He spoke urgently.
“I don’t like what I see and hear, mon.”
“What’s the matter?”
“John Crow hide wid’ block chicken!”
“We’re being watched?” Tucker put down the newspaper and sat forward.
“Yes, mon. Three, four hours now.”
“Who?”
“A digger been walking on the sand since morning. Him keep circling the
west-cove beach too long for tourist leave behinds. I watch him good.
His trouser pants rolled up, look too new, mon. I go behind in the
woods and find his shoes.
Then I know the trouser pants, mon. Him policeman.”
Sam’s gnarled features creased in thought. “Alex spoke with the
Falmouth police around nine-thirty. In the lobby.
He said there were two: a chief and an Indian.”
“What, mon?”
“Nothing … That’s what you saw. What did you hear?”
“Not all I saw.” Lawrence looked over the sea wall, east toward the
center beach. Satisfied, he returned his attention to Sam. “I follow
the digger to the kitchen alley, where he waits for a man to come
outside to speak with him. It is the clerk from the lobby desk. Him
shake his head many times.
The policeman angry, mon.”
“But what did you hear, boy?”
A porter fella was plenty near, cleaning snapper in his buckets. When
the digger-policeman left I ask him hard, mon. He tells me this digger
kep asking where the American fella went, who had telephoned him.”
“And the clerk didn’t know.”
“That’s right, mon. The policeman was angry.”
“Where is he now?”
“Him wait down at the east shore.” Lawrence pointed over the sea wall,
across the dunes to a point on the other side of the central beach.
“See? In front of the sunfish boats, mon.”
Tucker picked up the binoculars and focused on the figure near the
shallow-bottomed sailboats by the water.
The man and boats were about four hundred yards away.
The man was in a torn green T-shirt and rumpled baseball cap; the
trousers were a contradiction. They were rolled up to the knees, like
most scavengers of the beach wore them, but Lawrence was right, they
were creased, too clean. The man was chatting with a cocoruru peddler,
a thin, very dark Jamaican who rolled a wheelbarrow filled with coconuts
up and down the beach, selling them to the bathers, cracking them open
with a murderous-looking machete. From time to time the man glanced
over toward the west-wing terraces, directly into the binoculars,
thought Sam. Tucker knew the man did not realize he was being observed;
if he did, the reaction would appear on his face. The only reaction was
one of irritation, nothing else.
“We’d better supply him with the proper information, son,” said Sam,
putting down the binoculars.
“What, mon?”
“Give him something to soothe that anger … so he won’t think about it
too much.”
Lawrence grinned. “We make up a story, eh, mon?
“McAuliff went shopping Ochee, maybe? Ochee is six, seven miles from
Drax Hall, mon. Same road.”
“Why didn’t Mrs. Booth-Alison go with him?”
“Him buy the lady a present. Why not, mon?”
Sam looked at Lawrence, then down at the beach, where Alison was
standing up, prepared to go back into the water.
“It’s possible, boy. We should make it a little festive, though.”
Tucker got out of the chair and walked to the sea wall. “I think Alison
should have a birthday.”
The telephone rang in McAuliff s room. The doors were closed against
the heat, and the harsh bell echoed from beyond the slatted panels.
Tucker and Lawrence looked at each other, each knowing the other’s
thoughts. Although McAuliff had not elaborated on his late-morning
departure from Bengal Court, neither had he concealed it. Actually, he
had asked the desk for a road map, explaining only that he was going for
a drive. Therefore, the front desk knew that he was not in his room.
Tucker crossed rapidly to the double doors, opened them, and went inside
to the telephone.
“Mr. McAuliff?” The soft, precise Jamaican voice was that of the
switchboard operator.
“No, Mr. McAuliff is out. May I give him a message?”
“Please, sir, I have a call from Kingston. From a Mr. Latham. Will you
hold the line, please?”
“Certainly. Tell Mr. Latham you’ve got Sam Tucker on the phone. He
may want to speak with me.”
Sam held the telephone under his wrinkled chin as he struck a match to a
thin cigar. He had barely drawn the first smoke when he heard the
double click of the connecting line. The voice was now Latham’s.
Latham, the proper bureaucrat from the Ministry, who was also committed
to the cause of Barak Moore. As Latham spoke, Tucker made the decision
not to tell him of Barak’s death.
“Mr. Tucker?”
“Yes, Mr. Latham. Alex drove into Ocho Rios.”
