The James Bond Anthology

13 | ACME MUD AND SULPHUR

In the small red bus there was only a negress with a withered arm and, beside the driver, a girl who kept her sick hands out of sight and whose head was completely shrouded in a thick black veil which fell to her shoulders, like a bee-keeper’s hat, without touching the skin of her face.

The bus, which said ‘Acme Mud and Sulphur Baths’ on its sides and ‘Every Hour on the Hour’ above the windscreen, went through the town without picking up any more customers and turned off the main road down a badly maintained gravel track through a plantation of young firs. After half a mile, it rounded a corner and went down a short hill towards a cluster of dingy grey clapboard buildings. A tall yellow-brick chimney stuck up out of the centre of the buildings and from it a thin wisp of black smoke rose straight up into the still air.

There was no sign of life in front of the Baths, but as the bus pulled up on the weedy gravel patch near what seemed to be the entrance, two old men and a limping coloured woman emerged through the wire-screened doors at the top of the steps and waited for the passengers to alight.

Outside the bus the smell of sulphur hit Bond with sickening force. It was a horrible smell, from somewhere down in the stomach of the world. Bond moved away from the entrance and sat down on a rough bench under a group of dead-looking firs. He sat there for a few minutes to steel himself for what was going to happen to him through the screen doors and to shake off his sense of oppression and disgust. It was partly, he decided, the reaction of a healthy body to the contact with disease, and it was partly the tall grim Belsen chimney with its plume of innocent smoke. But most of all it was the prospect of going in through those doors, buying the ticket, and then stripping his clean body and giving it over to the nameless things they did in this grisly ramshackle establishment.

The bus rattled off and he was alone. It was absolutely quiet. Bond noticed that the two side windows and the entrance door made two eyes and a mouth. The place seemed to be looking at him, watching him, waiting for him. Would he come in? Would they have him?

Bond moved impatiently inside his clothes. He got to his feet and walked straight across the gravel and up the wooden steps and the frame doors banged to behind him.

He found himself in a dingy reception room. The sulphur fumes were stronger. There was a reception desk behind an iron grill. Framed testimonials hung on the walls, some of them with red paper seals below the signature, and there was a glass-fronted showcase full of packages in transparent wrapping. Above it a notice said, in badly handwritten capitals, ‘Take Home an Acme-Pak. Treat Yourself in Privacy.’ There was a list of prices pasted on to a card advertising a cheap deodorant. The slogan still showed. It said: ‘Let your Armpits be your Charm-pits.’

A faded woman with a screw of orange hair above a face like a sad cream-puff raised her head slowly and looked at him through the bars, keeping one finger on her place in True Love Stories.

‘Can I help you?’ It was the voice reserved for strangers, for people who didn’t know the ropes.

Bond looked through the bars with the cautious abhorrence she had expected. ‘I’d like a bath.’

‘Mud or Sulphur?’ She reached for the tickets with her free hand.

‘Mud.’

‘Would you care for a book of tickets? They’re cheaper.’

‘Just one, please.’

‘Dollar fifty.’ She pushed through a mauve ticket and kept a finger on it until Bond had put his money down.

‘Which way do I go?’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Follow the passage. Better leave your valuables.’ She slipped a large white envelope under the grill. ‘Write your name on it.’ She watched sideways as Bond put his watch and the contents of his pockets into the envelope and scribbled his name on it.

The twenty hundred-dollar bills were inside Bond’s shirt. He wondered about them. He pushed the envelope back. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

There was a low wicket at the back of the room and two white-painted wooden hands whose drooping index fingers pointed right and left. On one hand was written ‘MUD’ and on the other ‘SULPHUR’. Bond went through the wicket and turned to the right along a dank corridor with a cement floor which sloped downwards. He followed it and pushed through a swing door at the end and found himself in a long high room with a skylight in the roof and cabins along the walls.

It was hot and steamy and sulphurous in the room. Two youngish, soft-looking men, naked except for grey towels round their waists, were playing gin rummy at a deal table near the entrance. On the table were two ashtrays full of cigarette butts, and a kitchen plate piled with keys. The men looked up as Bond entered and one of them picked up a key from the plate and held it out. Bond walked over and took it.

‘Twelve,’ said the man. ‘Got ya ticket?’

