Free Live and Let Die: A James Bond Novel by Ian Fleming Page A

in tracing them since they must come from a British source. I came up to
Harlem
to see for myself, with a representative of the American Treasury, who I hope is now safely on his way back to his hotel.’
‘Mr. Leiter is a representative of the Central Intelligence Agency, not of the Treasury,’ said Mr. Big without emotion. ‘His position at this moment is extremely precarious.’
He paused and seemed to reflect. He looked past Bond.
‘Tee-Hee.’
‘Yassuh, Boss.’
‘Tie Mister Bond to his chair.’
Bond half rose to his feet.
‘Don’t move, Mister Bond,’ said the voice softly. ‘You have a bare chance of survival if you stay where you are.’
Bond looked at The Big Man, at the golden, impassive eyes,
He lowered himself back into his chair. Immediately a broad strap was passed round his body and buckled tight. Two short straps went round his wrists and tied them to the leather and metal arms. Two more went round his ankles. He could hurl himself and the chair to the floor, but otherwise he was powerless.
Mr. Big pressed down a switch on the intercom.
‘Send in Miss Solitaire,’ he said and centred the switch again.
There was a moment’s pause and then a section of the bookcase to the right of the desk swung open.
One of the most beautiful women Bond had ever seen came slowly in and closed the door behind her. She stood just inside the room and stood looking at Bond, taking him in slowly inch by inch, from his head to his feet. When she had completed her detailed inspection, she turned to Mr. Big.
‘Yes?’ she inquired flatly.
Mr. Big had not moved his head. He addressed Bond.
‘This is an extraordinary woman, Mister Bond,’ he said in the same quiet soft voice, ‘and I am going to marry her because she is unique. I found her in a cabaret, in
Haiti
, where she was born. She was doing a telepathic act which I could not understand. I looked into it and I still could not understand. There was nothing to understand. It was telepathy.’
Mr. Big paused.
‘I tell you this to warn you. She is my inquisitor. Torture is messy and inconclusive. People tell you what will ease the pain. With this girl it is not necessary to use clumsy methods. She can divine the truth in people. That is why she is to be my wife. She is too valuable to remain at liberty. And,’ he continued blandly, ‘it will be interesting to see our children.’
Mr. Big turned towards her and gazed at her impassively.
‘For the time being she is difficult. She will have nothing to do with men. That is why, in
Haiti
, she was called “Solitaire”.’
‘Draw up a chair,’ he said quietly to her. ‘Tell me if this man lies. Keep clear of the gun,’ he added.
The girl said nothing but took a chair similar to Bond’s from beside the wall and pushed it towards him. She sat down almost touching his right knee. She looked into his eyes.
Her face was pale, with the pallor of white families that have lived long in the tropics. But it contained no trace of the usual exhaustion which the tropics impart to the skin and hair. The eyes were blue, alight and disdainful, but, as they gazed into his with a touch of humour, he realized they contained some message for him personally. It quickly vanished as his own eyes answered. Her hair was blue-black and fell heavily to her shoulders. She had high cheekbones and a wide, sensual mouth which held a hint of cruelty. Her jawline was delicate and finely cut. It showed decision and an iron will which were repeated in the straight, pointed nose. Part of the beauty of the face lay in its lack of compromise. It was a face born to command. The face of the daughter of a French Colonial slave-owner.
She wore a long evening dress of heavy white matt silk whose classical line was broken by the deep folds which fell from her shoulders and revealed the upper half of her breasts. She wore diamond earrings, square-cut in broken bands, and a thin diamond bracelet on her left wrist. She wore no rings. Her nails were short and