Grand Cayman Slam

by Striker, Randy

  “How old is your son, Sir Conan?”

  “Fourteen. Almost fifteen.”

  “And he still had a nanny?”

  “More a tutor than nanny, Mr. MacMorgan. Lady James and I each have our interests. They often take us away from home for days at a time. We felt better with Miss Rothchild here. You see, Tommy is an extremely intelligent boy. His instructors tell me he is brilliant. The work he was doing in physics and chemistry was on the highest college level. Miss Rothchild was a great help.”

  “And music?”

  Sir Conan smiled. “Tom is well schooled in the classics. But like most teenagers these days, he loves rock and roll. We had this room soundproofed because of his love—and our disdain—for it.”

  “What sort of burglar defenses do you have on the estate?”

  He shrugged wearily. “Too few, obviously. Mr. O’Davis can tell you this island has a very low crime rate. At one time we had watchdogs, but their barking became a nuisance. There were burglar alarms, but my son usually slept with the windows opened—and always unlocked. So of course no alarm went off.”

  “Who was in the house the night your son was kidnapped?”

  “Two members of my permanent staff—they’ve been with the family for years and can be trusted completely. Miss Rothchild, we had thought, and my wife. I . . . was away on business.”

  “Off the island?”

  “No. Just away from the residence. As men, you can certainly understand.”

  Westy took over the questioning for a while. “Could ya be tellin’ us who found the ransom note, Sir Conan?”

  “The maid. It was pinned to Tommy’s bed.”

  While the two of them talked, I made my way around the room. There was a photograph of the boy on the dresser. He looked frailer than I would have expected a son of Sir Conan James to look. He had his mother’s translucent skin, huge dark eyes, and a bristling hair cut. There was no smile—just a look of distant interest, as if he were wondering what kind of camera the photographer was using. There was a shelf full of books on chemistry and natural science. I pulled a couple of books out and found the kid’s secret cache of Playboys stashed behind them—the sexual standbys of all adolescent males. The record albums were mostly rock and roll. Some Beatles and Rolling Stones, but mostly groups with names suitably bizarre: Cannon Fodder, the Sex Pistols, Kiss, and others. The covers get weirder with each progressive acne generation, but the volume and lack of artistry remain the same.

  I went out on the balcony. Someone had removed the ladder. There were scratch marks on the wrought-iron railing. A high-powered telescope stood beside the railing. The lens cover was off and I peered through. It was aimed at the low northern horizon.

  “Does your son wear glasses, Sir Conan?”

  He gave me an odd look. “No. With all the reading he does, one would think he would have to. But his eyes are perfect. We had them checked recently.”

  While O’Davis asked him more about the ransom note, I completed my examination of the room. Two other things caught my attention.

  “What time does Tommy usually get up in the morning?”

  The Englishman thought for a moment. “He has private instructors while on the island, so he sleeps rather late. About nine, I suppose.”

  “Who sleeps in the room below this one?”

  “No one. It’s the guest room, and we’ve had no guests.” It was obvious Sir Conan was getting a little tired of questions. “Really, Mr. MacMorgan, I don’t see how any of this applies. The fact is, someone has taken my only child. If you two gentlemen really are interested in helping, then I strongly suggest you get out with the others and begin looking. This is a very small island. He has to be somewhere!”

  For the first time, emotion crept into the man’s voice. It was less anger than concern.

  “You are absolutely right, Sir Conan.” I looked at the Irishman. “Ready?”

  “Aye, that I am.”

  He showed us to the front door and we both shook hands. Outside, the lawn party was still in subdued motion. While O’Davis went searching for his ratty little Fiat, I stood in the shade by the drive. That’s when I heard a voice calling me.

  “Mr. MacMorgan. Mr. MacMorgan, just a minute.”

  It was Lady James. She stood in the shadows at the corner of the house. There was a fresh drink in her hand. The long dress followed the lush curvature of her body perfectly. She had removed her hat, and the pale hair tumbled down on her shoulders.

