“Was that the police?”
“Not in any way the police would know…. I understand the Ministry
received your permits today. Dunstone does facilitate things, doesn’t
it?”
“I told Latham I was leaving for Ocho Rios tomorrow afternoon. I won’t
if Tucker doesn’t show up. That’s what I want you to know.”
Once again, Westmore Tallon reached for his cane, but not with the
aggressiveness he had displayed previously. He was suddenly a rather
thoughtful, even gentle man. “If your ” friend was taken against his
will, it would be kidnapping. A very serious crime, and insofar as he’s
American, the sort of headline attraction that would be an anathema. It
doesn’t make sense, Mr. McAuliff… You say he’s due today, which
could be extended to this evening, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest we wait. I cannot believe the parties involved
could–or would–commit such a gargantuan mistake. If Mr. Tucker is
not heard from by, say, ten o’clock, call me.” Tallon wrote a number on
a piece of paper and handed it to Alex. “Commit this to memory, please;
leave the paper here.”
“What are you going to do if Tucker doesn’t show?”
“I will use perfectly legitimate connections and have the matter
directed to the most authoritative officials in the Jamaican police. I
will alert highly placed people in the government; the governor-general,
if necessary. St. Croix has had its murders; tourism is only now
coming back. Jamaica could not tolerate an American kidnapping. Does
that satisfy you?”
“I’m satisfied.” Alex crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and as
he did so, he remembered Tallon’s reaction to Chatellerault’s appearance
in Savanna-la-Mar. “You were surprised that Chatellerault was on the
island. Why?”
“As of two days ago, he was registered at the Georges Cinque in Paris.
There’s been no word of his leaving, which means he flew here
clandestinely, probably by way of Mexico. It is disturbing. You must
keep a close watch on Mrs. Booth. You have a weapon, I assume?”
“Two rifles in the equipment. An .030 Remington telescopic and a
long-power.22 automatic. Nothing else.”
Tallon seemed to debate with himself, then make his decision. He took a
key ring from his pocket, selected a key, and opened a lower drawer of
his desk. He removed a bulky manila envelope, opened the flap, and
shook a pistol onto his blotter. A number of cartridges fell out with
the gun.
“This is a .38 Smith & Wesson, short barrel. All markings have been
destroyed. It’s untraceable. Take it, please; it’s wiped clean. The
only fingerprints will be yours. Be careful.”
McAuliff looked at the weapon for several seconds before reaching out
and slowly picking -it up. He did not want it; there was a finality of
commitment somehow attached to his having it. But again, there was the
question of alternatives: Not having it might possibly be foolish,
though he did not expect to use it for anything more than a show of
force.
our dossier includes your military service and experience in small-arms
fire. But that was a long time ago.
Would you care to refresh yourself at a pistol ranges We have several,
within minutes by plane.”
“No, thank you,” replied Alex. “Not too long ago, in Australia, it was
the only diversion we had.”
The telephone rang with a muted bell. Tallon picked it up and
acknowledged with a simple “Yes?”
He listened without speaking to the party on the other end of the line.
When he terminated the call, he looked at McAuliff.
“The green Chevrolet sedan is registered to a dead man.
The vehicle’s license is in the name of Walter Piersall. Residence:
High Hill, Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny.”
McAuliff spent another hour with Westmore Tallon, as the old Jamaican
aristocrat activated his information network. He had sources all over
the island.
Before the hour was up, one important fact had been uncovered: the
deceased, Walter Piersall of Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny, had in
his employ two black assistants with whom he invariably traveled. The
coincidence of the two men who had removed Sam Tucker’s belongings from
the hotel in Montego Bay and the two men who followed Alex in the green
Chevrolet was no longer far-fetched. And since Piersall had brought up
Sam’s name with Alison Booth, the conclusion was now to be assumed.
Tallon ordered his own people to pick up Piersall’s men.
He would telephone McAuliff when they had done so.
Alex returned to Courtleigh Manor’ He stopped at the desk for messages,
Alison was at dinner; she hoped he would join her. There was nothing
else.