Bond handed it over and the man made a gesture towards the cabins behind him. He jerked his head towards a door at the end of the room. ‘Baths through there.’ The two men went back to their game.

There was nothing in the frowzy cabin but a folded towel from which constant washing had removed all the nap. Bond undressed and tied the towel round his waist. He folded the bulky packet of notes and stuffed them into the breast pocket of his coat under his handkerchief. He hoped it would be the last place that a petty thief would look in a quick search. He hung up his gun in the shoulder holster on a prominent hook and walked out and locked the door behind him.

Bond had no idea what he would see through the door at the end of the room. His first reaction was that he had walked into a morgue. Before he could collect his impressions, a fat bald negro with a down-turned straggling moustache came over and looked him up and down. ‘What’s wrong with you, Mister?’ he asked indifferently.

‘Nothing,’ said Bond shortly. ‘Just want to try a mud bath.’

‘Okay,’ said the negro. ‘Any heart trouble?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Over here.’ Bond followed the negro across the slippery concrete floor to a wooden bench alongside a pair of dilapidated shower cubicles in one of which a naked body hung with mud was being hosed down by a man with a cauliflower ear.

‘Be right with you,’ said the negro casually, his big feet slapping against the wet floor as he sauntered off about his business. Bond watched the huge rubbery man, and his skin cringed at the thought of putting his body into the dangling pudgy hands with their lined pink palms.

Bond had a natural affection for coloured people, but he reflected how lucky England was compared with America where you had to live with the colour problem from your schooldays up. He smiled as he remembered something Felix Leiter had said to him on their last assignment together in America. Bond had referred to Mr Big, the famous Harlem criminal, as ‘that damned nigger’. Leiter had picked him up. ‘Careful now, James,’ he had said. ‘People are so damn sensitive about colour around here that you can’t even ask a barman for a jigger of rum. You have to ask for a jegro.’

The memory of Leiter’s wisecrack cheered Bond up. He took his eyes off the negro and looked over the rest of the Acme Mud Bath.

It was a square grey concrete room. From the ceiling, four naked electric light bulbs, spotted with fly droppings, threw an ugly glare on the dripping walls and floor. Against the walls were trestle tables. Bond automatically counted them. Twenty. On each table was a heavy wooden coffin with a three-quarter lid. In most of the coffins the profile of a sweating face showed above the wooden sides and pointed up at the ceiling. A few eyes were rolled inquisitively towards Bond, but most of the congested red faces looked asleep.

One coffin stood open, its lid up against the wall and its side hinged down. This seemed to be the one destined for Bond. The negro was draping a heavy, unclean-looking sheet over it and smoothing it down to form a lining to the box. When he had finished, he went to the middle of the room and chose two from a line of pails filled to the top with steaming dark brown mud, and dropped them with a double clang beside the open box. Then he dug his huge hand into one of them and smeared the thick viscous stuff along the bottom of the shroud and went on doing this until the whole bottom of it was two inches thick with mud. He then left it – to cool, Bond supposed – and went to a dented hip-bath full of ice blocks and groped around and extracted several dripping hand towels. He put these over his arm and made a round of the occupied coffins, stopping every now and then to wrap a cool towel round the sweating forehead of one of the occupants.

Nothing else was happening, and the room was quite silent except for the hiss of the hose close to Bond. This stopped and a voice said, ‘All right, Mr Weiss. That should fix you for today,’ and a fat naked man with a great deal of black body-hair tottered weakly out of the shower cubicle and waited while the man with the cauliflower ear helped him into a terrycloth bath robe, gave him a quick rub down inside it, and led him to the door through which Bond had come.

Then the man with the cauliflower ear walked over to a door in the far corner of the room and went out. For a few moments light streamed through the door, and Bond saw grass outside and a blessed glimpse of blue sky, and then the man came back with two more steaming buckets of mud. He kicked the door shut behind him and added to the line of buckets in the middle of the room.

The negro went over to Bond’s coffin and touched the mud with the flat of his hand. He turned and beckoned to Bond. ‘Okay, Mister,’ he said.

Bond walked over and the man took his towel and hung his key on a hook above the box.

Bond stood naked in front of him.

‘You ever had one of these before?’

‘No.’

‘Thought mebbe not, so I’m giving you the mud at 110. If you’re acclimated, you can take 120 or even 130. Lie down there.’

