Grand Cayman Slam

by Striker, Randy

  “And a good speech it is—but I want to know more about the inland bluffs. A person really could hide there for a time without being found?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not well schooled on the mountain. Few islanders are, Yank. All sounds very romantic, explorin’ bluffs, an’ all, but when it comes right down to it, the sun’s hot and the rocks are sharp and it’s about as easy as walkin’ through a thousand acres of brambles.”

  “Then that seems the place we ought to search.”

  “An’ what do ya think the helicopter is for, mate?”

  “They can see everything from the air?”

  He shook his head. “No—not everything, certainly. There be caves up there. Nobody knows how many fer sure. Back in the seventeen hundreds Edward Teach used one of the caves as a hideout. Somethin’ of a tourist attraction now. Some say it was where Teach shot his first mate, Israel Hinds.”

  “I remember the story. Treasure Island. And Teach is known as . . . ”

  “Aye. Blackbeard. The pirate Neal Walker came to Grand Cayman a few years later. History says he robbed the galleon Genoese of sixteen thousand pieces of eight. Legend says he buried it somewhere on the island.”

  “And that’s another part of your speech to the tourists?”

  “They do warm to the idea of buried treasure,” he said, smiling.

  At Rum Point, Grand Cayman’s even shoreline suddenly gave way to the ragged, massive indent of North Sound. The Irishman banked southward along the tropical wilderness, leaving the tourist traps like Cayman Kai behind.

  I was beginning to find it all very discouraging. For an island only twenty miles long and eight miles wide, there was one hell of a lot of open shoreline and an equal amount of inland forest. And we didn’t have much time—only thirty-six more hours, if the kidnappers stuck to their word. It seemed like an impossible task. We needed more to go on. It was a time for fast work, and following hunches if need be. But I didn’t even have enough information to form a hunch.

  “What were you and Lady James talkin’ about when I came up in the car?” O’Davis asked suddenly.

  “She invited me to dinner—but I already told you that.”

  “It’s jest that you mentioned you knew Sir Conan to be a womanizer. It’s a popular topic of conversation with her. But she usually waits until she knows ya a bit longer—an hour or so.”

  “No. She didn’t tell me. It came from some accidental original research I was doing.”

  He tilted his head in question. So I told him about my meeting with Diacona Ebanks and the scene in her apartment.

  “Could have been rather awkward, Yank, had he seen you—bein’ invited to his lawn party and all.”

  “I got the impression that he would have acted as if it had never happened.”

  “Aye, ya might be right. Most Englishmen got a skin like an elephant. Robots.”

  “You think Sir Conan might have been involved with Cynthia Rothchild?”

  “It crossed me mind. I mentioned it to her two days before she died. She got quite huffy. She said absolutely not. Hard to imagine Lady James letting her stay had they been makin’ the creature with two backs.”

  At Governors Creek we passed a fleet of native-built commercial boats where, for four hundred years, the turtle ships have been kept at anchor. Black men, sweating in the sun, worked in the rigging and wove nets. Ratty houses in the background were painted bright blue and conch pink. Some of them still had roofs of thatch. An emaciated dog stumbled through the March heat, looking for shade.

  O’Davis nodded toward a hatchet-shaped point of land beyond.

  “That’s Head of Barkers. Ya wondered about the landward horizon ya saw through the telescope.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Aye. That an’ the little curve of peninsula before ya get to West Bay.”

  “Can you get in a little closer?”

  “We’ll slip in through the reef at the point an’ run right up the shore.”

  The Irishman pointed the old boat in, and at a heart-stopping forty miles an hour we rode the surf toward the reef. As accustomed as I am to running coral shoals, I didn’t see the narrow cut between the deadly staghorn until we were right on it. We banked left, then right, on a twisting path that took us safely in beyond the surf line, then ran parallel between shore and reef over the white sand shallows. A big ray exploded off before us, and a couple of sharks were black shapes lancing off at an angle.