No word from Sam Tucker.
“If there are any calls for me, I’ll be in the dining room,” he said to
the clerk.
Alison sat alone in the middle of the crowded room, which was profuse
with tropical plants and open-grilled windows. In the center of each
table was a candle within a lantern; these were the only sources of
light. Shadows flickered against the dark red and green and yellow
foliage; the hum was the hum of contentment, rising but still quiet
crescendos of laughter; perfectly groomed, perfectly dressed manikins in
slow motion, all seemingly waiting for the nocturnal games to begin.
This was the manikins’ good hour. When manners and studied grace and
minor subtleties were important. Later it would be different; other
things would become important … and too often ugly. Which is why
James Ferguson knew his drunken pretense had been plausible last night.
And why Charles Whitehall arrogantly, quietly, had thrown the napkin
across the table onto the floor. To clean up the mess.
“You look pensive. Or disagreeable,” said Alison as Alex pulled out the
chair to sit down.
“Not really.”
“What happened? What did the police say? I half expected a call from
them.”
McAuliff had rehearsed his reply, but before delivering it he gestured
at the cup of coffee and the brandy glass in front of Alison. “You’ve
had dinner, I guess.”
“Yes. I was famished. Haven’t you?”
“No. Keep me company?”
“Of course. I’ll dismiss the eunuchs.”
He ordered a drink. “You have a lovely smile. It’s sort of a laugh.”
“No sidetracking. What happened?”
McAuliff lied quite well, he thought. Certainly better-at least more
persuasively-than before. He told Alison he had spent nearly two hours
with the police. Westmore Tallon had furnished him with the address and
even described the interior of the main headquarters; it had been
Tallon’s idea for him to know the general details. One could never tell
when they were important.
“They backed up Latham’s theory. They say it’s hit and-run. They also
hinted that Piersall had a diversion or two that was closeted. He was
run down in a very rough section.”
“That sounds suspiciously pat to me. They’re covering themselves.”
Alison’s eyebrows furrowed, her expression one of disbelief.
“They may be,” answered Alex casually, sincerely. “But they can’t tie
him to Sam Tucker, and that’s my only concern.”
“He is tied. He told me.”
And I told them. They’ve sent men to Carrick Foyle, that’s where
Piersall lived. In Trelawny. Others are going over his things at the
Sheraton. If they find anything, they’ll call me.” McAuliff felt that
he was carrying off the lie. He was, after all, only bending the truth.
The arthritic Westmore Tallon was doing these things.
“And you’re satisfied with that? You’re just going to take their word
for it? You were awfully troubled with Mr. Tucker a few hours ago.”
” I still am,” said Alex, putting down his glass and looking at her. He
had no need to lie now. “If I don’t hear from Sam by late tonight …
or tomorrow morning, I’m going to go to the American Embassy and yell
like hell.”
Oh … all right. Did you mention the little buggers this morning? You
never told me.”
:’The what?”
“Those bugs in your luggage. You said you were supposed to report
them.”
Again McAuliff felt a wave of inadequacy; it irked him that he wasn’t
keeping track of things. Of course, he hadn’t seen Tallon earlier, had
not received his instructions, but that was no explanation. “I should
have listened to you last night. I can just get rid of them; step on
them, I guess.”
:’There’s a better way.”
“What’s that?”
“Put them someplace else.”
“For instance?”
” Oh, somewhere harmless but with lots of traffic. It keeps the tapes
rolling and people occupied.”
McAuliff laughed; it was not a false laugh. “That’s very funny. And
very practical. Where would they be, listening, I mean?”
Alison brought her hands to her chin; a mischievous little girl thinking
mischievously. “It should be within a hundred yards or so-that’s
usually the range tolerance between bugs and the receivers And where
there’s a great deal of activity … Let’s see. I complimented the
headwaiter on the red snapper. I’ll bet he’d bring me to the chef for
the recipe.
“They love that sort of thing,” added Alex. “It’s perfect.