Bond gingerly climbed into the box and lay down, his skin smarting at its first contact with the hot mud. He slowly stretched himself out full length and lowered his head on to the clean towel that had been placed over the kapok pillow.

When he was settled, the negro dug both hands into one of the buckets of fresh mud and proceeded to slap it all over Bond’s body.

The mud was a deep chocolate brown and it felt smooth and heavy and slimy. A smell of hot peat came up to Bond’s nostrils. He watched the shining, blubbery arms of the negro working over the obscene black mound that had once been his body. Had Felix Leiter known what this was going to be like? Bond grinned savagely at the ceiling. If this was one of Felix’s jokes …

At last the negro had finished and Bond was loaded with hot mud. Only his face and an area round his heart were still white. He felt stifled and the sweat began to pour down his forehead.

With a swift movement the negro bent down and picked up the edges of the sheet and wrapped them tightly round Bond’s body and his arms. Then he reached up for the other half of the dirty shroud and bound this also round him. Bond could just move his fingers and his head, but otherwise he had less freedom of movement than in a strait jacket. Then the man closed the open side of the coffin, lowered the heavy wooden lid, and that was that.

The negro took a slate down from the wall above Bond’s head and glanced at a clock high up on the far wall and scribbled the time down. It was just six o’clock.

‘Twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘Feel good?’

Bond gave a neutral grunt.

The negro moved away about his business and Bond stared dumbly up at the ceiling. He felt the sweat running down from his hair into his eyes. He cursed Felix Leiter.

At three minutes past six the door opened to admit the naked, scrawny figure of Tingaling Bell. He had a sharp weasely face and a miserable body on which each bone showed. He walked cockily into the middle of the room.

‘Hi, Tingaling,’ said the man with the cauliflower ear. ‘Heard you had some trouble today. Too bad.’

‘Them stewards is a heap of obscenity,’ said Tingaling sourly. ‘Why would I want to ride across Tommy Lucky? One of my best pals. And why would I need to? The race was sewn up. Hey, you black bastard,’ he put out his foot to trip up the negro, who was passing with a pail of mud, ‘you got to get six ounces off me. Just had me a plate of French fries. On top of that they’ve given me a heap of lead to carry in the Oakridge tomorrow.’

The negro stepped over the outstretched foot and chuckled fatly. ‘Don’t worry, baby,’ he said affectionately. ‘Ah kin always break yo’ arm off. Get yo’ weight down easy dat way. Be right with you.’

The door opened again and one of the card players put his head in.

‘Hey, Boxer,’ he said to the man with the cauliflower ear, ‘Mabel says she can’t get on to the delicatessen to order your chow. Phone’s busted. Line down or sumpn.’

‘Aw Cheesus,’ said the other. ‘Tell Jack to bring it on his next ride.’

‘Okay.’

The door closed. A telephone breakdown in America is a rare thing, and this was the moment when a small danger signal might have shrilled in Bond’s mind. But it didn’t. Instead, he looked at the clock. Another ten minutes in the mud. The negro sauntered across with the cold towels over his arm and wrapped one round Bond’s hair and forehead. It was a delicious relief, and Bond had a moment of thinking that perhaps the whole business was just supportable.

The seconds ticked by. The jockey, with a crackle of obscenities, lowered himself into the box directly in front of Bond, and Bond guessed that he was being given the mud at 130 degrees. He was wound up in the shroud and the lid was banged shut over him.

The negro wrote 6.15 on the jockey’s slate.

Bond closed his eyes and wondered how he was going to slip the man his money. In the rest-room after the bath? There was presumably somewhere one went to lie down after all this. Or in the passage on the way out? Or in the bus? No. Better not in the bus. Better not be seen with him.

‘All right. Nobody move now. Just take it easy and no one’ll get hurt.’

It was a hard, deadly voice that meant business.

Bond’s eyes snapped open and his body tingled at the reek of danger that had come into the room.

The door to the outside, the door through which the mud came, was standing open. A man stood in the opening and another man was advancing into the middle of the room. They both had guns in their hands and they both had black hoods over their heads with holes cut for the eyes and mouth.

There was silence in the room except for the sound of water falling in the shower cubicles. Each cubicle contained a naked man. They peered out into the room through the veil of water, their mouths gulping for air and the hair streaming into their eyes. The man with the cauliflower ear was a motionless pillar. His eyes shifted whitely and the hose in his hand poured water over his feet.

