There was a pause on Latham’s part. “I know, Mr. McAuliff. What can
I say? You are an American; he was an American. I am Jamaican, and the
terrible thing took place on a Kingston street. I grieve deeply for
several reasons.
And I did not know the man.”
Latham’s sincerity carried over the wire. Alex lowered his voice. “You
say ‘the terrible thing.” Do you mean more than an accident?”
“No. There was no robbery, no mugging. It was an accident. No doubt
brought on by rum and inactivity. There is a great deal of both in
Kingston, Mr. McAuliff. The men …
or children who committed the crime are undoubtedly well into the hills
now. When the rum wears off, the fear will take its place; they will
hide. The Kingston police are not gentle.”
“I see.” McAuliff was tempted to bring up the name of NONNI&- Sam
Tucker, but he held himself in check. He ‘had told Latham only that
Piersall had left a message for him. He would say no more for the time
being. “Well, if there’s anything I can do. . .”
“Piersall was a widower, he lived alone in Carrick Foyle.
The police said they were getting in touch with a brother in Cambridge,
Massachusetts…. Do you know why he was calling you?”
“No idea.”
“A great deal of your survey will take place in Trelawny Parish. Perhaps
he had heard and was offering you hospitality.”
“Perhaps … Mr. Latham, is it logical that he would know about the
survey?” Alex listened intently to Latham’s reply.
Again, Hammond: Learn to spot the small things.
“Logical? What is logical in Jamaica, Mr. McAuliff? it is poorly kept
secret that the Ministry-with the gracious help of our former mother
country-is undertaking an overdue scientific evaluation. A secret
poorly kept is not really much of a secret. Perhaps it is not logical
that Dr. Piersall knew; it is certainly possible, however.”
No hesitations, no overly quick responses, no rehearsed words.
“Then I guess that’s what he was calling about. I’m sorry.”
“I grieve.” Again Latham paused; it was not for effect.
“Although it may seem improper, Mr. McAuliff, I should like to discuss
the business between us.
“Of course. Go ahead.”
“All of the survey permits came in late this morning …
less than twenty-four hours. It generally takes the best part of a
week.”
The processing was unusual, but Alex had come to expect the unusual with
Dunstone, Limited. The normal barriers fell with abnormal ease. Unseen
expediters were everywhere, doing the bidding of Julian Warfield.
Latham said that the Ministry had anticipated more, rather than less,
difficulty, as the survey team would be entering the territory of the
Cock Pit, miles of uninhabited country-jungle, really. Escorts were
required, guides trained in the treacherous environs. And arrangements
had to be made with the recognized descendants of the Maroon people,
who, by a treaty of 1739, controlled much of the territory. An
arrogant, warlike people, brought to the islands as slaves, the Maroons
knew the jungles far better than their white captors. The British
sovereign, George the First had offered the Maroons their independence,
with a treaty’that guaranteed the Cock Pit territories in perpetuity. It
was a wiser course than continuing bloodshed.
Besides, the territory-was considered unfit for colonial habitation.
For over 235 years that treaty was often scoffed at but never violated,
said Latham. Formal permission was still sought by Kingston from the
“Colonel of the Maroons” for all those who wished to enter their lands.
The Ministry was no exception.
Yet the Ministry, thought McAuliff, was in reality Dunstone, Limited. So
permissions were granted, permits obtained with alacrity.
“Your equipment was air-freighted to Boscobel,” said Latham. “Trucks
will transport it to the initial point of the survey.”
“Then I’ll leave tomorrow afternoon or, at the latest, early the next
day. I’ll be hiring out of Ocho Rios; the others can follow when I’m
finished. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”
“Your escort-guides, we call them ‘runners,’ will be available in two
weeks. You will’not have any need for them until then, will you? I
assume you will be working the coast to begin with.”
“Two weeks’ll be fine…. I’d like a choice of runners, please.
“There are not that many to choose from, Mr. McAuliff.
It is not a career that appeals to many young people; the ranks are
thinning. But I shall do what I can.”
