not expected that.
He had the distinct feeling that he was an object, to be tolerated but
watched. Not essentially to be trusted.
He was a strange-toned outsider who had invaded the heart of this Man’s
playground. He nearly laughed when a young Jamaican mother guided a
smiling child to the opposite side of the path as he approached. The
child obviously had been fascinated by the tall, pinkish figure; the
mother, quietly, efficiently, knew better. With dignity.
He saw the rectangular white sign with the brown lettering: QUEEN
STREET, EAST. The arrow pointed to the right, at another, narrower
gravel path. He started down it.
He recalled Hammond’s words: Don’t be in a hurry.
Ever, impossible. And never when you are making a contact.
There’s nothing so obvious as a man in a rush in a crowd that’s not;
except a woman. Or that same man stopping every five feet to light the
same cigarette over and over agar . n, so he can peer around at
everyone. Do the natural things, depending on the day, the weather, the
surroundings.
It was a warm morning … noon. The Jamaican sun was hot, but there
were breezes from the harbor, less than a mile away. It would be
perfectly natural for a tourist to sit down and take the sun and the
breeze; to unbutton his collar, remove his jacket, perhaps. To look
about with pleasant tourist curiosity.
There was a bench on the left; a couple had just gotten up.
It was empty. He took off his jacket, pulled at his tie, and sat down.
He stretched his legs and behaved as he thought was appropriate.
But it was not appropriate. For the most self-conscious of reasons: He
was too free, too relaxed in this Man’s playground. He felt it
instantly, unmistakably. The discomfort was heightened by an old man
with a cane who walked by and hesitated in front of him. He was a touch
drunk, thought Alex; the head swayed slightly, the legs a bit unsteady.
But the eyes were not unsteady. They conveyed mild surprise mixed with
disapproval.
McAuliff rose from the bench and swung his jacket under his arm. He
smiled blankly at the old man and was about to proceed down the path
when he saw another man, difficult to miss. He was white-the only other
white man in Victoria Park. At least, the only one he could see. He
was quite far away, diagonally across the lawns, on the north-south
path, about a hundred and fifty yards in the distance.
A young man with a slouch and a shock of untrained dark hair. And he
had turned away. He had been watching him, Alex was sure of that.
Following him.
It was James Ferguson. The young man who had put on the second’-best
performance of the night at Courtleigh Manor last evening. The drunk
who had the presence of mind to keep sharp eyes open for obstacles in a
dimly lit room.
McAuliff took advantage of the moment and walked rapidly down the path,
then cut across the grass to the trunk of a large palm. He was nearly
two hundred yards from Ferguson now. He peered around the tree, keeping
his body out of sight. He was aware that a number of Jamaicans sitting
about on the lawn were looking at him; he was sure, disapprovingly.
Ferguson, as he expected, was alarmed that he had lost the subject of
his surveillance. (It was funny, thought Alex.
He could think the word “surveillance” now. He doubted he had used the.
word a dozen times in his life before three weeks ago.) The young
botanist began walking rapidly past the brown-skinned strollers. Hammond
was right, thought McAuliff. A man in a hurry in a: crowd that wasn’t
was obvious.
Ferguson reached the intersection of the Queen Street path and stopped.
He was less than forty yards from Alex now; he hesitated, as if not sure
whether to retreat back to the South Parade or go on.
McAuliff pressed himself against the palm trunk. Ferguson thrust
forward, as rapidly as possible. He had decided to keep going, if only
to get out of the park. The bustling crowds on Queen Street East
signified sanctuary. The park had become unsafe.
If these conclusions were right-and the nervous expression on Ferguson’s
face seemed to confirm them-McAuliff realized that he had learned
something else about this strange young man: He was doing what he was
doing under duress and with very little experience. Lookfor the small
things, Hammond had said. They’ll be there; you’ll learn to spot them.
Signs that tell you there is valid strength or real weakness.
Ferguson reached the East Parade gate, obviously relieved. He stopped
and looked carefully in all directions.