  “Yeah?”

  She waited for me to get an arm’s length away before she said, “I just wanted to apologize again for being rude. And to wish you luck.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “We’ll do our best.”

  She had the burning look in her eyes again, poorly hidden by her obvious nervousness. “And to prove my apology is sincere, I was wondering if you wouldn’t dine with me this evening.”

  “If your husband—”

  “Jimmy has other plans. Let me speak plainly, Mr. MacMorgan. The invitation is for you and you alone. There is a matter of greatest importance I would like to discuss with you.”

  I tried to shuffle for some excuse, but before I could, O’Davis came roaring up in his red car. “Good,” she said, waving. “I’ll expect you at nine. Dress . . . casually.”

  When I slid in beside him, O’Davis raised his eyebrows. “What was that all about, Yank?”

  “Lady James wants me over for dinner tonight. And you’re not invited.”

  The Irishman chuckled gaily. “Ah, I bet she does want ye fer dinner, lad. Served alone, au naturel. But I’m a little surprised she didn’t invite meself as the main course. . . . ”

  Our stop at Government House was short and uneventful. Nothing more was known about the kidnapped boy. Police were following up a couple of leads, but they really didn’t have much to go on. Every hour, Radio Cayman was reading a plea to the kidnappers at Sir Conan’s orders. It asked them to contact a neutral party of their choice so they could negotiate. Lab reports had turned up nothing on the murder of Cynthia Rothchild—only that she had been killed by a very sharp instrument, probably a razor. Westy’s English superior told us all this in a dry, bored voice before officially welcoming me to the case—his welcome made, I noted, with all the dubiousness he could muster.

  The Irishman wheeled us back through the main part of Georgetown. Great modern financial institutions dominated the tiny town: Canadian Imperial Bank, Bank of Nova Scotia, Chase Manhattan, Swiss Bank and Trust, and many others. As a tax haven, Grand Cayman has become an important base for international finance and investment. As a result, barefooted island children roam the streets hawking their wares of conches and woven hammocks in the shadow of billion-dollar money institutions.

  O’Davis turned the car into Alice’s Texaco beside the two-story gray-pink Cayman police station. Explaining, he said, “Need a bit of fuel. While you wait, lad, I’ll stop at headquarters and ask me policeman friend about yer silver Jaguar.”

  “And while you’re doing that, I’ll walk back to the library.”

  “Is this any time ta be spendin’ yer time in idle readin’?”

  “You never know,” I said. “You never know.”

  The Cayman library was a squat conservative building of stone block. The lady at the desk was pleasant and eager to help. She went through their books on astronomy and finally found the star chart I requested. When I had finished, I thanked her.

  “Not at all,” she said in the pretty mixture of Scotch, Southern, and English lilt of the Caymans. “Anytime you need somethin’, please come.”

  When I got back, O’Davis and I crossed the street to the Fort, a pleasant, informal restaurant that served pretty good green-turtle steak.

  “Did your policeman friend give you anything to go on?” I asked as the waitress brought us our iced tea.

  “Aye. An’ somethin’ very interesting too. But first, tell me—what was that business about goin’ to the library, Yank?”

  “Simple,” I
said. “The kid’s telescope. It wasn’t focused anywhere close to infinity—as it would be if he had been recently viewing constellations. Furthermore, I checked the star charts. No planets rising in the north this time of year. So why would he have it pointed that direction in the first place?”

  “Could be jest accidental, Yank. Maybe he moved it.”

  “You’re right. But we’re looking for any lead we can get.

  “True, true.”

  “Furthermore, the telescope came into pretty good focus on the landward horizon. Sir Conan said the kid had perfect eyes and that means average. My vision was something better than average last time I had it checked. So what’s directly north of Sir Conan’s estate?”

  The Irishman thought for a moment. “Boatswains Bay, maybe. Somethin’ near the point of North Sound.”

  “Is it a secluded area?”

