“I’ll see, sir.” The man shut the case, turned, and walked down a
corridor in the wall behind the counter, a passageway Alex assumed led
to large refrigerated rooms.
When a man emerged from a side door within the corridor, McAuliff caught
his breath, trying to suppress his astonishment. The man was black and
slight and old; he walked with a cane, his right forearm still, and his
head trembled slightly with age.
man who had It was the man in Victoria Park: the old stared at him
disapprovingly in front of the bench on the Queen Street path.
He walked to the counter and spoke, his voice apparently stronger than
his body. “A fellow saltwater trout lover,” he said, in an accent more
British than Jamaican, but not devoid of the Caribbean. “What are we to
do with those freshwater aficionados who cost me so much money?
Come, it is nearly closing. You shall have your choice from my own
selection.” He lifted a part of the counter by A hinged panel of the
butcher-block counter wa the light-skinned attendant in the striped
apron. Alex followed the arthritic old man down the short corridor and
through a narrow door into a small office that was a miniature extension
of the expensive outer design’. The walls were paneled in fruitwood;
the furniture was a single mahogany desk with a functional antique
swivel chair, a soft leather couch against the wall, and an armchair in
front of the desk.
The lighting was indirect, from a ]one china lamp on the desk. With the
door closed, Alex saw oak file cabinets lined against the inner wall.
Although the room was confining in size, it was eminently
comfortable-the isolated quarters of a contemplative man.
“Sit, Mr. McAuliff,” said the proprietor of Tallon’s, indi eating the
armchair as he hobbled around the desk and sat down, placing his cane
against the wall. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You were in Victoria Park this morning.”
“I did not expect you then. To be quite frank, you startled me. I’d
been looking at your photograph minutes before I took my stroll. From
nowhere the face of this photograph was in front of my eyes in
Victoria.” The old man smiled and gestured with his palms up, signifying
unexpected coincidence. “Incidentally, my name is Tallon. Westmore
Tallon. We’re a fine old Jamaican family, as I’m sure you’ve been
told.”
“I hadn’t, but one look at your … fish store would seem to confirm
it.”
“Oh, yes. We’re frightfully expensive, very exclusive.
Private telephone number. We cater only to the wealthiest on the
island. From Savanna to Montego to Antonio and Kingston. We have our
own delivery service-by private plane, of course…. It’s most
convenient.”
“I should think so. Considering your extracurricular activities.”
“Which, of course, we must never consider to the point of discussion,
Mr. McAuliff,” replied Tallon quickly.
“I’ve got several things to tell you. I expect you’ll transmit the
information and let Hammond do what he wants.”
“You sound angry.”
“On one issue, I am. Goddamned angry … Mrs. Booth.
Alison Booth. She was manipulated here through Interpol. I think that
smells. She made one painful-and dangerouscontribution. I should think
you people would let her alone.”
Tallon pushed his foot against the floor, turning the silent antique
swivel to his right. He aimlessly reached over for his cane and
fingered it. “I am merely a … liaison, Mr. McAuliff, but from what I
understand, no pressure was exerted on you to employ Mrs. Booth. You
did so freely.
Where was the manipulation?”
Alex watched the small, arthritic man toy with the handle of the cane.
He was struck by the thought that in some strange way Westmore Tallon
was like an artist’s composite of Julian Warfeld and Charles Whitehall.
The communion of elements was disturbing. “YOU people are very
professional,” he said quietly, a touch bitterly. “You’re ingenious
when it comes to presenting alternatives.”
“She can’t go home, Mr. McAuliff. Take my word for that.”
“From a certain point of view, she might as well…. The Marquis de
Chatellerault is in Jamaica.”
Tallon spun in the antique chair to face McAuliff. For an instant he
seemed frozen. He stared at Alex, and when he blinked it was as though
he silently rejected McAuliffs statement. “This is impossible,” he said
simply.
“It’s not only possible, I don’t even think it’s a secret. Or if it is,
it’s poorly kept; and as somebody said about an hour ago, that’s not
much of a secret.”
“Who gave you this information?” Tallon held onto his cane, his grasp
visibly firmer.
