Treasure Up in Smoke

by David Williams

  ‘Hi, honey – meet Paul O’Hawa; he’s Joe’s bwother visiting from Flowida.’

  O’Hara got out of his chair and advanced on Dogwall with almost threatening alacrity. He set down his drink en route and grasped the American’s hand. ‘Pleased to know you, Dogwall.’ The tone was clipped; the manner brisk. ‘Sorry to call at this time of night but we’ve business to discuss that won’t wait. Take a chair. Want a drink?’ The bustling little man with the darting eyes was already making his host feel like a visitor in his own temporary domain. The question about refreshment was rhetorical since Dogwall was given no opportunity to reply. ‘My brother’s dotty – you know that – well, you’ve met him so you must know.’ O’Hara, seated again, took a deep pull on his cigar.

  ‘Oh, Joe seems to me . . Dogwall’s intended cautious defence of Joe O’Hara’s sanity was nipped in the bud.

  ‘What he seems is a harmless buffoon. What he is hardly bears analysis.’ O’Hara had interrupted without apology. ‘He thinks he controls this island and everybody on it – body and soul. Well, he’s played God long enough. His latest plan will bankrupt everybody – including me. That’s why I’m here. Why don’t you sit down?’

  Dogwall did as he was bidden. ‘But the Sunfun project . . .’

  ‘Is a blind, a front, a come-on, my dear fellow. D’you really think my brother intends to see this island overrun by your greasy tourists?’

  In ordinary circumstances Dogwall would have protested at this not entirely inaccurate description of the bulk of Sunfun clients. As it was, he was too alarmed at the import of what he had heard to cavil over niceties. ‘Your brother has given me a clear indication . . .’

  ‘If I may say so, the trouble with you Americans is you can’t tell a clear indication from a stinking red herring. My brother wants everyone in earshot to think he’s backing your vulgar cause so that he’ll have the other lot begging even to get a hearing. Then he’ll administer the coup de grace – cunning devil.’ O’Hara raised his peaked cap, wiped the head-band with a white silk handkerchief, looked up at the sky as though he expected rain, and rammed the cap back on his head. ‘You’re bait, Dogwall, bait – and you’re just about to be swallowed whole.’

  ‘I don’t think I follow . . .’

  The visitor offered an expression indicating that Dogwall had nothing to fear as a follower so long as Paul O’Hara was leading. ‘Then let me make the whole thing crystal clear. Am I to understand that your real interest here is in establishing hotels and a casino – that the cigar business is incidental?’

  ‘You could say that, sure – but the tobacco company is pretty profitable . . .’

  ‘It won’t be from the day after you acquire it – of that I can assure you.’ O’Hara took a long pull at the cigar he was smoking. ‘Stick to Havanas – I always do.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘I mean there’s a tiny wrinkle to the King Charles cigar business that’ll get ironed out if ever the company changes hands. Don’t ask me to enlarge because I’m not going to. Just take my word for it, the business would be a poor investment at any price.’ O’Hara gazed at Dogwall steadily for a few seconds before continuing. ‘I believe you could still make a packet here out of your sort of tourism, and I’m ready to help you do it. First, though, you have to see Joe and withdraw entirely from the present negotiations.’

  ‘Withdraw . . .’

  ‘Entirely. There’s not a cat in hell’s chance of your offer being accepted anyway, so you’ve nothing to lose. But with you out of the way Joe has no leverage with this other bunch. He likes their scheme but not the size of it. He’s hoping to get them to enlarge it, and to buy a minority interest in O’Hara Industries at an inflated price.’

  Dogwall looked disconcerted. ‘But he hasn’t offered us a piece of the Company. We might be interested . . .’

  ‘Listen, Dogwall, in no circumstances would Joe offer you anything more than what’s been required to get you here. Understand, he doesn’t want you except as evidence of competition to other people. But if he commits this island to growing sugar and distilling rum he’s on to slow earnings and a seriously reduced income for several years. That’s why he needs a slug of capital at the start to keep all his pet projects going. There’s another . . . er, personal reason too.’

  ‘He’s a sick man.’ It was Mrs Dogwall who unexpectedly interjected this conclusion.