“Very well. You can handle this, I’m sure. We were able to comply with
McAuliffs request. He’s got his interior runners several days early.
They’re in Duanvale and will be driving on Route Eleven into Queenhythe
later this afternoon.”
“Queenhythe’s near here, isn’t it?”
“Three or four miles from your motel, that’s all. They’ll telephone
when they get in.”
“What are their names?”
“They’re brothers. Marcus and Justice Hedrik. They’re Maroons, of
course. Two of the best runners in Jamaica; they know the Cock Pit
extremely well, and they’re trust worthy.”
“That’s good to hear. Alexander will be delighted.”
Latham paused but obviously was not finished. “Mr. Tucker?”
“Yes, Mr. Latham?”
“McAuliff s altered the survey’s schedule, it would appear. I’m not
sure we understand. . .”
“Nothing to understand, Mr. Latham. Alex decided to work from a
geographical midpoint. Less room for error that way; like bisecting a
triangle from semicircular coordinates. I agree with him.” Tucker
inhaled on his thin cigar while Latham’s silence conveyed his
bewilderment.
“Also,” continued Sam, “it gives everyone a lot more to do.”
“I see…. The reasons, then, are quite compatible with …
let us say, professional techniques?”
“Very professional, Mr. Latham.” Tucker realized that Latham would not
speak freely on the telephone. Or felt he could not. “Beyond
criticism, if you’re worried about the Ministry’s concerns. Actually,
Alexander could be saving you considerable sums of money. You’ll get a
lot more data much quicker.”
Latham paused again, as though to telegraph the importance of the
following statement. “Naturally, we’re always interested in conserving
funds … and I assume you all agree with the decision to go in so
quickly. Into the Cock Pit, that is.” Sam knew that Latham’s statement
could be translated into the question: Does Barak Moore agree?
“We all agree, Mr. Latham. We’re all professionals.”
“Yes … well, that’s splendid. One last item, Mr. Tucker.”
“Yes, Mr. Latham?”
“We want Mr. McAuliff to use all the resources provided him. He’s not
to stint in an effort to save money; the survey’s too important for
that.”
Tucker again translated Latham’s code easily: Alex was to maintain
contact with British Intelligence liaisons. If he avoided them,
suspicions would be aroused. “I’ll tell him that, Mr. Latham, but I’m
sure he’s aware of it. These past two weeks have been very routine,
very dull-simple coastline geodometrics. Not much call for equipment.
Or resources.”
“As long as he knows our feelings,” said Latham rapidly, now anxious to
terminate the conversation. “Good-bye, Mr. Tucker.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Latham.” Sam held his finger down on the telephone
button for several moments, then released it and waited for the
switchboard. When the operator came on the line, Tucker asked for the
front desk.
“Bengal Court, good afternoon.”
“This is Mr. Tucker, west wing six, Royal Society survey.”
“Yes, Mr. Tucker?”
“Mr. McAuliff asked me to make arrangements for tonight. He didn’t
have time this morning; besides, it was awkward; Mrs. Booth was with
him.” Sam paused, letting his words register.
The clerk automatically responded. “Yes, Mr. Tucker.
What can we do for you?”
“It’s Mrs. Booth’s birthday. Do you think the kitchen could whip up a
little cake? Nothing elaborate, you understand.”
“Of course! We’d be delighted, sir.” The clerk was effusive. “Our
pleasure, Mr. Tucker.”
“Fine. That’s very kind of you. Just put, it on Mr. McAuliff s
bill—-2′ “There’ll be no charge,” interjected the clerk, fluidly
subservient.
“very kind indeed. We’ll be dining around eight-thirty, I guess. Our
usual table.”
“We’ll take care of everything.”
“That is, it’ll be eight-thirty,” continued Sam, “if Mr. MCAuliff finds
his way back in time….” Tucker paused again, listening for the clerk’s
appropriate response.
“Oh? Is there a problem, Mr. Tucker?”
“Well, the damn fool drove south of Ocho Rios, around Fern Gully, I
think, to locate some stalactite sculpture. He told me there were
natives who did that sort of thing down there.”
“That’s true, Mr. Tucker. There are a number of stalactite craftsmen
in the Gully. However, there are government restrictions-”
“Oh Lord, son!” interrupted Sam defensively. “He’s just going to find
Mrs. Booth a little present, that’s all.”
The clerk laughed, softly and obsequiously. “Please don’t mistake me,