  “Some of it is. The turtle farm is out in that direction. An’ the little settlement I told ya about—Hell.”

  “A couple of other things in the room caught my attention. Behind one of his bureaus someone had drilled a hole. I doubt if anyone else noticed it. Scrape marks on the floor tipped me off. One of the drawer legs was sitting right on top of it.”

  “I wondered why you were movin’ the furniture.”

  “When Sir Conan had guests, I think his little Tommy was peeking at them.”

  “I’ve somethin’ of the voyeur in me too, Yank. What does it prove?”

  “Probably nothing. I’m just trying to put information together. You pile up enough random information and before you know it a picture emerges. The picture I’m getting of Tommy is one of a very intelligent kid who also has a very active interest in sex—like most people over the age of twelve. But put the two together. Sir Conan is a womanizer. You told me that yourself, plus I got some firsthand proof which I’ll tell you about later. His mother is a beautiful drunkard who has the look of a nymphomaniac in her eyes. Tommy is more than smart enough to understand what’s going on. But kids are funny. What they fantasize about for themselves seems repulsive when they see their parents in some sexual role.”

  “What are ye tellin’ me, Dusky?”

  “I’m telling you there’s a chance the kid just got mad and staged his own kidnapping.”

  “Aye. But it doesn’t account for the murder of me poor Cynthia.”

  “That could have been a completely separate incident.”

  “Sure, it coulda been. But that doesn’t explain one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s only one silver Jag on the island.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “When I met me Cynthia she was drivin’ a rental car because hers had been stolen. She never mentioned what make. The police still haven’t found it. It was a four-year-old XKE. And painted silver.”

  7

  Even after O’Davis told me about the thirty-foot workboat he used to carry his diving parties out to the reef, I didn’t expect the old wooden clunker that was moored off Gun Bay Village on Cayman’s east end.

  “Pretty little thing—fer a powerboat—don’t ya think, Yank?

  “Yeah—pretty like a bulldog.”

  “And jest what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t they sell any paint on this island?”

  “Paint! Now would ya have me ruin the natural beauty of ’er?”

  We stood at the edge of East Sound, looking out toward sea. The water was so clear that the boat seemed to hover over the coral bottom in midair. What paint there was was white and streaked with rust. The cabin had been built far forward, leaving no bow deck. Behind us, kids played in the sand yards where chickens scratched. Windfall mangos rotted beside colorful ply-board houses, and women on the streets carried parasols to protect them from the March sun.

  The Irishman jammed his fists on his hips and humphed loudly. “I’d be havin’ a prettier vessel ta squire ya around in if I hadn’t a lost me fine sailin’ ship savin’ yer snitty little life back in Mariel Harbor, Cuba.”

  “God, you’ve got a memory like an elephant.”

  “In that case, you’ll not be bad-mouthin’ me little boat again.”

  “Deal.”

  Big black letters on the stern of the boat proclaimed its name: Rogue. O’Davis paddled us out in a leaking tender that threatened to sink beneath the weight of us both. Once aboard, he anchored the dinghy off.

  “It’ll take us all day to get to the other end of the island in this thing—not that I don’t like going slow,” I added quickly.

  “Will it now?” he said slyly. “We’ll see.” Humming his strange Irish tune, O’Davis went below to the cabin and returned with something heavy wrapped in oilcloth. He laid the package on the deck and unrolled it.

  “Fast or slow,” he said, smiling, “we’ll be well armed.”

  There were two old Thompson submachine guns—the kind you see in the old gangster movies, but without the circular drum magazines. These had the standard box clips.

  “Always carry them for sharks,” he explained. “Both of ’em work good as new. Thirty-round clips for each with about four hundred rounds of .45 caliber stashed below.”

  “I take it you have a lot of sharks around here.”

  “Never had ta shoot at one.” He grinned.

  I was wrong about O’Davis’ old dive boat being slow. And I was ready to admit it the moment he fired up the engines. The whole superstructure trembled with the loud burple of mufflers.