  ‘That’s very perceptive of you, Mrs Dogwall.’

  ‘Not weally. He had twouble making the stairs after dinner.’ Earlier in her life Rachel Dogwall had become quite practised at guessing the physical capacities of older men by the way they managed staircases.

  ‘He’s had two heart attacks. The next one . . .’ O’Hara shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘But if I withdraw the Sunfun offer, and the other outfit doesn’t go for the pricier deal, that’s stalemate.’ It was Dogwall’s turn to demonstrate perception.

  ‘Temporarily, yes.’ O’Hara was pleased the American had reached this conclusion on his own. ‘Later – I’ll tell you when – you come back with another offer, not involving the cigar business. Your present deal is to lease the land around the Rollover Bay area, right?’ Dogwall nodded. ‘So, your new offer will be to buy a smaller piece of the land – but to buy it outright at a very fancy price and for a strictly limited development.’

  ‘How limited?’

  ‘One hotel, a few expensive cottages.’

  ‘No golf-course . . . ?’

  ‘No golf-course, no casino – but you’ll get them and the rest of the land in time. I give you my word on that – and you can have it in writing if it’ll make you feel better.’ O’Hara smiled. ‘One day I’ll sell you the whole damned island if you want it – when the featherbedding stops and the people here have to stop living off my family’s handouts. Meantime, Joe needs some hard cash – more than he’s asking for the cigar company.’

  ‘He doesn’t look that hard-up to me,’ Dogwall put in suspiciously.

  O’Hara took a long draw on his cigar. ‘He wants to create endowment funds for some of his charities. At the moment he keeps them going out of income. He suspects that when I . . .’

  ‘You inhewit fwom your bwother, Mr O’Hawa?’ The enquiry came quite naturally from Mrs Dogwall who had put similar questions to several putative heirs-apparent before settling for the Dogwall matrimonial bed.

  ‘In a word – everything, Mrs Dogwall. The difference is that instead of holding most of it in trust, like my brother I shall be in control.’ He glanced at Dogwall to ensure the point had been taken. ‘Oh, Joe can dispose of his own creations – like the cigar company – and a limited amount of land. He can also sell up to twenty-four per cent of the holding company – that’s O’Hara Industries. Otherwise though, he’s stymied. Our father arranged things that way when it was clear Joe was heading for enduring bachelorhood and would so spoil the family tradition as to die without an heir.’ The speaker paused before adding, ‘I’m not married myself at the moment – no children either, but there’s time enough for all that.’ He smiled blandly. Mrs Dogwall regarded the speaker appraisingly, transferred her gaze to her husband, and back again to O’Hara.

  ‘Your brother’s not up at the house?’ Dogwall was unconcerned with Paul O’Hara’s marital arrangements.

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s gone off to his eyrie at Devil’s Falls dressed up like Baden-Powell in preparation for the Treaty charade at nine. If you want to beard him early he’s always up by seven.’ O’Hara continued encouragingly, ‘I could probably arrange a car to take you most of the way – but you might find it more comfortable and possibly quicker to walk.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll be rushing any fences.’ For the first time since the conversation began Dogwall was doing his own thinking. ‘I guess I’ll chew over what you’ve been saying, O’Hara, and then maybe get with Joe later in the day.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ve told you the score.’ O’Hara was not attempting to hide his irritation. He p
ulled at his beard. ‘You’re being had and the sooner you call Joe’s bluff the more real progress you’ll make.’ He stood up, swallowed what was left of his drink, and made to leave. ‘I’ve told you where to find Joe if you change your mind – just follow the road or the river path up to the Falls. You can’t miss the cabin, it overhangs the Falls.’ The directions would hardly have been adequate for a total stranger. It was almost as though it was more important to O’Hara that he should recite them than that they should be understood. ‘Now I’ll wish you good-night. I hope you’ll act on what I’ve said.’ O’Hara moved with energy and speed: he disappeared in the direction of the beach and the path further along that led directly to Buckingham House.

  Dogwall stared enquiringly at his wife. ‘What you make of that?’

