting in armchairs were Duffy, Van Graan and Cravings. Brand, wearing heavy work boots, lay on the bed, snoring gently – an empty bottle of complimentary Spéciale Flag pilsner gripped tightly.

“How’d you …?” Bond started.

“You booked into this place under your own name, Mr Bond," said Duffy. "You really must be more spy-like. Do you know who we …?

“The Transvaal Cabal, so called because you four come from Cabal.”

Van Graan was on his feet, tattooed knuckles raised. “South Africa!”

Bond appeared confused. “Sawth a·fruh·kuh? Never heard of it, old chap. Anywhere near Minsk?”

Flicking a Bic lighter under his cigar stub, Duffy inhaled, then blew a stream of smoke towards Bond. “I know what a worldly man like you secretly desires.”

“Fast cars and Chinese food!” Bond paused. “Or perhaps it’s Chinese cars and fast food. Either way, do you expect me to talk?”

“No, Mr Bond, I expect you to die.” Duffy stopped himself, looking apologetic. “Oops, sorry, it’s too early for that line. It should be: no, Mr Bond, I expect you to dine. To dine on chicken tagine with preserved lemon and olives while two belly dancers pleasure …”

Through the door burst Sharif, hot-heeled by a squad of Sûreté Nationale police, blowing whistles and pointing weapons.

Bond frowned. “I hope you’re not going to be a bore about this, Sharif. Duffy over here was just making an interesting offer.”

# # #

* Yes, yes, I know – copyright. But I’ll have a chat with Ian Fleming later in Heaven.

Copyright 2021 GREG FLYNN

The Hotel Dick

The faded pink flamingo pattern on the shower curtain added a perky touch to the death scene. Face down and naked in the bath with a bathroom bowl brush on a handle emerging from between his buttocks, the dead man appeared to have clutched the curtain when he fell. It formed a less than spotless shroud.

Halfway down the corridor on the 5^th floor of the Hotel Fritz, the shared bathroom offered bilious green tiles, a slightly off-kilter washbasin, a cracked mirror, a toilet with a loose wooden seat and a shower/bath combo that had been ready for a scrub since VE Day. Four years later, it was still waiting.

There were three of us crowded together in the room. Technically, four of us but one – the victim – didn’t have a choice. Hard by my side stood Lieutenant Jeff Keen, a detective from NYPD’s 1st Precinct: “New York’s Less Than Finest” as it was known to those living south of Houston Street. Flicking open a matchbook, he tore off a match, lit the end of a cigar stub and flicked the brunt stick into the toilet.

Bending closer to the body, I used a pencil to lift up the curtain. On the victim’s left buttock, lipsticked lips had left the mark of a perfectly shaped, bright red kiss. The man’s left ear was encrusted with blood and the handle of a machete-like knife protruded from between his shoulder blades.

Keen peered down. “From experience, I’d say it’s murder. Who’s the vic?”

“Harry McVie. ‘Happy Harry’ to his friends and enemies.”

From behind us came a snort. Leaning against the bathroom’s open door, the hotel receptionist Annie Lane was holding a tiny white Pomeranian under one arm while blowing a perfectly formed smoke ring towards Keen and myself. “That’s what he had – zero friends.” Annie took another pull on her cigarette. The dog gave a yap, struggling to be free.

Keen looked me. “You’re the House Dick. Who do you like for it, Kent?”

I gave what I hoped was an insouciant shrug. “Part-time hotel detective, Lieutenant.” For a discounted room rate, the owners of The Fritz, so named because it was hoped unwary punters would mistake it for The Ritz, asked that I kept the criminality within their Spring Street fleabag down to an acceptable level. In return, I sat in my room most days, attempting to write a hard boiled crime novel based on my PI experiences, and twice-a-day at midday and midnight I walked the hotel’s floors trying to avoid trouble. “Let’s look at the evidence.”

Lifting his left hand and squinting at his wristwatch, Keen sighed. “Sounds time consuming.”

“Murder is so inconvenient,” I said. “We’ll start with Harry’s business – drugs. Marijuana, cocaine and amphetamines, mainly.”

Keen’s eyes came back into focus. “And you didn’t tip us off?”

“I never saw him dealing,” I lied. The week before I’d bought a little something to take the edge off. “He wore a gold earing in his left ear to give him a piratical look. Now his ear lobe and earring are gone. But we do have an addition – the bowl brush jammed in his posterior. It’s brand new …”

“Unlike anything else in this dump,” said Annie. A fresh cigarette dangled from the corner of her lips while limp strands of her once blonde hair swung a little too close to the glowing tip.

