“Almost to the turn-off,” said Myra, beginning to slow down.

  A wash of water around the tires warned of flooding ahead.

  “Hang on. This may be rough; there’re ruts in the road,” warned Myra as she pulled on the steering wheel and double-clutched down into second gear. The truck swayed as it turned onto the side-road, lurching at the uneven grading that was a mix of mud and gravel.

  Fleming swore and hung on to the dashboard as the truck lumbered down the road. It was a bone-rattling ride that left a messy swath on the road behind. Fleming bit back a sharp observation, knowing this was neither the time nor the place for such comments. “How long is it like this?”

  “Another two miles—not long,” said Myra. “There’s a rise up ahead. That should help some.”

  “Any chance of trees in the road?” Fleming asked, noticing the bushes along the road. His clothes were clammy on him, and his head felt stuffy, the after-effects of the smoke he had inhaled. He was chilled, too, as the surge of energy that had carried him since he left his hotel room finally faded.

  “No. Linus keeps them cut back. He knows what these storms can do,” said Myra, holding on to the wheel with the tenacity of a badger. “He wants the road to stay clear.”

  Although unconvinced, Fleming said, “A prudent idea.” He stared ahead, wanting enough light to read his watch, and sorry now that he hadn’t looked while he had the chance.

  “What’s the matter?” Myra asked, noticing his restlessness.

  “Just wondering what time it is,” he said. “I was in New Mexico yesterday morning—I do trust it is after midnight?—and my sense of time is thoroughly distorted.”

  “Why didn’t you say something. There’s a dashboard clock,” she said, and glanced at it. “Two-forty, plus or minus.”

  “What will this Linus McShane think of us arriving at this hour?” Now that they had almost reached their destination, he was apprehensive.

  “He’ll understand. He’s good folk.” She followed a broad curve in the road that bore around to the left. The headlights reached into the darkness, showing the rain beginning to slacken. Up ahead there was a large, red-and-white barn with a high loft, and then a second one behind it on the same pattern but somewhat smaller, paddocks between them. Beyond that was the outline of a two-story house. Myra kept the truck headed for the house, slowing down steadily, and tapping the horn twice as she pulled up in the circular drive at the foot of the broad steps. “Wait a sec, Fleming. I’ll explain things to Linus.”

  Fleming wondered what they would do if this Linus McShane said no to them: sleep in the truck, perhaps, or look for a barn to bed down in. God knew he had had worse bivouacs than the truck or a stall, but he was hoping for a bit more comfort than the truck provided. Lantern-light spilled from the open door of the house, and as Fleming watched, Myra stepped inside. It took a while, and Fleming busied himself wiping off the fogged windows with the wash-flannel and tried not to make out the movements of the hands of the dashboard clock.

  It was almost ten minutes later when Myra came out of the house, an umbrella over her head, a kerosene lantern in her hand. She rapped on the passenger-side window before tugging open the door. “Come on in,” she called almost merrily.

  Fleming got out of the truck and reached behind the seat for his two bags. “You sure this is all right?”

  “It’s fine,” said Myra. “Linus is good folk, I told you.” She reached into the well behind the seat and pulled out a large duffel bag, then took his elbow and tugged hard. “Come on. He’s making a toddy for us. Well, actually, Avery is making the toddies.”

  “Avery?” Fleming asked.

  “Linus’s houseman. Colored, of course. Been with Linus for thirty years and more. His sister Muriel is the cook.” She all but dragged him up the steps to the door.

  “A toddy will be welcome,” said Fleming, his thoughts going to Cesar and Bathsheba.

  “Then hurry up,” said Myra, hauling him into the house and closing the door behind them.

  Chapter 24

  LINUS MCSHANE proved to be an amiable host, a tall, straight-backed, white-haired gentleman gracefully approaching sixty, and behaving as if sooty guests arriving shortly before three A.M. was a standard event. He received his visitors in a plaid robe over dark slacks and a crew-neck pullover of dark-blue-green; the only indication that he had been in bed until a few minutes ago was the slippers on his feet. Unperturbed by the lateness or the occasion, he ordered the water-heater fired up and promised hot showers in half an hour. “Avery’ll see to it. There’s plenty of wood for the fire-box. It won’t take long to get it ready. Looks like both of you could use a little soap and hot water.” He then ambled into the front parlor, as if unconcerned about his carpets or furniture. “Take it easy, Mister Fleming,” he said when Fleming hesitated taking any seat. “Charcoal ain’t the worst thing these couches ever had on ’em.” He indicated the lanterns providing the light. “Sorry the power lines are down.”