  ‘I make a guy who’s playing both ends against the middle, honey, and someone who doesn’t have anybody’s intewests in mind ’cept his own. He sure wants to keep that cigar company in the family. Hey, d’you know the time? C’mon, let’s hit the sack.’

  Thus with creditable insight Mrs Dogwall ended the most interesting conversation Sarah had ever overheard from her vantage point on the flat roof of the guest-house.

  CHAPTER X

  ‘Is that all of it? It’s tiny – and so beautiful. Oh darling, why don’t we just buy it for us?’ Molly Treasure’s first sighting of King Charles Island in the mid-morning sun was eliciting a good deal more enthusiasm than that recorded by Columbus the Younger.

  ‘Because whole islands don’t come cheap,’ Treasure answered wryly.

  ‘What’s that? – it looks like a volcano.’ Mount Manitou had registered its presence in the middle distance.

  ‘It is a volcano – classified as a quiet, not explosive type.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ The enthusiasm was waning perceptibly.

  ‘It just gives off sulphurous gases – through the crater and fissures down the slope. You can probably take hot sulphur baths; very health-giving.’

  ‘No, you take them. I’m healthy enough. Oh, look, there’s a little sea-port.’

  ‘That’s Rupertstown, the capital – towns here don’t come any bigger.’

  ‘Can you ask the driver – the pilot, I mean – if we can fly all round the island before we land?’

  The Treasures had intended to take the regular afternoon flight from Montego Bay where they had spent the night. After two busy days in a wintry New York, an evening under the stars in the warmth of the Caribbean had been sheer luxury. Their plan to laze the morning away on the beach of the Half Moon Hotel had been scotched when they learned over dinner that January 30th was Carnival Day on KCI. At first, Treasure had been irritated that so elementary a piece of intelligence had not reached him sooner. He had every imaginable statistic about the island. He knew the size of the gross domestic product, the state of the trade balance, the value of the staple crops, the extent of the rainfall – even the number of births in and out of wedlock, but no one had thought to tell him that he had planned his arrival to take place on a public holiday.

  Like most Englishmen, Treasure viewed public holidays observed abroad and not in Britain with a certain amount of resentment and as evidence of foreign indolence. Whatever the facts of the matter, it always appeared to him – as to most of his compatriots – that foreigners indulged themselves far too frequently with official days off, a practice actually offensive to the Anglo-Puritan work ethic so deeply embedded in the consciousness of a once-proud island race. It was also especially galling that the annual output per worker in the countries most affected by this particular form of inertia was usually better than that obtaining in Britain.

  Treasure had thus been doubly affronted at the news about King Charles Day, and had it not been for his wife would have been satisfied perversely to remain in Jamaica doing nothing for the rest of the day rather than journey to KCI to pursue the same purpose.

  Molly Treasure had, in contrast, been delighted at the prospect of joining in a fiesta. It was to satisfy this whim that Treasure had chartered a special plane to fly them to Rupertstown in the morning instead of waiting for the later scheduled flight. The cost had been only marginally less resistible than Molly’s entreaties, and he wished he had not been so careless as to admit the fact – especially at such length. While they had been waiting at the airport his wife had conjured up a fellow traveller equally anxious to obtain prompt passage to KCI and more than willing to pay a third of the cost of hiring the three-passenger air taxi. Thus Treasure had only his expressed but invented parsimony to blame for having his privacy invaded. He had quite naturally refused the proffered contribution to costs – an action it had given Molly great satisfaction in declaring a manifestation of the worst kind of contrariness.

  The grateful and embarrassed extra passenger – a Mr Brown – was seated in front of the Treasures in the copilot’s seat.

  Molly had earlier whispered to her husband that it was proper Brown should be afforded the best all-round view because he had only one eye. He was quite a small man, but it was not until he had actually seated himself that she was satisfied the somewhat cramped quarters at the front of the little single-engined plane would be large enough to accommodate his obviously artificial leg. Treasure’s own interest had been limited to speculation about why this battered, be-wigged and worried-looking Englishman should be making a lonely and urgent pilgrimage to KCI: it would not have occurred to him to ask.

  Treasure leant forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. ‘Can we take a spin round the island before we land?’

