Grand Cayman Slam

by Striker, Randy

  The Irishman suddenly looked interested. “How’s that, Yank?”

  “Lady James said he usually got up about nine. But his alarm was set for five. I tried to tie it in with the telescope—maybe a meteor shower early in the morning. But there wasn’t one. Nothing’s adding up, Westy. And when your facts don’t add up, it means you either don’t have enough facts—or someone misled you.”

  “If yer tryin’ ta get at somethin’, Dusky, jest come right out and say it.”

  “Okay. I want you to do a little breaking and entering. While I’m talking to Lady James, I want you to go over this whole house. I’ll keep her busy until you let me know you’re done.”

  “But the police have already gone over the house.”

  “Yeah—looking for information. But not the boy.”

  “What?”

  “Damn it, it’s worth a try. This is a small island. They’ve had everyone but the Boy Scouts searching for him. They’ve done everything but go house to house—and that includes this house.”

  He shrugged. “It’s true the two of ’em are crazy enough. But why would even Englishmen try somethin’ so queer as ta . . . ”

  “I don’t know. But it’s worth a look.”

  I got out of the car feeling that odd floating sensation of sudden shock come over me. My footsteps on the drive echoed in my ear. Dia’s dying eyes had seared themselves into my brain.... Work. That’s what I needed now. I needed to bury myself in this mission; needed to forget everything else but the one lone goal; needed to blanket out the frozen specter of death, of dying men and screams in the night—everything but those eyes. Because I could never forget those dying eyes.

  The same prim maid answered the door. She didn’t even try to hide her disgust for me now. To her, I was just one more male dog, sniffing and pawing, anxious for another romp in bed with her hated mistress—and the lost boy be damned.

  “Lady James is indisposed,” she sniffed, blocking my entrance.

  “I need to see her anyway.” From the corner of my eye, I saw the Irishman cross the expanse of French windows, hunting for a back way in.

  “She’s not takin’ visitors today!”

  “It’s about the boy.”

  For a moment, I thought she was going to break into grandmotherly tears. “Oh . . . have they found Master Thomas?”

  “No. I’m sorry. But we’re looking.” She hesitated, and I added, “That’s why I was here the other night, by the way. That and nothing else.”

  She inspected me momentarily like an old drill sergeant, then nodded her grudging approval. “She’s seein’ no one—like I said. But if it might help Master Tommy, then I won’t say nothin’ if you slip past me real quiet-like.”

  I went quickly up the carpeted staircase and found the door. I considered barging right in, then decided to keep the visit civil—at face value, anyway. So I knocked and opened the door.

  She had just lit a cigarette. There was a fresh bottle of wine in the ice bucket. She wore striking white pleated pants and blouse, blond hair set in queenly ringlets. Had I not come to know the creature inside, she would have looked very beautiful indeed. I expected her to be outraged by my sudden entrance; instead she greeted me with a theatrical delight—belied by the coldness of her eyes.

  “Well, how nice! My favorite eunuch is just in time to join me for a glass of wine.” She exhaled a slow cloud of cigarette smoke, then inhaled it abruptly through her thin nostrils.

  “I’ll just watch if you don’t mind.”

  “Ah—how appropriate for someone with your . . . sexual difficulties.” She poured herself a glass of wine, held it up in mock toast, drained it and poured another.

  “I’m looking for your husband.”

  “How nice.”

  “It’s about your son.”

  Her eyes flared wide. “And just what in the hell could you tell that bloody fool about my son that you couldn’t tell me?”

  “Questions, that’s all. I just want to ask him some questions.”

  “Is that all you detective types do? Ask questions? I would have thought you would be out looking.”

  “And I might say the same thing to you.” I meant it to hurt. And it did. I saw it in her eyes. But she quickly lowered that British veil which hides all and implies everything.

  “Lately you seem to take especial delight in hurting me, Mr. MacMorgan.”

  “An impersonal observer might call it an even exchange.”

