«Here, mon.» The manager held the phone for Alex. «You talk, please.»
«Hello?»
«Dr. McAuliff?» said the British voice.
«Yes. McAuliff.»
«We merely followed the instruction in your note, sir.»
«What note?»
«To First-Class Accommodations. The driver brought it to us. The taxi. Mrs. Booth’s and your luggage was taken to Courtleigh Manor. That is what you wished, is it not, sir?» The voice was laced with a trace of overclarification, as if the speaker were addressing someone who had had an extra drink he could not handle.
«I see. Yes, that’s fine,» said Alex quietly. He hung up the telephone and turned to Alison. «Our bags were taken to the hotel.»
«Really? Wasn’t that nice.» A statement.
«No, I don’t think it was,» answered McAuliff. «Come on, let’s find that bar.»
They sat at a corner table in the Palisados observation lounge. The red-jacketed waiter brought their drinks while humming a Jamaican folk tune softly. Alex wondered if the island’s tourist bureau instructed all those who served visitors to hum tunes and move rhythmically. He reached for his glass and drank a large portion of his double Scotch. He noticed that Alison, who was not much of a drinker, seemed as anxious as he was to put some alcohol into her system.
All things considered—all things—it was conceivable that his luggage might be stolen. Not hers. But the note had specified his and Mrs. Booth’s.
«You didn’t have any more artillery, did you?» asked Alex quickly. «Like that compressor?»
«No. It would have set off bells in the airline X-ray. I’d declared this prior to boarding.» Alison pointed to her purse.
«Yes, of course,» he mumbled.
«I must say, you’re remarkably calm. I should think you’d be telephoning the hotel, see if the bags got there … oh, not for me. I don’t travel with the Crown jewels.»
«Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, Alison.» He pushed his chair back. «I’ll call right away.»
«No, please.» She reached out and put her hand over his. «I think you’re doing what you’re doing for a reason. You don’t want to appear upset. I think you’re right. If they’re gone, there’s nothing I can’t replace in the morning.»
«You’re very understanding. Thanks.»
She withdrew her hand and drank again. He pulled his chair back and shifted his position slightly, toward the interior of the lounge. Unobtrusively, he began scanning the other tables.
The observation lounge was half filled, no more than that. From his position—their position—in the far west corner of the room, Alex could see nearly every table. And he slowly riveted his attention on every table, wondering, as he had wondered two night ago on High Holborn, who might be concerned with him.
There was movement in the dimly lighted entrance. McAuliff’s eyes were drawn to it: the figure of a stocky man in a white shirt and no jacket standing in the wide frame. He spoke to the lounge’s hostess, shaking his head slowly, negatively, as he looked inside. Suddenly, Alex blinked and focused on the man.
He knew him.
A man he had last seen in Australia, in the fields of Kimberly Plateau. He had been told the man had retired to Jamaica.
Robert Hanley, a pilot.
Hanley was standing in the entranceway of the lounge, looking for someone inside. And Alex knew instinctively that Hanley was looking for him.
«Excuse me,» he said to Alison. «There’s a fellow I know. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s trying to find me.»
McAuliff thought, as he threaded his way around the tables and through the subdued shadows of the room, that it was somehow right that Robert Hanley, of all the men in the Caribbean, would be involved. Hanley, the open man who dealt with a covert world because he was, above all, a man to be trusted. A laughing man, a tough man, a professional with expertise far beyond that required by those employing him. Someone who had miraculously survived six decades when all the odds indicated nearer to four. But then, Robert Hanley did not look much over forty-five. Even his close-cropped, reddish-blond hair was devoid of gray.
«Robert!»
«Alexander!»
The two men clasped hands and held each other’s shoulders.
«I said to the lady sitting with me that I thought you were looking for me. I’ll be honest, I hope I’m wrong.»
«I wish you were, lad.»
«That’s what I was afraid of. What is it? Come on in.»
«In a minute. Let me tell you the news first. I wouldn’t want the lady to uncork your temper.» Hanley led Alex away from the door; they stood alone by the wall. «It’s Sam Tucker.»
«Sam? Where is he?»
«That’s the point, lad. I don’t know. Sam flew into Mo’Bay three days ago and called me at Port Antone’; the boys in Los Angeles told him I was here. I hopped over, naturally, and it was a grand reunion. I won’t go into the details. The next morning, Sam went down to the lobby to get a paper, I think. He never came back.»
8
Robert Hanley was flying back to Port Antonio in an hour. He and McAuliff agreed not to mention Sam Tucker to Alison. Hanley also agreed to keep looking for Sam; he and Alex would stay in touch.
The three of them took a taxi from Port Royal into Kingston, to Courtleigh Manor. Hanley remained in the cab and took it on to the small Tinson Pen Airfield, where he kept his plane.
At the hotel desk, Alex inquired nonchalantly, feeling no casualness whatsoever, «I assume our luggage arrived?»
«Indeed, yes, Mr. McAuliff,» replied the clerk, stamping both registration forms and signaling to a bellhop. «Only minutes ago. We had them brought to your rooms. They’re adjoining.»
«How thoughtful,» said Alex softly, wondering if Alison had heard the man behind the desk. The clerk did not speak loudly, and Alison was at the end of the counter, looking at tourist brochures. She glanced over at McAuliff; she had heard. The expression on her face was noncommittal. He wondered.
Five minutes later, she opened the door between their two rooms, and Alex knew there was no point speculating further.
«I did as you ordered, Mr. Bossman,» said Alison, walking in. «I didn’t touch the—»
McAuliff held up his hand quickly signaling her to be quiet. «The bed, bless your heart! You’re all heart, luv!»
The expression now on Alison’s face was definitely committal. Not pleasantly. It was an awkward moment, which he was not prepared for; he had not expected her to walk deliberately into his room. Still, there was no point standing immobile, looking foolish.
He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small, square-shaped metal instrument the size of a cigarette pack. It was one of several items given him by Hammond. (Hammond had cleared his boarding pass with British Airways in London, eliminating the necessity of his declaring whatever metallic objects were on his person.)
The small metal box was an electronic scanner with a miniaturized high-voltage battery. Its function was simple, its mechanism complex, and Hammond claimed it was in very common use these days. It detected the presence of electronic listening devices within a nine- by nine-foot area. Alex had intended to use it the minute he entered the room. Instead, he absentmindedly had opened the doors to his small balcony and gazed for a brief time at the dark, majestic rise of the Blue Mountains beyond in the clear Kingston night.
Alison Booth stared at the scanner and then at McAuliff. Both anger and fear were in her eyes, but she had the presence of mind to say nothing.
As he had been taught, Alex switched on the instrument and made half circles laterally and vertically, starting from the far corner of the room. This pattern was to be followed in the other three corners. He felt embarrassed, almost ludicrous, as he waved his arm slowly, as though administering some occult benediction. He did not care to look at Alison as he went through the motions.