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 Noël! You’re simply fanatic, 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.»
«Jimbo-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 rum; 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.»
«Oh? How come? It’s awfully late.»
«He said he wanted to speak to me. Privately. I have no idea why. I’ll 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?» He had not heard her words.
«Because I turned them off. I came in here, got my purse, used some lipstick, and went back into your room. There’s a switch by the door. I used it.»
«I don’t remember.»
«You were upset at the time. I gather my room isn’t the center of attention yours is.» Alison walked in and closed the corridor door.
«No, it’s not, but keep your voice low. Can those goddamn things listen through doors and walls?»
«No, I don’t think so.» She watched him take her suitcases from the bed and carry them across the room. He stood by the closet, looking for a luggage rack. There was none. «Aren’t you being a little obvious?»
«What?»
«What are you doing with my bags? I haven’t unpacked.»
«Oh.» McAuliff could feel the flush on his face. He felt like a goddamn idiot. «I’m sorry. I suppose you could say I’m compulsively neat.»
«Or just compulsive.»
He carried the bags back to the bed and turned to look at her, the suitcases still in his hands. He was so terribly tired. «It’s been a rotten day … a very confusing day,» he said. «The fact that it’s not over yet is discouraging as hell; there’s still Whitehall to go… And in the next room, if I snore or talk in my sleep or go to the bathroom with the door open, everything is recorded somewhere on a tape. I can say it doesn’t bother me, but it doesn’t make me feel any better, either. I’ll tell you something else, too, while I’m rambling. You are a lovely, lovely girl, and you’re right, I’m compulsive … for example, at this moment I have the strongest compulsion to hold you and kiss you and feel your arms around me, and … you are so goddamn desirable … and you have such a beautiful smile and laugh … and all I want to do is hold you and forget everything else… Now I’m finished rambling, and you can tell me to go to hell because I’m not relevant.»
Alison Booth stood silently, looking at McAuliff for what seemed to him far too long. Then she walked slowly, deliberately, to him.