“That’s it, Dr. McAuliff. Now, tell me honestly, would you have hired
me had you known?”
“No, I would not. I wonder why I didn’t know.”
“It’s not the sort of information the university, or Emigration, or just
about anyone else would have.”
“Alison?” McAuliff tried to conceal the sudden fear he felt. “You did
hear about this job from the university people, didn’t you?”
The girl laughed and raised her lovely eyebrows in mock protest. “Oh,
Lord, it’s tell-all time! … No, I admit to having a jump; itgave me
time to compile that very impressive portfolio for you.”
“How did you learn of it?”
“Interpol. They’d been looking for months. They called me about ten or
twelve days before the interview.”
McAuliff did not have to indulge in any rapid calculations.
Ten or twelve days before the interview would place the date within
reasonable approximation of the afternoon he had met with Julian
Warfield in Belgrave Square.
And later with a man named Hammond from British Intelligence.
The stinging pain returned to McAuliff s stomach. Only it was sharper
now, more defined. But he couldn’t dwell on it. Across the
dark-shadowed patio, a man was approaching.
He was walking to their table unsteadily. He was drunk, thought Alex.
“Well, for God’s sake, there you are! We wondered where the hell you
were! We’re all in the bar inside. Whitehall’s an absolute riot on the
piano! A bloody black No6l Coward! Oh, by the way, I trust your
luggage got here. I saw you were having problems, so I scribbled a note
for the bastards to send it along. If they could read my whiskey
slant.”
Young James Ferguson dropped into an empty chair and smiled
alcoholically at Alison. He then turned and looked at McAuliff, his
smile fading as he was met by Alex’s stare.
“That was very kind of you,” said McAuliff quietly.
And then Alexander saw it in Ferguson’s eyes. The focused consciousness
behind the supposedly glazed eyes.
James Ferguson was nowhere near as drunk as he pretended to be.
They expected to stay up most of the night. It was their silent,
hostile answer to the “horrid little buggers.”
They joined the others in the bar and, as a good captain should,
McAuliff was seen talking to the maitre d’; all knew the evening was
being paid for by their director.
Charles Whitehall lived up to Ferguson’s judgment. His talent was
professional; his island patter songs-filled with Caribbean idiom and
Jamaican wit-were funny, brittle, cold, and episodically hot. His voice
had the clear, highpitched thrust of a Kingston balladeer; only his eyes
remained remote. He was entertaining and amusing, but he was neither
entertained nor amused himself, thought Alex.
He was performing.
And finally, after nearly two hours, he wearied of the chore, accepted
the cheers of the half-drunken room, and wandered to the table. After
receiving individual shakes, claps, and hugs from Ferguson, the Jensens,
Alison Booth, and Alex, he opted for a chair next to McAuliff. Ferguson
had been sitting there-encouraged by Alex-but the young botanist was
only too happy to move. Unsteadily.
“That was remarkable!” said Alison, leaning across McAuliff, reaching
for Whitehall’s hand. Alex watched as the Jamaican responded; the dark
Caribbean hand-fingernails manicured, gold ring glistening-curled
delicately over Alison’s as another woman’s might. And then, in
contradiction, Whitehall raised her wrist and kissed her fingers.
A waiter brought over a bottle of white wine for Whitehall’s inspection.
He read the label in the nightclub light, looked up at the smiling
attendant, and nodded. He turned back to McAuliff, Alison was now
chatting with Ruth Jensen across the table. “I should like to speak
with you privately,” said the Jamaican casually. “Meet me in my room,
say, twenty minutes after I leave.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
Whitehall leveled his dark eyes at McAuliff and spoke softly but
sharply. “No, it cannot.”
James Ferguson suddenly lurched up from his chair at the end of the
table and raised his glass to Whitehall. He waved and gripped the edge
with his free hand; he was the picture of a very drunk young man.
“Here’s to Charles the First of Kingston! The bloody black Sir NOV
You’re simply fantestic, Charles!”
There was an embarrassing instant of silence as the word “black” was
absorbed. The waiter hurriedly poured Whitehall’s wine; it was no
moment for sampling.
“Thank you,” said Whitehall politely. “I take that as a high
compliment, indeed … Jimbo-mon.”