The moving man with the gun was now in the middle of the floor by the steaming pails of mud. He stopped in front of the negro, who was standing with a full bucket in each hand. The negro quivered slightly so that the handle on one of the buckets gave out a slight rattle.

While the man with the gun held the negro’s eyes in his, Bond saw him turn the gun round in his hand so that he was holding it by the barrel. Suddenly, with a back-handed blow that had all his shoulder behind it, he lashed the butt of the revolver into the centre of the negro’s huge belly.

There was only a sharp wet slap from the blow, but the buckets crashed to the floor as the negro’s two hands leapt up and clutched at himself. He let out a soft moan and sagged forward on to his knees, his glistening shaven head bowing down almost to the man’s shoes so that he appeared to be worshipping him.

The man drew back a foot. ‘Where’s the jock?’ he said menacingly. ‘Bell. Which box?’

The negro’s right arm shot out.

The man with the gun brought his foot down. He turned and walked across to where Bond was lying toe to head with Tingaling Bell.

He came up and looked first down at Bond’s face. He seemed to stiffen. Two glittering eyes looked down through the diamond slits in the black hood. Then the man moved to the left and stood over the jockey.

For a moment he stood motionless, then he took a quick jump and hoisted himself up so that he was sitting on the lid of Tingaling’s box, looking down into his eyes.

‘Well, well. Damifitaint Tingaling Bell.’ There was a ghastly friendliness in his voice.

‘Whatsamatter?’ The jockey’s voice was shrill and terrified.

‘Why, Tingaling.’ The man was reasonable. ‘What would be the matter? Got anything on your mind?’

The jockey gulped.

‘Mebbe you never heard of a horse called “Shy Smile”, Tingaling? Mebbe you weren’t there when he was rode foul at around 2.30 this afternoon?’ The voice ended on a hard edge.

The jockey started to cry softly. ‘Jeesus, Boss. That weren’t my fault. Happen to anybody.’ It was the whimper of a child who is going to be punished. Bond winced.

‘My friends figure it may have been a doublecross.’ The man was leaning close over the jockey and his voice was gaining heat. ‘My friends figure a jock like you could only done something like that intentional. My friends looked over your room and found a Grand plugged away in a lamp socket. My friends wish me to inquire where that lettuce come from.’

The sharp slap and the shrill cry were simultaneous.

‘Give, you bastard, or I’ll blow your brains out.’ Bond heard the click of the hammer going back.

A stammering scream came out of the box. ‘My wad. All I got. Hid it away in the lamp. My wad. I swear it. Christ, you gotta believe me. You gotta.’ The voice sobbed and implored.

The man gave a disgusted grunt and lifted his gun so that it came into Bond’s line of vision. A thumb with a big angry wart on the first joint eased the hammer back. The man slipped down off the box. He looked into the jockey’s face and his voice went slimy.

‘You been riding too much lately, Tingaling,’ he almost whispered. ‘You’re in bad shape. Need a rest. Plenty of quiet. Like in a sanitarium or sumpn.’ The man slowly moved back across the floor. He went on talking quietly and solicitously. Now he was out of the jockey’s line of vision. Bond saw him reach down and pick up one of the steaming buckets of mud. The man came back, holding the bucket low, still talking, still reassuring.

He came up to the jockey’s box and looked down.

Bond stiffened and felt the mud stir heavily on his skin.

‘Like I said, Tingaling. Plenty of quiet. Nothing to eat for a whiles. Nice shady room with the drapes drawn to keep out the light.’

The soft voice droned on in the dead silence. Slowly the arm came up. Higher, higher.

And then the jockey could see the bucket and he knew what was going to happen and he started moaning.

‘No, no, no, no, no.’

Although it was hot in the room, the black stuff steamed as it poured sluggishly out of the bucket.

The man stepped swiftly aside and hurled the empty bucket at the man with the cauliflower ear, who stood still and let it hit him. Then he moved fast across the room to where the other man with the gun stood near the door.

He turned. ‘No funny business. No cops. Phone’s busted.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Better dig the guy out before his eyeballs fry.’

The door banged, and there was silence except for a bubbling sound and the noise of the water gushing in the shower.