  “I’m not that revolting, am I?”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  She crossed in front of me and took a seat on the divan, legs crossed, cigarette held erect. “You know, I didn’t believe for a minute your story about being castrated in some horrible accident. I felt I owed it to my own self-esteem to play along with your little . . . fairy tale?” She smiled demurely. “Or is that a bad pun?” When I said nothing, she continued. “You forget that you were holding me very close. And you wanted me very much. That was . . . quite obvious.”

  “Do you know where your husband is or don’t you?”

  “I imagine he’s out seducing some island whore. That’s a normal course of recreation for him.” She sipped at the wine, smiling. But the smile soon left her face. She tried to cover her sudden fear with flippancy. “For an awful moment, dear eunuch, I got the distinct impression you were about to hit me. But a big strong male like yourself wouldn’t hit a woman—and a woman with a title at that.”

  “You don’t care a goddamn for that boy, do you? Neither one of you airy, self-important bastards cares one ounce what’s happening to him.”

  “Don’t you say that! Don’t you dare say that!” The change that came over her was explosive, unexpected. Wineglass crashing to the floor, she jumped to her feet and came stalking toward me. “You have no right to assume anything about my son! You have no right!” She exhaled a long breath, eyes wild, fighting for composure. When she was under better control, she stretched herself as if under some great weight. “You have no idea . . . no idea what I’ve been through,” she said in a small voice. “I would do anything for Tommy.”

  “In that case, tell me where your husband is.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “He wasn’t here at all last night?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him since the lawn party.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Hardly. He’s quite the roamer. Like a cat. The only thing he worries about is his women and the precious honor of the family name.”

  “He’s got a weird way of showing it.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  I watched her closely as I said it. “It means I think your wandering husband has gone even crazier than you know. I think he’s developed a taste for murdering the women who turn him away. You might keep it in mind—if he cares enough about you anymore to ask.”

  “You’re being ridiculous!”

  “Am I?”

  “Jimmy’s a lot of things—a lot of very bad things. But he’s no killer. I daresay he may have even spent a few hours out of the last night looking for Tommy.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  She paused long enough to light another cigarette. “There’s no change of heart, MacMorgan. I hate him. I hate him quite thoroughly. I just don’t think he’s a murderer, that’s all. I would have divorced him long ago if he . . . had not given me certain social freedoms and all the money I could want.”

  “You’re the one who said he was brutal; that he liked to hurt his women.”

  She massaged her forehead with her fingers, thinking. Almost as if talking to herself, she said, “That’s true. It’s all true.” She looked up at me, as if she had finally accepted the possibility. “My God, you don’t really think he had something to do with those awful murders, do you?”

  Behind me, I heard the Irishman’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. I had heard him earlier—the sound of a door creaking. But this was his way of letting me know he was ready. I looked
at the beautiful Lady James, the horror in her eyes. “Maybe,” I said. “Just maybe. . . . ”

  17

  At ten-fifteen that evening the phone rang. I could hear the Irishman’s fluted voice coming from the cottage. He was a bulky silhouette against the window, nodding somberly.

  For the hundredth time, I forced myself to piece together every chunk of random information I had acquired. I sat in the sand, arms bunched around knees, looking toward the starswept sea. Behind me, coconut palms framing the cottage rustled in the land breeze. And above, Orion the Hunter trailed its way across the chaotic rush of universe. Another beautiful night in the tropics. Only I saw it as anything but beautiful. Even the moon seemed laden with a red corona. And the freshening wind seemed to whisper of death.

  The sea moved over the reef in gleaming swells. My eyes moved upon the line of swells, focused, blurring, then focusing again. For how many centuries has man been burdening the sea with anthropomorphisms, assigning it human frailties? An angry sea, a nervous sea, a sea that brings peace—the words of men who do not know the sea. There is only the equation of salt and mineral and protoplasm; a perfect biological order subject to the whim of wind and universe, hell-bent on reproduction; a continuance. And what greater affirmation of life could someone want?