Vimbo-mon! ” shouted Ferguson with delight. “I love it!
You shall call me Jimbo-mon! And now, I should like-” Ferguson’s words
were cut short, replaced by an agonizing grimace on his pale young face.
It was suddenly abundantly clear that his alcoholic capacity had been
reached. He set his glass down with wavering precision, staggered
backward and, in slow motion of his own, collapsed to the floor.
The table rose en masse; surrounding couples turned. The waiter put the
bottle down quickly and started toward Ferguson; he was joined by Peter
Jensen, who was the nearest.
“Oh, Lord,” said Jensen, kneeling down. “I think the poor fellow’s
going to be sick. Ruth, come help…. You there, waiter. Give me a
hand, chap!”
The Jensens, aided by two waiters now, gently lifted the young botanist
into a sitting position, unloosened his tie, and generally tried to
reinstate some form of consciousness.
Charles Whitehall, standing beside McAuliff, picked up two napkins and
lobbed them across the table onto the floor near those administering
aid. Alex watched the Jamaican’s actions;
it was not pleasant. Ferguson’s head was nodding back and forth; moans
of impending illness came from his lips.
“I think this is as good a time as any for me to leave,” said Whitehall.
“Twenty minutes?”
McAuliff nodded. “Or thereabouts.”
The Jamaican turned to Alison, delicately took her hand, kissed it, and
smiled. “Good night, my dear.”
With minor annoyance, Alex sidestepped the two of them and walked over
to the Jensens, who, with the waiters’ help, were getting Ferguson to
his feet.
“We’ll bring him to his room,” said Ruth. “I warned him about the nun;
it doesn’t go with whiskey. I don’t think he listened.” She smiled and
shook her head.
McAuliff kept his eyes on Ferguson’s face. He wondered if he would see
what he saw before. What he had been watching for over an hour.
And then he did. Or thought he did.
As Ferguson’s arms went limp around the shoulders of a waiter and Peter
Jensen, he opened his eyes. Eyes that seemingly swam in their sockets.
But for the briefest of moments, they were steady, focused, devoid of
glaze. Ferguson was doing a perfectly natural thing any person would do
in a dimly lit room. He was checking his path to avoid obstacles.
And he was-for that instant-quite sober.
Why was James Ferguson putting on such a splendidly embarrassing
performance? McAuliff would have a talk with the young man in the
morning. About several things, including a “whiskey-slanted” note that
resulted in a suitcase that triggered the dial of an electric scanner.
“Poor lamb. He’ll feel miserable in the morning.” Alison had come
alongside Alex. Together they watched the Jensens take Ferguson out the
door.
“I hope he’s just a poor lamb who went astray for the night and doesn’t
make a habit of it.”
“Oh, come on, Alex, don’t be old-auntie. He’s a perfectly nice young
man who’s had a pint too many.” Alison turned and looked at the deserted
table. “Well, it seems the party’s over, doesn’t it?”
“I thought we agreed to keep it going.”
“I’m fading fast, darling; my resolve is weakening. We also agreed to
check my luggage with your little magic box.
Shall we?”
“Sure.” McAuliff signaled the waiter.
They walked down the hotel corridor; McAuliff took Alison’s key as they
approached her door. “I have to see Whitehall in a few minutes.”
“How come? It’s awfully late.”
“He said he wanted to speak to me. Privately. I have no idea why..”
make it quick.” He inserted the key, opened the door, and found himself
instinctively barring Alison in the frame until he had switched on the
lights and looked inside.
The single room was empty, the connecting door to his still open, as it
had been when they left hours ago.
I’m impressed,” whispered Alison, resting her chin playfully on the
outstretched, forbidding arm that formed a bar across the entrance.
“What?” He removed his arm and walked toward the connecting door. The
lights in his room were on-as he had left them. He closed the door
quietly, withdrew the scanner from his jacket, and crossed to the bed,
where Alison’s two suitcases lay alongside each other. he held the
instrument above them; there was no movement on the dial. He walked
rapidly about the room, laterally and vertically blessing it from all
corners. The room was clean. “What did you say?”
he asked softly.
:’You’re protective. That’s nice.”
“Why were the lights off in this room and not in mine?”