  Fleming remained standing, his luggage still in his hands. “It would still be a shabby thing to do, ruining your upholstery.”

  McShane shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He motioned to Myra. “You’re not so persnickety, are you?”

  “Hell, no,” said Myra, and dropped onto a hunter-green couch. “You’re being a good friend, Linus.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” he said. “Neighbors got to help neighbors or the whole thing goes to bits.” He heard the door open in the rear of the house. “That’ll be Avery with toddies.”

  A few seconds later a broad-shouldered Negro approximately the same age as McShane came into the parlor, a tray in his hands. He had on a dressing gown but comported himself as if he were in full kit. “Your drinks, sir,” he announced as he put the tray on the coffee table.

  “Thank you, Avery. You can go back to bed now.” He smiled after his servant. “Don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  “I know how that can be,” said Fleming.

  “You English have whole generations of servants, don’t you?” said McShane, and without waiting for an answer, handed one of the oversized china cups to Myra. “You taste this. It’s Avery’s specialty.”

  Myra brought the cup to her lips, then set it down. “Too hot, Linus.” She sniffed. “But I’ll be glad of it.”

  “Whatever you want,” said McShane. He gave his attention to Fleming. “So you’re a journalist, Myra says.”

  “Yes, I am. Just now I’m working out of Jamaica, but I am based in London.” He smiled, aware that it was what Americans expected.

  “Nice town, London. I was there in the Great War. I supposed it’s changed since the last one.”

  “Yes, it has. The Blitz did a lot of damage,” said Fleming.

  “That’s what they showed in the newsreels.” He picked up the second cup and handed it to Fleming. “It might be cool enough to drink now.”

  “Thank you,” said Fleming, dropping his luggage at last and taking the cup and its saucer. He was beginning to think he had better sit down. There was a straight-backed wooden chair by the unused hearth, and he chose this. “It’s been a busy day.”

  “Myra tells me she’s giving you a ride into Monroe tomorrow—well, later today.” McShane regarded him with curiosity. He finally chose the second couch to sit upon, and Fleming realized that McShane would have remained standing as long as he did.

  “I need an airport. She tells me Monroe has an airport.” He tasted the toddy, and found it excellent—spicy and potent with a citrus tang. At another time he would have wanted to get the recipe for Cesar.

  “That it does,” said McShane. “Well, sounds all right, then.” He smiled at Fleming. “Always nice to have a guest from overseas to stay. Gives me all kinds of bragging rights.”

  “You remember what I told you about gossip?” Myra said, picking up her cup again and blowing on its contents.

  “I didn’t doubt you,” said Fleming, taking another sip of his toddy and feeling its warmth spread through him.

  “I bet you didn’t,” said Myra, giggling a bit. She tasted her drink. “That’s real good, Linus.”

  McShane inclined his head. “I’ll tell Avery.” He looked around as the mantel clock struck three, its high, delicate chimes sounding strangely loud. “Water should be hot in another ten minutes. I’ll tell you where your room is, Fleming, so you can go there as soon as you’ve showered.”

  “Thanks,” said Fleming, and took a more generous mouthful of the toddy.

  “Top of the stairs on your left, second door. The first door’s a linen closet, so you’ll know if you go wrong. I put a lamp in there for you. Just make sure you blow it out before you go to sleep.”

  “I know about kerosene lanterns, Mister McShane,” said Fleming.

  “Ocourse you do,” said McShane. “Anyone who’s been through a war knows about ’em.” He got to his feet and strode the length of the parlor. “What time do you want to be up in the morning? I’ll have Clem feed your horses at six. What about you?”