  “Houses out here are mostly islanders,” O’Davis explained as we roared along. “The turtle farm is down around Boatswains Bay, an’ they have a wee school, too.”

  “But Tommy James had a tutor?”

  “Aye. Cynthia. And he attended one of the private schools back in England, I suppose. One o’ them places where bloodlines are considered before grades and hasn’t closed since the Vikings invaded.” The Irishman thought for a moment. “But if the lad was ta have island mates, I suppose most of them lived out here.”

  “But other English kids live on the island, don’t they?”

  “Sure, sure. A brattish lot, fer the most part. Money does it to ’em, I suppose.”

  “Or maybe it’s just that you’re Irish and can’t be expected to be impartial.”

  “Possible,” he said wryly. “That’s jest possible.”

  Ahead, the sprinkling of small houses gave way to a ragged coastline of volcanic rock that protruded from the surf like teeth. Upon a bluff above the shore a rolling lawn and fence were shaded by a stand of ironwood trees. Through the trees you could see the well-manicured geometrics of a large estate.

  “I thought you said all the houses out here were owned by islanders.”

  “I said most o’ them were. Still some big houses from the old slaving days.”

  “Who lives there?”

  The Irishman shrugged. “Don’t be expectin’ me to know everythin′. I thought the place was deserted. Used ta be.”

  It wasn’t now—that was obvious. Someone was walking through the shadows of the trees.

  “You have any binoculars aboard?”

  He produced a pair from the dunnage box and handed them to me. By the time I got them focused, the person was almost to the house. It was a man. Probably a very young man—although he was too far away to tell for sure. He was slim, wore shorts, and had long blond hair. He paused at the side of the house—the garage. The door slid open mechanically, then closed almost immediately.

  “Damn!” I said.

  “An’ what’s the problem, Yank?”

  “There was a car in the garage, but I didn’t get a good look at it.”

  “So?”

  “So it was some kind of small car. I didn’t get a long enough look to see what make. But it was silver. I’m sure of that. And if I had to guess, I’d say it was a Jaguar.”

  8

  On the trip back, we decided to do some preliminary checking on the house through official channels and, if we didn’t get the proper answers, to make our own investigation.

  At midnight.

  The journey back to Gun Bay Village didn’t take long. O’Davis got his Rogue outside the reef and drove the throttles—and us—home.

  As I showered, O’Davis made some telephone calls. And then I made a call of my own.

  Dia Ebanks seemed delighted to hear from me. And then not so delighted.

  “Dusky, I really shouldn’t even talk to you!”

  “I left a note.”

  “Yes, and what a note,” she complained in her pretty Cayman accent. “I’ll read it: ‘Diacona, sorry I can’t spend the morning with you.’ That’s it! No explanation, no promise to call. Honestly, I’ve never felt more like a one-night stand in my life. I’ve spent the whole day thinking of nasty things to say if I ever saw you again.”

  “Well, I promise you’ll get a chance to say them—but maybe not tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Dia, I’m afraid I’m going to be tied up most of the evening on business.”

  “Pla
nning a new charter business on Grand Cayman, right? Dusky, you know I don’t believe that for one minute. If you don’t want to see me again . . . ”

  “Dia, I want to see you again. And again and again. I want to spend time with you; get to know everything about you. But I can’t. Not tonight.”

  “Not even very, very late tonight?” There was a wistfulness in her voice that was touching. “I need something to look forward to, Dusky. The man ... who came to my apartment last night called. He’s had a very terrible personal tragedy. His son was kidnapped—but you don’t want to hear about that. The point is, he called and said he needed someone to talk to. But I refused. Can you imagine how hard that was to do? I turned him down because I knew I would be seeing you. Dusky, please.”

  “If I can, Dia. If I can.”

  O’Davis had his best lecherous grin on when I hung up. “Lady problems, Yank?”

  “You might say that.”

  “It’s quite the busy calendar ye have for the evenin’: Lady James at . . . nine, was it? And then yer pretty mystery girl, an’ then a house-breakin’.”