The unsafe field was behind him. The young man checked his watch while
waiting for the uniformed policeman to halt the traffic for pedestrians.
The whistle blew, automobiles stopped with varying levels of screeches,
and Ferguson continued down Queen Street. Concealing himself as best he
could in the crowd, Alex followed. The young man seemed more relaxed
now. He wasn’t as aggressive in his walk, in his darting glances. It
was as though, having lost the enemy, he was more concerned with
explanations than with reestablishing contact.
But McAuliff wanted that contact reestablished. It was as good a time
as any to ask young Ferguson those questions he needed answered.
Alex started across the street, dodging the traffic, and jumped over the
curb out of the way of a Kingston taxi. He made his way through the
stream of shoppers to the far side of the walk.
There was a side street between Mark Lane and Duke Street. Ferguson
hesitated, looked around, and apparently decided it was worth trying. He
abruptly turned and entered.
McAuliff realized that he knew that street. It was a freeport strip
interspersed with bars. He and Sam Tucker had been there late one
afternoon a year ago, following a Kaiser conference at the Sheraton. He
remembered, too, that there was a diagonally connecting alley that
intersected the strip from Duke Street. He remembered because Sam had
thought there might be native saloons in the moist, dark brick corridor,
only to discover it was used for deliveries. Sam had been upset; he was
fond of back-street native saloons.
Alex broke into a run. Hammond’s warning about drawing attention would
have to be disregarded. Tallon’s could wait; the man with arthritis
could wait. This was the moment to reach James Ferguson.
He crossed Queen Street again, now paying no attention to the
disturbance he caused, or the angry whistle from the harassed Kingston
policeman. He raced down the block; there was the diagonally connecting
alley. It seemed even narrower than he remembered. He entered and
pushed his way past half a dozen Jamaicans, muttering apologies, trying
to avoid the hard stares of those walking in the opposite direction
toward him-silent challenges, grown-up children playing
king-of-the-road. He reached the end of the passageway and stopped. He
pressed his back against the brick and peered around the edge, up the
side street. His timing was right.
James Ferguson, his expression ferretlike, was only ten yards away. Then
five. And then McAuliff walked out of the alley and confronted him.
The young man’s face paled to a deathly white. Alex gestured him
against the stucco wall; the strollers passed in both directions,
several complaining.
Ferguson’s smile was false, his voice strained. “Well, hello, Alex …
Dr. McAuliff. Doing a bit of shopping? This is the place for it.”
“Have I been shopping, Jimbo-mon? You’d know if I had, wouldn’t you?”
:’I don’t know what you … I wouldn’t-” ‘Maybe you’re still drunk,”
interrupted Alex. “You had a lot to drink last night.”
“Made a bloody fool of myself, I expect. Please accept my apologies.”
“No apologies necessary. You stayed just within the lines. You were
very convincing.”
“Really, Alex, you’re a bit much.” Ferguson moved back.
A Jamaican woman, basket balanced on her head, hurried past. “I said I
was sorry. I’m sure you’ve had the occasion to overindulge.”
“Very often. As a matter of fact, I was a hell of a lot drunker than
you last night.”
“Now “I don’t know what you’re implying, chap, and frankly-ankly, my
head’s too painful to play anagrams. Now, for the last time, I
apologize.”
“For the wrong sins, Jimbo-mon. Let’s go back and find some real ones.
Because I have some questions.”
Ferguson awkwardly straightened his perennial slouch and whisked away
the shock of hair on his forehead.
“You’re really quite abusive. I have shopping to do.”
The young man started to walk around McAuliff. Alex grabbed his arm and
slammed him back into the stucco wall.
“Save your money. Do it in London.”
“No! ” Ferguson’s body stiffened; the taut flesh around his eyes
stretched tiher. “No, pleas@, ” he whispered.
“Then let’s start with the suitcases.” McAuliff released the arm,
holding Ferguson against the wall with his stare.