“Charles Whitehall. At three o’clock this morning. He was invited to
Savanna-la-Mar to meet Chatellerault.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“The circumstances aren’t important. The important fact is that
Chatellerault is in Savanna-la-Mar. He is the house guest of a family
named Wakefield. They’re white and rich.”
“We know them,” said Tallon, writing a note awkwardly with his arthritic
hand. “They’re customers. What else do you have?”
“A couple of items. One is extremely important to me, and I warn you, I
won’t leave here until something’s done about it.” Tallon looked up from
his notepaper. “You make pronouncements without regard for realistic
appraisal. I have no idea whether I can do anything about anything.
Your camping here would not change that. Please continue.”
Alex described James Ferguson’s unexpected meeting with Craft at the
Palisados Airport and the manipulation that resulted in the electronic
devices in his luggage. He detailed Craft’s offer of money in exchange
for information about the survey. Craft people are notoriously “It’s
not surprising. The curious,” said Tallon, writing pairiffilly on his
“notepaper.
“Shall we get to the item you say is so vital?”
“I want to summarize first.”
“Summarize what?” Tallon put down his pencil.
“What I’ve told you.”
Tallon smiled. “It’s not necessary, Mr. McAuliff. I take notes
slowly, but my mind is quite alert.”
“I’d like us to understand each other…. British Intelligence wants
the Halidon. That was the purpose-the only purpose-of my recruitment.
Once the Halidon could be reached, I was finished. Complete protection
still guaranteed to the survey team.”
“And so?”
“I think you’ve got the Halidon. It’s Chatellerault and Craft.”
Tallon continued to stare at McAuliff. His expression was totally
neutral. “You have arrived at this conclusion?”
“Hammond said this Halidon would interfere. Eventually try to stop the
survey. Diagrams aren’t necessary. The marquis and Craft fit the
prints. Go get them.”
“I see . – .” Tallon reached once more for his cane. His personal
scepter, his sword Excalibur. “So, in one extraordinary simplification,
the American geologist has solved the riddle of the Halidon.”
Neither man spoke for several moments. McAuliff broke the silence with
equally quiet anger. “I could get to dislike you, Mr. Tallon. You’re
a very arrogant man.”
“My concerns do not include your approval, Mr. McAuliff. Jamaica is my
passion-yes, my passion, sir. What you think is not important to me …
except when you make absurd pronouncements that could affect my work….
Arthur Craft, p@re etfils, have been raping this island for half a
century. They subscribe to the belief that theirs is a mandate from
God. They can accomplish too much in the name of Craft; they would not
hide behind a symbol. And Halidon is a symbol, Mr. McAuliff… The
Marquis de Chatellerault? You were quite correct. Mrs. Booth was
manipulated-brilliantly, I think-into your survey. It was
cross-pollination, if you like; the circumstances were optimum. Two
kling-klings in a hibiscus, one inexorably forcing the other to reveal
himself She was bait, pure and simple, Mr. McAuliff. Chatellerault has
long been suspected of being an associate of Julian Warfield. The
marquis is with Dunstone, Limited.” Tallon lifted his cane up laterally,
placed it across his desk, and continued to gaze blankly at Alex.
McAuliff said finally, “You withheld information; you didn’t tell me
things I should have been told. Yet you expect me to function as one of
you. That smells, Tallon.”
“You exaggerate. There is no point in complicating further an already
complicated picture.”
“I should have been told about Chatellerault, instead of hearing his
name from Mrs. Booth.”
Tallon shrugged. “An oversight. Shall we proceed?”
“All right. There’s a man named Tucker. Sam Tucker.”
“Your friend from California? The soil analyst?”
“Yes.”
McAuliff told Hanley’s story without using Hanley’s name. He emphasized
the coincidence of the two black men who had removed Tucker’s belongings
and the two Jamaicans who had followed his taxi in the green Chevrolet
sedan. He described briefly the taxi owner’s feats of driving skills in
the racetrack park, and gave Tallon the license plate number of the
Chevrolet.
Tallon reached for his telephone and dialed without speaking to Alex.
“This is Tallon,” he said quietly into the phone. “I want M.V.
information. It is urgent. The license if KYB four-four-eight. Call
me back on this line.” He hung up and shifted his eyes to McAuliff. “It
should take no longer than five minutes.”