“Thank you. May I have the approved maps in the morning?”
“They will be sent to your hotel by ten o’clock. Good-bye, Mr.
McAuliff. And again, my deeply felt regrets over Dr. Piersall.”
“I didn’t know him either, Mr. Latham,” said Alex.
“Good-bye.”
He did not know Piersall, thought McAuliff, but he had heard the name
Carrick Foyle, Piersall’s village. He could not remember where he had
heard it, only that it was familiar.
Alex replaced the telephone and looked over at Alison, on the small
balcony. She had been watching him, listening, and she could not
conceal her fear. A thin, nervous man in a white Palm Beach suit had
told her-less than two hours ago-that he had confidential information,
and now he was dead.
The late afternoon sun was a Caribbean orange, the shadows shafts of
black across the miniature balcony.
Behind her was the deep green of the high palms, behind them the awesome
rise of the mountain range. Alison Booth seemed to be framed within a
tableau of chiaroscuro tropic colors. As though she were a target.
“He said it Was an accident.” Alex walked slowly to the balcony doors.
“Everyone’s upset. Piersall was liked on the island. Apparently,
there’s a lot of drunken hit-and-runs in Kingston.”
“And you don’t believe him for an instant.”
“I didn’t say that.” He lighted a cigarette; he did not want to look at
her.
“You don’t have to. You didn’t say one word about your friend Tucker,
either. Why not?”
” Common sense. I want to talk to the police, not an associate director
of the Ministry. All he can do is babble and create confusion.”
“Then let’s go to the police.” Alison rose from the deck chair. “I’ll
go get dressed.”
“No!” McAuliff realized as he said the word that he was too emphatic. “I
mean, I’ll go. I don’t want you involved.”
“I spoke to the man. You didn’t.”
“I’ll relay the information.”
“They won’t accept it from you. Why should they hear it secondhand?”
“Because I say so.” Alex turned away, ostensibly to find an ashtray. He
was not convincing, and he knew it. “Listen to me, Alison.” He turned
back. “Our permits came in.
Tomorrow I’m going to Ocho Rios to hire drivers and carriers; you people
will follow in a couple of days. While I’m gone I don’t want you–or
any member of the team involved with the police or anybody else. Our
job here is the survey. That’s my responsibility; you’re my
responsibility. I don’t want delays.”
She walked down the single step, out of the frame of color, and stood in
front of him. “You’re a dreadful liar, Alex. Dreadful in the sense
that you’re quite poor at it.”
“I’m going to the police now. Afterwards, if it’s not too late, I may
drop over to the Ministry and see Latham. I was a little rough with
him.”
“I thought you ended on a very polite note.”
it was Alison who spotted Hammond’s small things, thought McAuliff. She
was better than he was. “You only heard me. You didn’t hear him…. If
I’m not back by seven, why not call the Jensens and have dinner with
them?
I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“The Jensens aren’t here.”
“What?”
“Relax. I called them for lunch. They left word at the desk that since
it was a day off, they were touring. Port Royal, Spanish Town, Old
Harbour. The manager set up their tour.”
“I hope they enjoy themselves.”
He told the driver that he wanted a half hour’s tour of the city. He
had thirty minutes to kill before cocktails in Duke Street-he’d spot the
restaurant; he didn’t know the specific address-so the driver could do
his imaginative best within the time span.
The driver protested: thirty minutes was barely sufficient to reach Duke
Street from the Courtleigh in the afternoon traffic. McAuliff shrugged
and replied that the time was not absolute.
It was precisely what the driver wanted to hear. He drove out
Trafalgar, south on Lady Musgrave, into Old Hope Road. He extolled the
commercial virtues of New Kingston, likening the progress to Olympian
feats of master planning. The words droned on, filled with idiomatic
exaggerations of the “alla time big American millions” that were turning
the tropical and human overgrowth that was Kingston into a Caribbean
financial mecca. It was understood that the millions would be German or
English or French, depending on the accent of the passenger.
It didn’t matter. Within minutes, McAuliff knew that the driver knew he