  ‘Afraid not, sir,’ came the reply. ‘I can take you up the east coast and back again but the authorities here don’t allow overflying to the west. They’ve got a bird sanctuary that side.’ The young pilot smiled. ‘In fact they’re trying to get guano deposits built up again on Gull Rock – some hope, I’d say. Let me talk to the control tower.’ He reached for the switch of his radio transmitter.

  ‘Look, you can see the town’s all dressed up.’ Molly tugged at Treasure’s arm and pointed through the window at Rupertstown below them.

  ‘Mm, there doesn’t seem to be much activity, though. I can’t see any people.’

  Molly glanced at her watch. ‘It’s only half past nine. They’re probably all having breakfast,’ she observed firmly.

  Treasure was more amused than convinced by this unchallengeable but somehow unlikely conclusion.

  ‘Sorry, we’ve been told to circle back and come straight in.’ This was the pilot. ‘The traffic controller sounds pretty agitated – the strip’s officially closed.’ He banked the plane to the right, away from the shore, and began a wide sweep which was to bring the aircraft in once more over the town but this time on a descent path to the airstrip which lay behind.

  ‘D’you suppose we’re staying in Georgian splendour or Strawberry Hill Gothic?’

  Treasure followed his wife’s gaze. Government House and Buckingham House really did provide a contrast in styles as they came into view on the starboard side of the aircraft. ‘Hm, I think you’ll be playing Scarlet O’Hara rather than Jane Eyre – but, of course, it’s the KCI O’Haras who’ll be living in that Gothic monstrosity.’

  ‘How confusing – but I’m glad. The airport’s minute.’

  The pilot made a perfect landing and taxied the plane towards the long, open-sided building that did duty as KCI’s airport complex.

  The Treasures disembarked on to the entirely deserted tarmac. Brown followed, looking bewildered. Molly gave him an encouraging smile – the equivalent of the pat she would have applied to a lost dog.

  ‘If you’d all like to follow the sign to customs and immigration I’ll see if I can raise a porter for the baggage.’ The pilot offered this in a half apologetic tone. ‘I guess nobody’s working today who doesn’t have to, and this flight wasn’t scheduled.’ He gazed around at the apparently empty airport. ‘We did get clearance before leaving Jamaica . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence.

  The dark bl
ue Land-Rover came skidding around the corner of the building. It halted dramatically between the parked aircraft and the entrance to the customs area – so dramatically that the engine stalled. Three policemen tumbled out of the vehicle with much clattering of heavy boots and rifle butts.

  ‘Where you from? You from Cuba?’ The older of the three African Carleons – a sergeant – barked his question in a clipped, barrack-square manner. ‘Stand still.’ This last order was directed at the thoroughly frightened Mr Brown who had turned and was limping back to the aircraft.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Sammy, we’re from Mo’bay where we always come from. I got clearance an hour ago, before take-off. Why the reception committee?’ The pilot obviously knew the sergeant, who looked at once irritated and confused at being addressed in such a familiar way.

  ‘I got my orders, Mr Scott. There’s no flight scheduled for now, and the airport’s officially closed.’ The policeman relaxed a little. ‘Don’ you know there’s a state of emergency, man?’

  Treasure stepped forward. ‘No, we didn’t know, Sergeant, and perhaps you’d tell that constable to point his rifle in a less dangerous direction. My name is Treasure and this is my wife. We’re here as guests of the Governor.’ He avoided making any reference to Brown who was no responsibility of his but who nevertheless was patently not the vanguard of a Communist invasion force. ‘We’ve arrived earlier than we were expected which is why we’re not being met.’ The first part of this statement was true and the second was a reasonable assumption given that Sir Archibald Rees afforded his guests the elementary courtesies. ‘Now, d’you mind telling us what all this is about?’

  The sergeant sighed and slung the rifle he was carrying over his shoulder. ‘Well, it’s like dis, sah. There’s bin an assassination. Our mos’ respected and bes’ loved citizen, Mr Joseph O’Hara, has been brutally beheaded.’ Molly Treasure winced. ‘Sorry, ma’am. De whole population is on de track o’ dat killer.’