Tapping the side of the brush handle with my pencil, I explained to Keen that we had a Fuller Brush salesman named O'Riordan staying on the same floor. Two rooms down was Major John Butler, a longtime guest who retired from the British Army to live in New York. He kept wartime memorabilia. At the far end of the corridor was a small room which was usually rented by the hour by Vanessa the Vamp who enjoyed men’s companionship on a short-term basis. She wore scarlet lipstick and was the kissing type.

Keen lobbed his now smokeless cigar butt into the toilet’s off-grey water. “Vanessa the Vamp? Is that her real handle?”

Annie and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance. “We take people at their word,” I said.

“I get the Fuller Brush guy’s connection, but the Major?” asked Keen.

“He served in India and Nepal, and that looks like a Gurkha’s kukri knife.”

Keen slapped his pockets as if searching for another cigar. I knocked a Chesterfield out of a soft packet and he lit up. He didn’t thank me, instead he crouched down and reached behind the washbasin stand. A balled-up piece of typing paper was wedged there.

Triumphant, Keen straightened up and read from the page: “’From the window that opened onto the roof-top sun deck a roscoe sneezed: Ka-Chow! Chowpf! and a red-hot hornet creased its stinger across my dome; bashed me to dreamland.’"

It was my turn to straighten.

Keen was smirking. “Well, well, is that the work Mr Chandler, Mr Hammett or …” he paused “… Mr Kent?”

“Why don’t we have some refreshments in the office?” I suggested.

Keen was squeezing past me and heading for the door before I finished the sentence.

To reach the office, we edged our way behind the reception desk. On it, a full ashtray sat next to a thumbed copy of Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express. In the dusty office, I took a bottle of bourbon and an almost clean glass from the desk drawer and handed both to Keen. “Enjoy.” He did.

Putting her dog down gently, Annie drew on another smoke. “I could do with a stiff one.”

Neither Keen nor I bit. I found a glass for her.

Both of them were now seated, looking up at me, awaiting a performance. For a moment, I tried to remember if any of us had closed the bathroom door. It could wait. Happy Harry certainly wasn’t in a hurry.

“So, I’m now in the frame just like Vanessa, the Major and O'Riordan. Convenient.”

“Very,” agreed Keen, pouring an extra finger of bourbon atop the first.

“From experience …” I began, echoing the Lieutenant, “… I smell a rat.”

Tilting her head back, Annie swallowed her drink. “You’re in the right place for that.”

“I mentioned ‘frame’ and that’s what I’ve been – as have the other three.”

Keen shook his head. “Unless you four bumped off Harry to heist his dope.”

“I’d have hoped a New York cop would’ve been more trusting.”

The glass halted near his lips. “Such a kidder. The only thing that’s going to get you off a very big hook is a sign from God.”

“It’s obvious. The scarlet lipstick mark, the military knife, the bowl brush and my manuscript – an early draft, by the way – were planted by someone who has access to every room.”

“You,” cut in Annie.

“Actually, I was thinking of …”

Her dog gave a snuffle, strolled past us and squatted in a litter box almost hidden by the office door. A look of serious concentration scrunched up the Pomeranian’s already pinched face. A neat pile appeared on the litter. The dog’s rear paws kicked litter over the pile. Not enough. Sitting atop the steaming heap shone a gold earring.

Keen finished his bourbon in a gulp.

Reaching across, Annie took the bottle off the desk and poured a last drink. “I can explain …” She did. It didn’t help her case.

Watching from the hotel office window, I saw Keen put his hand on Annie's head and guide her into the back seat of a patrol car. Another officer, with the dog on a lead, heaved the animal in beside her.

In a life of mistakes, Happy Harry’s literally fatal one was to accidentally kick the dog as he strolled past Reception to head upstairs for a shower after a hard day spreading good cheer and cut drugs around SoHo. The Pomeranian had leapt at Harry’s ankle, Harry had leapt forward shouting “Next time, I’ll kill that mutt!” and Annie had leapt to her dog’s defence. It took her 30 minutes to check who was in their room and, if unoccupied, to take one potentially damning piece of evidence. Just as in Agatha Christie’s novel, the answer to “whodunnit?” would be “everyone”.

Annie had waited outside the bathroom until she heard the shower curtain rings clacking when Harry pulled back the plastic sheeting. Her master key turned in the lock, the Major’s kukri knife swung down, the Fuller brush was pushed home, a butt kiss followed and, finally, she took my piece of fine writing and jammed it behind the waterbasin stand. In revenge for the kick, her dog had leapt into the bathtub and chewed Harry’s ear – and earring – off. 

I could forgive Annie for icing a dealer and trying to frame me but screwing up my masterpiece? Never.

# # #

Copyright 2021 GREG FLYNN