“Neither. O’Ryan drops the mail off once a week. Both letters were in the same batch.”
“So many visitors during hurricane season could hardly be an accident. Two and two adds up to four. Four against one.”
“Four? You’re not including Rolf?”
“Why not? They came in from Grenada, the same as the phony Mrs. Keener.”
“Ah, that one.” Joss’s eyes narrowed. “She kept her date last night?”
Burt nodded.
“And you... did you enjoy yourself?”
Burt touched a finger to the faint scratches on his cheek. “I could have, if I’d wanted to perform for an audience.” Briefly he related what had happened, including Rolf’s hints of danger and a vast fortune at stake. Joss’s reaction was surprising, but typical. She swung her legs to the ground and spoke with prim indignation:
“I’m going to the police and have the woman thrown out. That kind of promiscuity is just not allowed on my island.”
Burt shook his head slowly. “We’ve been over this ground before, Joss. How would you go?”
“Rolf—”
“You’d never get there.”
“Burt, don’t be silly. Rolf wouldn’t... I mean, he could be involved in a shady deal, like you say, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”
Burt smiled. “I envy you, Joss. Your feminine intuition would be such a help in detective work.”
“Oh, it’s more definite than that. We talked about the stars last night. He’s a Leo, a perfect Leo. He’s not bound by a lot of stifling rules, he’s a leader...”
Burt stared as she talked, amazed that the accident of a man’s birthday could outweigh all contrary evidence. True, it helped that Rolf was handsome, likable and intelligent, and that Joss was slightly sex-starved.
He decided not to argue with her. It wouldn’t hurt to let her think Rolf was harmless, as long as the man didn’t start using her for his own purposes. In any case, Burt wasn’t eager to shatter Rolf’s good-guy pose; he had a feeling that could only unleash a chain reaction of violence.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I could be wrong about Rolf. But not about these other guys. Stay clear of them.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll ask them to leave.”
Burt sighed. “Here we are again. How will they go? Their launch left.”
“Why, Rolf will take them off when he gets back.”
Burt smiled slowly. “Go ahead and ask him. I’ll be curious to see how he gets out of it.”
Burt found Boris in the kitchen scratching his wispy goatee and grumbling about the food supply. The mountain of stores which Joss had hinted at consisted of three cases of Argentine canned beef and twenty-four tins of ship’s biscuits. That would have been fine, Boris explained, if they’d had their usual fare of birds and seafood, but there could be no fishing without a boat, the surf was too high to get lobsters and sea snails from the reef, and the gunshots had driven all the pigeons to the highest crags.
“Maybe tonight I hold a manicou,” said Boris. “But for now...”
Burt sat down to a breakfast of bully beef and biscuits. The biscuits rattled against his teeth, as hard and tasteless as C-ration crackers. The beef was stringy, blood-red, and so salty he used a quart of water to wash it down. He pushed back his plate and saw Boris watching him with an expression of deep sympathy.
“You were here when those new men came in?” Burt asked.
Boris shook his head. “I was up on the hill making charcoal, when I hear the boat. I do not move, for I think the blond man returning early. When I come down, the men are in their cabins. They do not let me in to open windows, show them how the bath works. I think they do not wish to give me a tip?”
The last sentence ended on a rising, querulous inflection. Burt didn’t think the men were concerned about tipping; a passion for secrecy was exactly what he’d have expected after seeing the pair on the beach. It was sheer luck that they’d got on to the island without being seen. The puzzle was that only three men had arrived to occupy reservations made for four. What had happened to the fourth man?
“Godfrey didn’t see them?” asked Burt.
“No, sir. I send him up to the rocks to look for bird’s eggs.”
“How about Coco—? Oh, hell!”
He jumped to his feet and left the club. The new arrivals had driven Coco completely from his mind.
Burt found Coco lying on his back with his white hat shading his face. Burt jerked it off:
“Did you see a launch leave three men on the island?”
Coco blinked and sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, sir.”
Burt threw the hat back with disgust. “That nap just cost you five bucks, Coco.”
“But, sir! I watch where the other go, as you told me.” He scrambled to his knees and pointed to the south. “I follow them with my eyes until they pass out of sight around that island, called Ram Island.”
“Could they have stopped there?”
“No anchorage on that side. Only on this side.”
“What’s behind it?”
“Oh, many, many islands...” He named a dozen before Burt stopped him.
“The Tobago Cays. Isn’t that a group of very small islands off to themselves?”
“Yes, sir. Petit Rameau, Petit Bateau, Jamesby, Baradal and Petit Tabac.” Coco was obviously enjoying the chance to display his knowledge.
“Anybody live there?”
“No, sir. Sometimes boats come from Barbados, people stay there on holiday, swim, fish. Sometimes fishermen stop to dry fish for market, eat turtle. But they must bring food and water—”
“They don’t visit during this season, do they?”
“No, sir. When the sea high, current rush through very swif’. Many rocks.”
Burt thought about it: If Rolf wanted to keep his wife out of sight, he’d have to find a place where nobody would be likely to stumble onto her. She wouldn’t know enough to stay out of sight when she was all hyped-up on junk, and that way he’d be damn sure she couldn’t take off and try to score on her own—
Coco’s shout interrupted his thoughts. He looked down to see the cruiser coming from the east. Now what the hell? Burt wondered. That clever devil has circled around and come back a different way, and now I’m not sure of anything. He felt frustration pinch his nostrils as he watched the cruiser approach, trailing a long wake and cleaving the water with two high bow waves. She was a powerful craft; she could probably outrun anything but a U.S. coast-guard cutter.
He watched Rolf ease up to the edge of the lagoon. The entrance was tricker than ever, but conversely less dangerous. The swells were higher, but if you were a good enough boatman to catch the top of a swell, your chances of getting snagged were that much smaller. Burt found himself holding his breath as the launch disappeared in white water; then letting it out as the boat reappeared gleaming wet, in the lagoon. He had to admire Rolf’s dexterity with the wheel, and he wondered where he’d learned it.
Burt stayed on the tower and watched Joss meet Rolf at the jetty. While the two talked, Bunny disappeared in the direction of the cabins, walking as though she were very, very tired. The two pigeon hunters had paused in front of the beach club to watch the landing, now, perhaps in response to Rolf’s call, they joined Rolf and Joss at the jetty. Burt climbed down from the tower and descended the hill. He reached the beach just as Joss slapped her hands against her hips and left the beach. Rolf gave Burt a mock, half-smiling salute as he approached.
“New fellows for the club, Burt. I offered them a lift to Bequia but they’re afraid of the sea.”
Ace hunched his shoulders and glared at Burt. “Like I told her, I’ll leave. But after that last trip out here, I ain’t ready to go again so soon.”
“I’ve gone through rougher water than this,” said Rolf, looking like a dashing cinema adventurer with his hair wet and drops of water clinging to his mustache. “In the Strait of Gibraltar, with gunboats chasing me.”