  Thoughts drifted randomly as my mind cast back and forth seeking motive, method, and reason for the insanity of the last few days.

  There had to be something I was missing; something I had overlooked.

  But what?

  What?

  The Irishman’s search had turned up negative. He had searched every room and closet in the house except for the kitchen, where the maid had busied herself washing dishes. But he had found no sign of young Thomas James. In the boy’s room, he had confirmed my observation of the alarm clock. He had searched the stacks of rock albums, found the hidden magazines, and had proved to himself that the telescope had remained untouched since our earlier visit.

  In short, he had found nothing new. So it had to be me. I had to be overlooking something; some piece in the puzzle.

  I heard O’Davis hang up the phone and clump across the porch outside.

  “That was Government House, Yank.”

  I looked up. “They hear anything?”

  “The kidnappers made contact twenty minutes ago by VHF. Same garbled voice. No recordin’ of the lad this time. They want a plane ta drop the money about sixty miles north of here—not far from Cuban waters. He gave loran coordinates.”

  “Midnight tomorrow?”

  “Aye.”

  O’Davis sat down beside me in the sand. “I figure you an’ me can drop in place of the money. Maybe rig a big chute so we kin lash’erselves together or somethin’. If the kidnappers stick to their word, the boy’ll be safely away in a dinghy.”

  “Why not be waiting there with patrol boats and blast them out of the water?”

  “They won’t be comin’ after the money with other boats or planes in the area—radar will probably tell ’em. An’ they won’t radio the lad’s location till they’re safely away. We’re jest goin’ ta have to chance takin’ ’em by surprise, you and me. If we kin overpower ′em . . . make one of ’em talk . . . hell, who knows.” The Irishman sighed. “This is bloody bad business, Yank. Nothin’s workin’ out. Everywhere ya look, nothin’ but false trails. Sorry I brung ya in on it.”

  “Seems I remember getting you into a jam or two.”

  “Aye. But ya never got one of me ladies killed in the process.”

  And that’s when it hit me. That’s when one of the stray bits of information—an offhand remark—fell suddenly, neatly into place.

  The Irishman looked at me. “What ’n hell’s come over you? Look like ya’ve seen a ghost or somethin’.”

  “Maybe I have.” I checked my watch. “You think that clunker car of yours can make one more trip into Georgetown?”

  “Me fine little red Bess?” He snorted. “She’d take us ta Florida if they’d build a bloody bridge!”

  “Good.” I stood up, brushing off sand. “And let’s take the Thompsons—just in case.”

  The gates to Sir Conan’s estate were closed now. It bothered me. Maybe she had already gone and returned. We drove past once, straining to see house lights through the foliage.

  “Looks like someone’s still up.”

  “Aye. Maybe that ugly maid of theirs.”

  “We need to pull off the road—someplace we can watch the drive without being seen.”

  O’Davis found a wagon trail into the thicket of buttonwood and mangrove. He backed in and switched off the lights. Water in the Fiat’s radiator gurgled. With windows open in the humid March night, mosquitoes soon found us, whining around our ears. I checked the green glow of Rolex. Ten forty-five.

  “It has to be her,” I said again with finality.

  “It made sense when ya told me the first time, Yank. But the more I think about it, the crazier it sounds.”

  “It is. Because she’s crazy. When she told me Sir Conan was the sadist it was some kind of weird personality transference. She’s the one. I didn’t catch it at first. And then it all fell into place. She said there was no way her husband could have committed both murders. And that was only an hour or so after Dia was killed. How could she have known?”

  “Maybe Sir James came home and left again before we got there. She coulda been coverin’ fer him.”