  “Get us up at nine,” said Myra. “We need sleep, and five hours is just barely enough.” She glanced at Fleming. “That okay with you? We’ll be out of here by ten-thirty, a good breakfast to carry us. And it’ll be about four hours to Monroe, with the trailer and all, putting us there at mid-afternoon.”

  “Fine with me,” said Fleming, wishing he knew more about this part of America than he did.

  “The weather should be better,” said McShane. “The rain’s slacking off—has been for an hour or more.” He rubbed his hands together. “Okay. Nine it is. Breakfast at nine-thirty. I’ll tell Muriel when I get up.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Fleming, trying not to be skeptical about McShane’s generosity.

  “You’d do the same for me if the shoe were on the other foot, wouldn’t you?” McShane said, and caught Myra’s endorsing nod. “Well, then.”

  Myra finished her toddy and put the cup down. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’m getting first dibs on the shower. You can come along in about fifteen minutes, Ian.” She grinned and winked as she left the parlor.

  “Fine lady, Myra Rinaldo,” said McShane when Myra was safely at the top of the stairs.

  “That she is,” said Fleming. “I only just met her, but it’s clear that she’s an admirable woman.” He drank most of his toddy. “Is it true that her husband’s in a veterans’ hospital?”

  McShane nodded. “Yep. He came back from Germany with a real case of the whim-whams and it’s only got worse over time. Sits in his room in a corner, staring at nothing.” He gave Fleming a speculative stare. “That bother you?”

  “Only to the extent that I had a comrade in the War who suffered a similar fate. Do they hold out any hope for recovery?” Fleming asked as gently as he could.

  “Not really. Oh, they say something could happen, that he might turn around, but you can tell they don’t really expect it to.” McShane took a long breath. “Myra’s made a go of the business—that’s something.”

  “I’d think it’s a great deal,” said Fleming, preparing to rise and take his luggage up to his assigned room. “I can’t thank you enough for this. If you’re ever in London, or Jamaica, you must give me the opportunity to return the favor. I’ll leave my cards with you.”

  “That’s real nice of you, Mister Fleming,” said McShane. “Now, you get a good night’s rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” said Fleming, fatigue spreading over him like a blanket. He made his way up the stairs, his bags feeling like loads of bricks in his hands. He could hear the shower running, and determined which room it came from. That would be where he would go after he put his bags down. Thank goodness he would not have a tub to recline in, or he might well pass the night there.

  The room he entered was of generous proportions, facing the south-east, with a neat bay-window that was now speckled with rain. The bed was double, with an intricately embroidered coverlet over the hand-made quilt. Fleming pulled the coverlet back and folded it carefully, hoping as he did that he would be warm enough to sleep comfortably. His damp clothes had reached the clammy stage and he was well and truly chilled. He undressed down to his underwear quickly, putting his holster and revolver under his clothes before taking his nightclothes in his arm and stepping out into the gallery that overlooked the entry and the doors to the parlor and the dining room. He hurried around to the door where he had heard water running—it was quiet now—and tapped on it. When no one answered, he went in, and found himself in a room of white tile, a lantern set on a shelf next to folded towels providing illumination. The mirror over the sink was clouded by steam, and a wet face-flannel hung over the side of the sink. The shower was a stall affair, with a curtain to draw across the door. Fleming stepped in and was soon basking in steaming water.

  When he emerged, some ten minutes later, he felt ready to fall asleep. He toweled himself briskly, wrapped the towel around his waist, gathered up his underwear, and went back to his room. Digging his pajamas out of his bag, he made sure his files were safely in the concealed compartment before he blew out the lantern and got into bed.

  It seemed hardly more than a moment had passed when Fleming was awakened by a knock on his door. He opened his eyes, trying to orient himself, then remembered where he was and how he got there. “Just a moment!”

  “It’s me, Ian,” called Myra. “Wake up. It’s ten past nine. Muriel will have breakfast on the table in twenty minutes.”

  “Very good,” said Fleming, scrambling out of bed and reaching for his bags. He took out his light-weight grey-flannel slacks and his tweed jacket as well as a pale-blue linen shirt. He had intended to wear this for more business-like occasions, but with his other clothes ruined, this would have to do. He dressed quickly, then went into the bathroom to shave, thinking as he did that he could do with another two hours’ sleep.