  “It’s not diesel?”

  He shook his head. “Twin GMC 442s. Awful hard on fuel, Yank, but this ol’ boat will fairly scream across open water.”

  And scream the boat did. I unclipped the mooring line, feeling comfortable once again after changing out of that damnable suit. O’Davis maneuvered us skillfully through the reef, pointed the bow west and north, then drove both throttles home. The force of it jerked my head back and I had to grab hold of the bulkhead to keep from being thrown overboard.

  “Slow, ye said!” the Irishman cackled. “An’ do ya call this goin’ slow?”

  “Not too bad—for an older boat, that is.”

  O’Davis grimaced and put all his weight on the throttles. There were long glassy swells rolling out of the north. Gulls and a stray cormorant flapped madly out of our path while coral heads through the clear water went by in a blur. The old boat rattled like a skeleton, but the engines ran perfectly. Every wave brought teeth crashing against teeth, jarring the kidneys. We were doing at least fifty.

  And fifty in an old thirty-foot boat is fast. Very damn fast.

  “Okay, okay,” I yelled. “I’m convinced. You have a quick boat. Now slow down before you kill us both.”

  Laughing happily at his victory, the Irishman backed down a quarter on the throttles. “Fastest boat on the island,” he said proudly.

  “Why is it I keep thinking this hull wasn’t made for twin four-four-twos?”

  “Ah, she does shake an’ shimmy a bit. But she’s like an old wife—jest complains ta let ya know she’s around. The hull’s seen a decade or two come an’ go, but she’s made of native mahogany and manchineel—sound as a dollar.”

  We ran just off the reef line past Wreck of Ten Sails, where, according to O’Davis, a fleet of Jamaican merchantmen bound for England had misunderstood a warning light and, one after another, grounded on the reef on a dark night in 1788. A couple of other rusted hulks, oil barges, sat partially submerged off Roger Wreck Point.

  “This wee island has seen the world’s sailors and pirates come an’ go in the last four hundred years,” the Irishman mused. “An’ some o’ them that came never made it away again. No one will ever know how many vessels rest broken below that bloody reef line. Divers find new ones every year.”

  We skirted the island and headed west toward North Sound. The landmass was lush and green, edged with white beach across the expanse of turquoise water. Twice a helicopter angled across the island in front of us—part of the search for the son of Sir Conan
James.

  “On an island as small as this, ye’d think it would be very hard to hide anything—let alone a human bein’,” O’Davis said. “But as ya kin see, Yank, there’s a lot of untouched swamp and jungle on Grand Cayman. That’s why I wanted ta take ya fer this little ride.”

  The Irishman was right. Traveling by car, I had gotten the impression that you were never far from a road or a house. But once past the eastern point of the island and the sparse settlements of Gun Bay Village and Spotter Point, there were nothing but desolate expanses of beach backdropped by palm trees leaning in windward strands and the deeper green of tropical forest.

  The only other boats to be seen were some kind of barge—a dark smudge on the rolling horizon—and a large sailboat, outward bound.

  A few miles north, we began to see more houses. O’Davis rummaged through the little dunnage box and handed me a chart of Grand Cayman. It was weathered, soft as tissue, and there were rum lines with compass headings showing wrecks and reefs penciled in.

  “We’re coming up on Old Man Bay now?”

  “Aye. An’ that’s Grape Tree Point jest ahead. There’s only one road connectin’ the south side of the island with this—the north side. If I was wantin’ ta hide, I’d try to disappear west off that road.”

  “The chart says it’s pretty high ground.”

  “Locals call it a mountain. O′ course, it’s not really a mountain; more a series of bluffs than anything. The only real mountains are below us. All submerged. The island herself is a part of the Cayman Ridge, a range of submarine mountains which extend from the Sierra Maestra range of Cuba westward to the Misteriosa Bank toward British Honduras.”

  “Very interesting, professor.”

  The Irishman grinned. “Part of me speech to the tourist divers.”