Chapter 8

       NO SENSAYUMA

       Table of Content

      Mr Big reflected for a moment. He seemed to decide. He pressed a switch on the intercom.

      'Blabbermouth?'

      'Yassuh, Boss.'

      'You're holding that American, Leiter.'

      'Yassuh.'

      'Hurt him considerably. Ride him down to Bellevue Hospital and dump him nearby. Got that?'

      'Yassuh.'

      'Don't be seen.'

      'Nossuh.'

      Mr Big centred the switch.

      'God damn your bloody eyes,' said Bond viciously. 'The CIA won't let you get away with this!'

      'You forget, Mister Bond. They have no jurisdiction in America. The American Secret Service has no power in America--only abroad. And the FBI are no friends of theirs. Tee-Hee, come here.'

      'Yassuh, Boss.' Tee-Hee came and stood beside the desk.

      Mr Big looked across at Bond.

      'Which finger do you use least, Mister Bond?'

      Bond was startled by the question. His mind raced.

      'On reflection, I expect you will say the little finger of the left hand,' continued the soft voice. 'Tee-Hee, break the little finger of Mr Bond's left hand.'

      The negro showed the reason for his nickname.

      'Hee-hee,' he gave a falsetto giggle. 'Hee-hee.'

      He walked jauntily over to Bond. Bond clutched madly at the arms of his chair. Sweat started to break out on his forehead. He tried to imagine the pain so that he could control it.

      The negro slowly unhinged the little finger of Bond's left hand, immovably bound to the arm of his chair.

      He held the tip between finger and thumb and very deliberately started to bend it back, giggling inanely to himself.

      Bond rolled and heaved, trying to upset the chair, but Tee-Hee put his other hand on the chair-back and held it there. The sweat poured off Bond's face. His teeth started to bare in an involuntary rictus. Through the increasing pain he could just see the girl's eyes wide upon him, her red lips slightly parted.

      The finger stood upright, away from the hand. Started to bend slowly backwards towards his wrist. Suddenly it gave. There was a sharp crack.

      'That will do,' said Mr Big.

      Tee-Hee released the mangled finger with reluctance.

      Bond uttered a soft animal groan and fainted.

      'Da guy ain't got no sensayuma,' commented Tee-Hee.

      Solitaire sat limply back in her chair and closed her eyes.

      'Did he have a gun?' asked Mr Big.

      'Yassuh.' Tee-Hee took Bond's Beretta out of his pocket and slipped it across the desk. The Big Man picked it up and looked at it expertly. He weighed it in his hand, testing the feel of the skeleton grip. Then he pumped the shells out on to the desk, verified that he had also emptied the chamber and slid it over towards Bond.

      'Wake him up,' he said, looking at his watch. It said three o'clock.

      Tee-Hee went behind Bond's chair and dug his nails into the lobes of Bond's ears.

      Bond groaned and lifted his head.

      His eyes focused on Mr Big and he uttered a string of obscenities.

      'Be thankful you're not dead,' said Mr Big without emotion. 'Any pain is preferable to death. Here is your gun. I have the shells. Tee-Hee, give it back to him.'

      Tee-Hee took it off the desk and slipped it back into Bond's holster.

      'I will explain to you briefly,' continued The Big Man, 'why it is that you are not dead; why you have been permitted to enjoy the sensation of pain instead of adding to the pollution of the Harlem River from the folds of what is jocularly known as a cement overcoat.'

      He paused for a moment and then spoke.

      'Mister Bond, I suffer from boredom. I am a prey to what the early Christians called "accidie", the deadly lethargy that envelops those who are sated, those who have no more desires. I am absolutely pre-eminent in my chosen profession, trusted by those who occasionally employ my talents, feared and instantly obeyed by those whom I myself employ. I have, literally, no more worlds to conquer within my chosen orbit. Alas, it is too late in my life to change that orbit for another one, and since power is the goal of all ambition, it is unlikely that I could possibly acquire more power in another sphere than I already possess in this one.'

      Bond listened with part of his mind. With the other half he was already planning. He sensed the presence of Solitaire, but he kept his eyes off her. He gazed steadily across the table at the great grey face with its unwinking golden eyes.

      The soft voice continued.

      'Mister Bond, I take pleasure now only in artistry, in the polish and finesse which I can bring to my operations. It has become almost a mania with me to impart an absolute rightness, a high elegance, to the execution of my affairs. Each day, Mister Bond, I try and set myself still higher standards of subtlety and technical polish so that each of my proceedings may be a work of art, bearing my signature as clearly as the creations of, let us say, Benvenuto Cellini. I am content, for the time being, to be my only judge, but I sincerely believe, Mister Bond, that the approach to perfection which I am steadily achieving in my operations will ultimately win recognition in the history of our times.'

      Mr Big paused. Bond saw that his great yellow eyes were wide, as if he saw visions. He's a raving megalomaniac, thought Bond. And all the more dangerous because of it. The fault in most criminal minds was that greed was their only impulse. A dedicated mind was quite another matter. This man was no gangster. He was a menace. Bond was fascinated and slightly awestruck.

      'I accept anonymity for two reasons,' continued the low voice. 'Because the nature of my operations demands it and because I admire the self-negation of the anonymous artist. If you will allow the conceit, I see myself sometimes as one of those great Egyptian fresco painters who devoted their lives to producing masterpieces in the tombs of kings, knowing that no living eye would ever see them.'

      The great eyes closed for a moment.

      'However, let us return to the particular. The reason, Mister Bond, why I have not killed you this morning is because it would give me no aesthetic pleasure to blow a hole in your stomach. With this engine,' he gestured towards the gun trained on Bond through the desk drawer, 'I have already blown many holes in many stomachs, so I am quite satisfied that my little mechanical toy is a sound technical achievement. Moreover, as no doubt you rightly surmise, it would be a nuisance for me to have a lot of busybodies around here asking questions about the disappearance of yourself and your friend Mr Leiter. Not more than a nuisance; but for various reasons I wish to concentrate on other matters at the present time.

      'So,' Mr Big looked at his watch, 'I decided to leave my card upon each of you and to give you one more solemn warning. You must leave the country today, and Mr Leiter must transfer