  “Wait a minute—you checked on the house?”

  “Aye. Remember I said I thought it was deserted? It’s supposed to be. The place was owned by a rich Canadian. He died a year ago an’ the estate is still tied up in the courts.”

  “Then who did I see this afternoon?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what the police are very anxious ta know. Had ta pull some strings to get us the first look. But it wasn’t the caretaker. The caretaker is a black fellow named Onard Cribbs. Apparently no family ta speak of—not on Grand Cayman. He’s Jamaican.”

  “So we go at midnight.”

  “Aye.”

  “Can you get us some aerial photographs of the place?”

  “I kin try, Yank. The next question is, shall we go by land? Or sea?”

  “If I was a kidnapper, I’d have a watch posted on the road and the gate. So it might be a nice night for a swim.”

  O’Davis smiled. “Nothin’ like bathin’ by moonlight.”

  At nine on the dot I arrived at Lady James’ seaside estate. There was a servant at the gate. He nodded without expression as he let me pass in O’Davis’ little red Fiat, as if used to such intrigue.

  Earlier in the day we got word that the kidnappers had been in touch with Sir Conan.

  Sir Conan’s secretary, more correctly. The contact had been made by telephone. The sound of traffic in the background suggested it was a pay phone. O’Davis had gotten a full report from his man at Government House, complete with a tape of the call.

  He had played it on his little cassette recorder while I listened from the tiny kitchen, steaming lobster we had caught that afternoon.

  Because the call had been unexpected, the tape began midway into the conversation.

  “ . . . Sir Conan James?”

  “No. This is his secretary.”

  “Then listen and listen good. The message won’t be repeated. The boy is safe. But we won’t hesitate to kill him if you try some sort of silly rescue. We want the two million pounds in used notes. You will package them in a waterproof container. You will harness the container to a parachute. You will prepare a small plane with a loran—”

  “We need more time,” the secretary interrupted. “Tomorrow is Sunday. We need an extra workday to negotiate with the banks—”

  “Shut up! If there is another outburst, I will hang up and we will kill the boy! You will have the money and the plane ready by Monday before midnight. You will attach a green flare to the parachute. Our next communiqué will be by marine radio, channel zero-six. Understand? Someone must monitor that channel continuously. When the time is right, we will give you the loran coordinates at which the plane will drop the money. We will have put the boy adrift in a seaworthy skiff. You will find him within a mile of the drop site. We will radio you the exact loran coordinates once we are safely away.”

  There was an odd clicking sound and then the voice of an adolescent boy came onto the line. It sounded as if he were talking from a tunnel.

  “Father? Father, this is Tommy! I am quite well, but please do exactly what they say! They will kill me if you don’t. I know they will!”

  And then the phone went dead.

  The Irishman had switched off his cassette recorder. “What do ya think, Yank?”

  “The guy calling was obviously trying to disguise his voice. Tried to make it deeper, rougher. I’m not sure if the English accent was real.”

  “Aye. I believe it was. And so do the lads at Government House. Broad vowels of Lancashire. Most mimics affect the Cockney adenoid. I’d say he’s English, most certainly.”

  “It sounded as if he was reading his demands point by point. But he gave us another day without hesitation. But was it because Sir Conan’s secretary asked for it, or was it because he needed it?”

  “Whatever the reason, Dusky, we kin use the time.”

  “Yeah, but the point is, if he gave us the extra day because of the secretary, it means he’s the boss man. He’s the one who makes the decisions. And why not send some flunky to a pay phone to make his demands?”

  “Maybe he jest doesn’t trust anyone else.”

  “Or maybe there is no one else. Maybe it’s a one-man scam. Maybe that’s why he was so insistent no rescue attempt be made.”

  The Irishman thought about it for a while. He smiled wryly. “Yer a shrewd one, Yank.”

  “And I might be entirely wrong. What was Sir Conan’s reaction when he heard the tape?”

