«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 is 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.»
«Was that the police?»
«Not in any way the police would know… I understand the Ministry received your permits today. Dunstone does facilitate things, doesn’t it?»
«I told Latham I was leaving for Ocho Rios tomorrow afternoon. I won’t if Tucker doesn’t show up. That’s what I want you to know.»
Once again, Westmore Tallon reached for his cane, but not with the aggressiveness he had displayed previously. He was suddenly a rather thoughtful, even gentle man. «If your friend was taken against his will, it would be kidnapping. A very serious crime, and insofar as he’s American, the sort of headline attraction that would be an anathema. It doesn’t make sense, Mr. McAuliff… You say he’s due today, which could be extended to this evening, I presume?»
«Yes.»
«Then I suggest we wait. I cannot believe the parties involved could—or would—commit such a gargantuan mistake. If Mr. Tucker is not heard from by, say, ten o’clock, call me.» Tallon wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Alex. «Commit this to memory, please; leave the paper here.»
«What are you going to do if Tucker doesn’t show?»
«I will use perfectly legitimate connections and have the matter directed to the most authoritative officials in the Jamaican police. I will alert highly placed people in the government; the governor-general, if necessary. St. Croix has had its murders; tourism is only now coming back. Jamaica could not tolerate an American kidnapping. Does that satisfy you?»
«I’m satisfied.» Alex crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and as he did so, he remembered Tallon’s reaction to Chatellerault’s appearance in Savanna-la-Mar. «You were surprised that Chatellerault was on the island. Why?»
«As of two days ago, he was registered at the Georges Cinque in Paris. There’s been no word of his leaving, which means he flew here clandestinely, probably by way of Mexico. It is disturbing. You must keep a close watch on Mrs. Booth. You have a weapon, I assume?»
«Two rifles in the equipment. An .030 Remington telescopic and a long-power .22 automatic. Nothing else.»
Tallon seemed to debate with himself, then make his decision. He took a key ring from his pocket, selected a key, and opened a lower drawer of his desk. He removed a bulky manila envelope, opened the flap, and shook a pistol onto his blotter. A number of cartridges fell out with the gun. «This is a .38 Smith & Wesson, short barrel. All markings have been destroyed. It’s untraceable. Take it, please; it’s wiped clean. The only fingerprints will be yours. Be careful.»
McAuliff looked at the weapon for several seconds before reaching out and slowly picking it up. He did not want it; there was a finality of commitment somehow attached to his having it. But again, there was the question of alternatives: Not having it might possibly be foolish, though he did not expect to use it for anything more than a show of force.
«Your dossier includes your military service and experience in small-arms fire. But that was a long time ago. Would you care to refresh yourself at a pistol range? We have several, within minutes by plane.»
«No, thank you,» replied Alex. «Not too long ago, in Australia, it was the only diversion we had.»
The telephone rang with a muted bell. Tallon picked it up and acknowledged with a simple «Yes?»
He listened without speaking to the party on the other end of the line. When he terminated the call, he looked at McAuliff.
«The green Chevrolet sedan is registered to a dead man. The vehicle’s license is in the name of Walter Piersall. Residence: High Hill, Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny.»
13
McAuliff spent another hour with Westmore Tallon, as the old Jamaican aristocrat activated his information network. He had sources all over the island.
Before the hour was up, one important fact had been uncovered: the deceased, Walter Piersall of Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny, had in his employ two black assistants with whom he invariably traveled. The coincidence of the two men who had removed Sam Tucker’s belongings from the hotel in Montego Bay and the two men who followed Alex in the green Chevrolet was no longer far-fetched. And since Piersall had brought up Sam’s name with Alison Booth, the conclusion was now to be assumed.
Tallon ordered his own people to pick up Piersall’s men. He would telephone McAuliff when they had done so.
Alex returned to Courtleigh Manor. He stopped at the desk for messages. Alison was at dinner; she hoped he would join her. There was nothing else.
No word from Sam Tucker.
«If there are any calls for me, I’ll be in the dining room,» he said to the clerk.
Alison sat alone in the middle of the crowded room, which was profuse with tropical plants and open-grilled windows. In the center of each table was a candle within a lantern; these were the only sources of light. Shadows flickered against the dark red and green and yellow foliage; the hum was the hum of contentment, rising but still quiet Crescendos of laughter; perfectly groomed, perfectly dressed manikins in slow motion, all seemingly waiting for the nocturnal games to begin.
This was the manikins’ good hour. When manners and studied grace and minor subtleties were important. Later it would be different; other things would become important … and too often ugly. Which is why James Ferguson knew his drunken pretense had been plausible last night.
And why Charles Whitehall arrogantly, quietly, had thrown the napkin across the table onto the floor. To clean up the foreigner’s mess.
«You look pensive. Or disagreeable,» said Alison as Alex pulled out the chair to sit down.
«Not really.»
«What happened? What did the police say? I half expected a call from them.»
McAuliff had rehearsed his reply, but before delivering it he gestured at the cup of coffee and the brandy glass in front of Alison. «You’ve had dinner, I guess.»
«Yes. I was famished. Haven’t you?»
«No. Keep me company?»
«Of course. I’ll dismiss the eunuchs.»
He ordered a drink. «You have a lovely smile. It’s sort of a laugh.»
«No sidetracking. What happened?»
McAuliff lied quite well, he thought. Certainly better—at least more persuasively—than before. He told Alison he had spent nearly two hours with the police. Westmore Tallon had furnished him with the address and even described the interior of the main headquarters; it had been Tallon’s idea for him to know the general details. One could never tell when they were important.
«They backed up Latham’s theory. They say it’s hit-and-run. They also hinted that Piersall had a diversion or two that was closeted. He was run down in a very rough section.»