  Myra met him at the foot of the stairs. “Come on. We’re in the breakfast room.” She was actually quite good-looking with the soot out of her hair and her skin clean; she had donned a pale-peach cotton shirt and long jodhpurs of Prussian blue, and the worst of the strain was gone from her, leaving all her grace for Fleming to admire. “Don’t you love these old-fashioned houses?”

  “Nineteenth century is hardly old-fashioned,” Fleming said before he could stop himself.

  Myra grinned. “I’m not going to let you insult me, Ian Fleming. This house was built in 1827, and around here, that qualifies as old.” She slipped her hand through his arm, half-leading him to the breakfast room.

  Fleming went along with her, feeling suddenly very conspicuous with his holster and revolver lying across the small of his back under his jacket. “That was before your Civil War, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. The War Between the States hadn’t happened when this house was first built. That makes it medium aged for the area. Some of the plantation houses went up in the early 1700s.” She gently shoved him through a swinging door into a north-east-facing room that had a large bay extending the room outward on three sides. A table was laid and a wood stove in the corner provided enough heat to make the room more than comfortable. “You sit down at the foot of the table,” she said. “Muriel will bring in the food.” Ringing a small glass bell, Myra sat down on Fleming’s right.

  A massive Negress in her early fifties came through the door, two covered trays in her hands. “Mornin’, Miz Rinaldo,” she said. “I got coffee for you and tea for the gentleman.” She nodded to Fleming. “Eggs two ways, bacon, sausage, griddle-cakes, biscuits and gravy, syrup, butter and honey; preserves and cream coming, with cream cheese pastry.”

  “Good Lord,” Fleming exclaimed. “Do you eat this way every morning?”

  “Most times, yes,” said Muriel smugly. “Mister McShane, he keeps a good board, if you know what I mean.” She put down the covered platters and headed back to the kitchen for the second round.

  “That’s an astonishing amount of food,” said Fleming.

  “Linus’s hands work hard. He feeds them like he means them to work,” said Myra, reaching to put sausage and bacon on her plate, and then poached eggs. “Linus’ll be offended if you don’t make a hearty meal.”

  “If I do, I’ll fall asleep in the truck,” Fleming warned as he helped himself to eggs and preserves.

  “Fine with me; I’m driving,” said Myra.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Fleming, and took a couple of thin golden griddle cakes onto his plate, then added butter and syrup. “This is sumptuous.”

  “Linus eats and then goes out to work with his horses all morning. By noon he’s hungry as a bear.” She cut up the sausages into inch-long bits, and impaled two on her fork. “I thought you English liked big breakfasts.”

  “Some do, some don’t,” said Fleming, thinking back to the shortages of the War that were still not at an end.

  “Well, make the most of this, Ian Fleming. It’s going to be a long drive, and I don’t want to stop until we’re in Monroe. Except for gas, of course.” This last addendum was a concession that she made reluctantly.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Fleming, looking up as Muriel came back in with more food and two silver pots, one of coffee, one of tea.

  “By the way,” said Myra as she poured coffee into her cup, “you know, you clean up real good, Ian Fleming.”

  He smiled. “So do you, Myra Rinaldo.”

  Chapter 25

  THEY CROSSED the Mississippi at Vicksburg under clearing skies, and Fleming found himself trying to remember something about the role that city played in the Civil War. All he could recall was it was prolonged, and he decided that wasn’t enough to mention it. He stared at the huge river, making note of the amount of traffic he saw on it, and paying attention to the damage left behind by the storm.

  As they neared Monroe, Fleming was aware that Myra was growing more and more quiet. He wondered if he should ask her what was on her mind, but was spared the trouble when Myra said, “I’m gonna miss you, Ian. You saved my life and you treated me like a proper gentleman. Not many would. My husband couldn’t ask for more—if he had it in him to ask anything.” She pointed to a road sign that said MONROE 22. “We’ll be there in little over half an hour. I’m sorry it’s gonna be over so soon. A woman in my position doesn’t have many chances to spend time alone with a real gentleman.”