Bahama Crisis

"We can discard that, so what is left? Mrs. Mangan is left, of course. Judging from the touching scene of reconciliation this morning it is quite possible that you still have an attachment for her. So, we operate on Mrs. Mangan with a blunt knife or its equivalent. Women have soft bodies, Mr. Mangan. I think you will speak truly of what you know."

I nearly went for him then and there, but the gunman said sharply, "Don't!" and I recoiled from the gun.

"You son of a bitch!" I said, raging.

"You utter bastard!"

Robinson waved his hand.

"No compliments, I beg of you. You will have time to think of this to sleep on it. I regret we can waste no more good food on you. But that is all for the best the digestion of food draws blood from the brain and impedes the thought processes. I want you in a condition in 160 which you think hard and straight, Mr. Mangan. I will ask you more questions tomorrow."

He went out, followed by the gunman, and the door closed and clicked locked, leaving me in such despair as I had never known in my life.

The first thing I did when I had recovered the power of purposive thought was to find and rip out that damned microphone. A futile gesture, of course, because it had already fulfilled Robinson's purpose. It was not even very well hidden, not nearly as subtle as any of Rodriguez's gadgets. It was an ordinary microphone such as comes with any standard tape recorder and was up in the rafters taped to a tie-beam, and the wire led through a small hole in the roof.

Not much sense in it, but it gave me savage satisfaction in the smashing of it.

As I hung from the tie-beam, my feet dangling above the floor preparatory to dropping, I looked at the door at the end of the room and then at the roof above it. My first thought was that if I was up in the roof when Leroy came in I might drop something on to his head.

That idea was discarded quickly because I had seen that every time he entered he had swung the door wide so that it lay against the wall.

That way he made sure that, if I was not in sight, then I would not be hiding behind the door. If he did not see me in that bare room he would know that the only place I could he was up in the roof, and he would take the appropriate nasty action.

If there was anyone watching what I did next he would have thought I had gone around the bend. 1 stood with my back to the door, imitating the action of a tiger the tiger being Leroy. I had no illusions about him; he was as deadly as any tiger possibly more dangerous than Robinson. I do not think that Robinson was the quintessential man of action; he was more the cerebral type and thought too much about his actions. Leroy, however vacant in the head, would act automatically on the necessity for action.

So I imitated Leroy coming in. He booted the door wide open; I had to imagine that bit. The door swung and slammed against the wall. Leroy looked inside and made sure I was on the bed.

Satisfied he stepped inside, fixing me with the shotgun. I stood, cradling an imaginary shotgun, looking at an imaginary me on the bed.

Immediately behind came Robinson. In order that he could enter I had to cease blocking the doorway, so I took a step sideways, still holding the gun on the bed. That was what Leroy had done every time the perfect bodyguard. I looked above my head towards the roof and was perfectly satisfied with what I saw.

Then I studied the water pitcher and basin. I had seen a piece of a similar basin before. As part of my education I had studied the English legal system and, on one Long Vacation, I had taken the opportunity of attending a Crown Court to see what went on. There had been a case of a brawl in a seamen's hostel, the charge being attempted murder. I could still visualize the notes I took. A doctor was giving evidence:

Prosecutor: Now, Doctor, tell me; how many pints of blood did you transfuse into this young man?

Doctor: Nine pints in the course of thirty hours.

Prosecutor: Is that not a great quantity of blood?

Doctor: Indeed, it is.

Judge (breaking in): How many pints of blood are there in a man?

Doctor: I would say that this man, taking into account his vveight and build, would have eight pints of blood in him.

Judge: And you say you transfused nine pints. Surely, the blood must have been coming out of him faster than you were putting it in?

Doctor (laconically): It was.

The weapon used had been a pie-shaped fragment of such a basin as this, broken in the course of the brawl, picked up at random, and used viciously. It had been as sharp as a razor.

I next turned my attention to the window curtain, a mere flap of sackcloth. I felt the coarse weave and decided it would serve well.

It was held in place by thumb tacks which would also be useful, so I ripped it away and spent the rest of the daylight hours separating the fibres rather like a nineteenth- century convict picking oakum.