  “Lads at Government House said he actually broke into tears when he heard his child’s voice.”

  “Then there’s no doubt it was Tommy. But didn’t the sound of his voice strike you as odd?”

  “I figure the kidnapper taped the lad’s voice and played it back over the phone.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. He couldn’t risk taking him into Georgetown. And it accounts for the hollow sound.” I had plopped the six big lobster tails on plates, using tongs, then added drawn butter and island lime. “So does Sir Conan still want us to visit that deserted house tonight?”

  “After hearin’ the kidnapper’s threat, he was reluctant. Very reluctant. But they made it plain that if he could not pay the two million pounds, we had to act.”

  “So it’s still on?”

  The Irishman nodded. “They also made it very clear, Yank, that if the boy is there and we don’t think we can get him out cleanly, we should return and confer with the police.”

  “But there won’t be any cops around, right? We don’t want to take any chance of tipping them off.”

  “They agreed—a bit reluctantly.” The Irishman had cracked the tail ungraciously with his bare hands and dipped a chunk of the sweet lobster in the butter. “Need I add, Yank, that much is riding on our shoulders? Me adviser at Government House has no girth of faith in the two of us—probably because I’m Irish and yer ugly. Seems to think I’m tryin’ to turn this inta a private vendetta because they murdered me little Cynthia.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  And he had grinned, chewing the fresh lobster. “Aye, that I am, lad. But let’s keep that a secret between jest us two. . . . ”

  So I arrived at Lady James’ as promised, anxious to get her feelings on the kidnappers’ demands. And just as anxious to find out more about this strange family: a playboy baronet, his drunkard lady, and their genius son who had sounded so small and desperate on the cassette tape.

  I motored up the drive and through the tropical gardens as the servant closed the gate behind. The white mansion was shadowed by trees, glowing in the moonlight.

  I got out of the car, feeling involuntary sexual stirrings low in my abdomen. There had been a touch of nymphomania in Lady James’ insistent invitation. There was little doubt why she wanted me to visit with her husband away. And I was playing the roll of a very straight, very disinterested American detective.

  So why had I washed my hair and shaved until my skin bu
rned, and then dressed in soft cotton khakis and light-blue chambray shirt?

  For the later meeting with Diacona Ebanks?

  That’s what I told myself. But something deeper within me knew that I was lying; knew that, in a subconscious sense, the paper-pale skin and the aristocratic lengths and contours of Lady James might be just a little too attractive to pass up. There was something about her attitude of sovereignty that would make any man want to muss the soft hair and rip the expensive clothes away and reduce the aloof and regal beauty of her to the basics of a naked man and a naked woman grappling beneath covers.

  I rapped the brass knocker twice, and the huge doors swung open. An older woman, complete with apron and English maid hat, stood before me.

  “Lady James is expecting me.”

  She nodded, not even bothering to hide her disapproval. “This way, sir.”

  I followed her up the winding staircase. The house smelled of fine wood, leather, and books. At the top of the stairs, she led me down a hall to a room with twin doors.

  “She’s waiting for you,” she said unceremoniously. Like the servant at the gate, I thought, the old maid had been through this little charade many times before. And suddenly, I felt a tinge of self-disgust. I knocked softly.

  “Dusky? Is that you?”

  I swung the door open. It was a large dark room with French doors that looked out onto the sea. Moonlight came through the windows, and candles flickered beside the bed. Somewhere a stereo played something soft and complicated with strings and timpani. There was a bottle of wine in a silver ice bucket. Lady James lounged on a mound of pillows on the round bed. Her hair was over one shoulder, pale as spun glass. She wore a sheer nightgown without frills. Her breasts were small and firm, the nipples dark and erect beneath.

  “I was expecting dinner.”

  Her smile was remote, with just a touch of the cat. “Were you? How quaint.”

  “I’m new to the island. I take invitations at face value.”

  There was an empty wineglass in her hand. She brushed fingers through her thick hair and stretched. “Perhaps I should have been less . . . delicate.”