"Well, I'm glad he's out of the way. I'd rather have his Number Two. Last question. What about this three-and-one-half Love Lane? Did you get anywhere?"
The killing ground was a narrow deep water inlet at the base of the towering cliff. The lifeline towards which Bond struggled, hampered by the clumsy spear in his trouser-leg, was a strong wire fence, stretched from the rock walls of the inlet ana caging it off from the open sea. The two-feet squares of thick wire were suspended from a cable six feet above the surface and disappeared, algae encrusted, into the depths.
Mr. Micawber, with his hand upon the ruler in his breast, stood erect before the door, most unmistakably contemplating one of his fellow-men, and that man his employer.
its wings, in the scent
The girl glanced sideways at the grim curl of the bruised lips. "Never seen them without those hoods on," she said truthfully. "They're supposed to be from Detroit. Strictly bad news. They do the strongarm work and special undercover jobs. They'll all be after us now. But don't you worry about me." She looked up at him again and her eyes were shining and happy. "First thing is to get this crate to Rhyolite. Then we'll have to find a car somewhere and get over the state border into California. I've got plenty of money. Then we'll get you to a doctor and buy you a bath and a shirt and think again. I got your gun. One of the help brought it over when they'd finished picking up the pieces of those two guys you wrassled with in the Pink Garter. I collected it after Spang had gone to bed." She unbuttoned her shirt and dug into the waistband of her slacks.