  “No way. She hates him. That’s no act. And it’s turned into a sexual quirk. But she’s smart. She didn’t want me to convince her too easily that her husband was the killer. But she’s the one who planted the seed—remember? I can only guess about the kidnapping. But of one thing I’m sure: It was staged. You’re the one who said it—just too many false trails. That boy is somewhere on this island. And I’m sure the woman knows where. Maybe Sir Conan, too. He’s not stupid. When she snaked the kid away, he probably caught on quick. A staged kidnapping would be one way to divert attention from the fact your wife has committed murder and stolen your son.”

  “Family honor,” the Irishman said softly.

  “Right. As you said, he’s got a lot of important connections and a lot of power. If the fictitious kidnappers never show, and they just happen to find the boy wandering around Grand Cayman, who’s going to press for an investigation? I’m sure he’d pack the two of them up and be back in England before the dust even settled. He’d get some discreet psychiatric hearing held for his crazy wife, send the boy away to some private school. When you think about it, what alternative does he have? Tell the court his wife has a nasty habit of killing his mistresses, both real and suspected? That’s like admitting your wife wants a divorce because you only beat her occasionally.”

  “Okay, Yank. Say she killed me little Cynthia because she suspected her of havin’ a fling with Sir James. An’ maybe she got ta worryin’ about me havin’ seen the whole thing from the bushes and decided ta do away with me, too. That still doesn’t explain how she got ahold of Cynthia’s Jaguar.”

  “No,” I said, “it doesn’t. We’ll ask her about it when we see her.”

  We waited and waited in the darkness and mosquitoes, and still nothing happened.

  The Irishman, face on huge hand, drifted off to sleep, snoring softly. I sipped at a third bottle of Red Stripe from the little plastic cooler in the back, spitting Copenhagen out the window.

  And then I saw it: a sudden splash of light on the trees along the driveway.

  I nudged O’Davis. He came awake gaping and stretching. He grabbed my bottle of beer, chugged it halfway down, and shook himself. “There, and I’m feelin’ much better. What’s afoot?”

  “A car, I think. Coming down the drive.”

  The lights continued to pan along the high copse at the edge of the yard, then switched off abruptly. It was nearly two A.M. and the moon was drifting low toward the westward horizon, but there was still enough sheen to see the dim shape of Lady James’ Bentley. It stopped at the gate, a courtesy light flared on,
and she got out, looking each way down the road. Involuntarily, I found myself ducking back. But the chances of her seeing us were zero.

  She pushed the high wrought-iron gate open, returned to the car, and turned left toward Georgetown, lights still off until she was well down the road.

  When O’Davis deemed it safe, we pulled out and followed her in darkness, the winding asphalt a gray ribbon. Land crabs were dark shapes, scurrying before us.

  At the edge of Georgetown, when she disappeared around a curve, the Irishman switched his lights on. It was a Sunday night and there was no traffic. But the city was illuminated, silent. And a car with no lights would just arouse suspicion—maybe Lady James’.

  She headed out the Ocean Road along Seven Mile Beach. The Bentley toured along at sixty, and O’Davis had to make the Fiat kick and sputter to keep up. I noted wryly that once again we seemed headed for the little settlement of Hell. But at the convergence of roads, she veered right instead of left.

  It was a small beach house not far from the Canadian’s estate. We had driven the final two miles in darkness, headlights off on the desolate stretch of highway. The beach house showed itself in the distance as a stilted shape behind a line of Australian pines at the edge of the sea. We did not see Lady James turn in so much as notice that her car just disappeared.

  “That’s got to be it,” I said, whispering for no good reason.

  “We kin park in the trees and walk the, say, last half mile?”

  “Let’s make it the last three-quarters of a mile, just in case they have a guard posted.”

  The Irishman switched off the engine and let his little red car coast down the road, finally pulling off into a line of mangrove cover. I grabbed the two Thompsons—freshly stripped and oiled—and we headed along the gray strip of highway in the silence of Grand Cayman, two-thirty A.M. A night heron squawked somewhere, and our footsteps seemed unnaturally loud upon the shell marl.