The King is dead. Long live the . . . The Chief Minister’s gaze re-focused on the statue in the square. He wondered again who it was had indulged in the so appropriate act of beheading Joe O’Hara – the already dead Joe O’Hara.
Sir Archibald and Lady Rees were taking a light luncheon at one end of the long table in the dining-room of Government House.
The Governor regarded a forkful of cold corn with distaste. He directed his gaze at his wife, an action that did nothing to induce a change of expression. ‘I still think the arrangements for the Treasures–’
‘Are perfectly adequate,’ Lady Rees interrupted firmly. ‘Molly,’ she continued, pausing to emphasize and to savour the easy familiarity she had established with her celebrated guest, ‘Molly doesn’t care for food in the middle of the day. Actresses have to watch their figures even more carefully than the rest of us.’ She helped herself to another piece of quiche lorraine without flinching. ‘In any case, Debby’s with her. Mark specifically asked to be excused.’
‘He volunteered to help Small – seems he has some kind of connection with the police.’
Rees would have been a good deal more at ease if Treasure had been beside him sharing this dismal, cold collation. There was no call for the chap to be playing amateur detective. The position was obvious enough. Joe had died of a coronary – his third in as many years. The autopsy would show as much. Even Small had deduced the decapitation had been intended as symbolism – fitting the day and marking the end of a dynasty. It mattered very little who was responsible – which was as well, since no one was ever going to know. Gore could have been an unseen and unexpected witness, but the fellow must have been asleep at the time or else he would have raised the alarm earlier. The Governor wondered how long the Jamaicans would take to confirm the cause of death. The whole business would have been much better confined to KCI; doctors should know better than to get food poisoning. He frowned at what looked like half a fly in his salad.
Joyce had the right ideas. One had to move with the times. Joe O’Hara’s paternalism had been a hundred years out of date. KCI could become a model independency within the Commonwealth. The Chief Minister was no republican: he showed a proper regard for the Crown – and respect for the Queen’s representative. Together they could do great things. People had needed to be brought to a prompt understanding of the opportunity – shocked into it.
‘I’m going to have my rest directly. Don’t you want to finish that salad?’ Lady Rees scooped up and consumed the remains; her husband watched with special interest. ‘I’m nearly asleep already. If you must get up at unearthly hours I wish you’d do so without waking me.’
He had tried.
Peregrine Gore pushed down even harder on the driving bar. ‘We must be doing twenty at least.’ He beamed at the exhausted McLush who was see-sawing opposite with less enthusiasm and waning effort.
For Peregrine the ride to freedom on the rail trolley car was pure exhilaration. He had even been excused the embarrassment of exposing his presence – not to mention a good deal too much of his person – to a strange nun. If he could maintain the speed of the little vehicle into the engine yard at Rupertstown and sprint the short distance to the police-station in the square he was certain his problems would be over.
McLush was less ebullient. The way things were ordered, he had long since come to consider himself a second-rate journalist and a third-rate spy. He was now resigned to accepting fourth-rate status as a burglar: finding oneself imprisoned in premises one had entered to pillage hardly justified a higher rating. It was also now apparent that his nocturnal and clandestine expedition to an area of the island close to Devil’s Falls conferred first-rate standing as a murder suspect. The fact that his incarceration in the cigar factory had gone unwitnessed – at least up to the moment of release – promised to deepen his plight in the last connection. It was no solace that he had added to his experience the knowledge that while gravity aided – even accelerated – ingress effected by way of vertical ventilation shafts, it definitely inhibited egress by the same route.
Gore and McLush had been afforded ample opportunity to exchange news and views on current affairs while sheltering in the sugar cane. It would be an overstatement to record that the journalist had been at first disposed to offer so expansive an account of events as his companion in adversity.
It was not until Peregrine had disclosed the death of Joe O’Hara – and its apparent cause – that McLush had deduced an extra vulnerability in his own position. Thereafter he had taken pains not only to provide a plausible explanation for his presence at the convent but also to impress that he had inadvertently imprisoned himself there since one o’clock in the morning.
It emerged that it had been McLush who had cut the hole in the fence – the one quickly adapted by the flowereating pig for watering expeditions to the river between courses. The secrecy surrounding the whole cigar-making process had been offered as reason enough for a thrusting, investigative journalist to seek enlightenment by methods admittedly illegal – but trespass was a different class of crime to murder. He had not troubled to mention that if the contents of the plastic bag in his pocket proved to be as metaphorically explosive as he suspected, then his promotion from ignorable hack to Pulitzer Prize ranking might yet be assured.
Borrowing the rail car had proved to be the easiest of devices adapted by either of its present elevated occupants when compared to earlier recourses – that they had stolen it would be too strong an admission taking into account the conspicuous appearance of the vehicle and the unlikelihood of its usage passing unnoticed for very long. Simply, the pair had taken advantage of Sister He’ena’s temporary absence from the scene – she had done a controlled bolt into the factory – to race over the open ground, mount the conveyance, and propel it through the gates.
That the nuns were expecting visitors – either by rail or via the unmade road that skirted the railway – had been obvious since the gates were first unlocked. The hazard of meeting an oncoming train had thus been Peregrine’s prime concern from the start of the journey. Since it was he who had been, as it were, travelling backwards, he had cautioned the bespectacled McLush accordingly. He had not thought about the probable incidence of points on what was evidently a branch line, an omission which had already led to one derailment – where the convent line joined KCI’s main track. The spill had not been a catastrophy, but now that the ill-assorted pair were on their way again it was Peregrine who had taken up the rear operating position. They had stopped short at the points that served up-coming trains bound for Gull Rock, but these – as expected – had been set in their favour.
‘From a distance,’ the young Englishman gasped, ‘we must look like a couple of Orientals caught up in one of these bowing and scraping routines.’ McLush appeared not to appreciate the analogy. ‘Do trains ever go to Gull Rock?’ Peregrine continued good-humouredly.
‘No.’ McLush had not overcome his irritation at having failed to prevent the derailment; he was supposed to be something of an authority on railways – especially this one.
‘But the line’s still usable?’
Why couldn’t the fellow concentrate on the job? ‘Only just,’ McLush replied grudgingly. ‘The viaduct from the mainland’s rotting, and the pier’s not sound.’
‘There’s a pier? Out to sea, you mean?’
‘That’s where they usually go. This one was used to berth small vessels . . .’
‘And to load them by rail?’
Whatever further intelligence McLush was ready to vouchsafe he had no time to utter.
‘Hand brake on!’ Peregrine shouted like a well-drilled gunner. ‘Steam train approaching – with a wonky whistle by the sound of it.’
Samuel Breese Morse had enjoyed better tribute than that to his inventiveness.
CHAPTER XV
Treasure surveyed the statue of Charles the First with favour – and the group of young boys using its plinth for football practice with a matching degree
of disapproval. The effigy of the martyred King had a quiet dignity about it – and though slender and lonely, it dominated the square. The figure looked vital – in contrast to the Empire-studding memorials to Queen Victoria which, no matter how solid the stone, seemed always to invest that monarch with the appearance of a massive, wilting blancmange: there was also the invariable suggestion that the old Queen had been immortalized at the very moment of smelling something obnoxious.
The banker ambled across the square in the direction of the Royal Crown Hotel whose Colonial frontage occupied most of the eastern side. Chief Inspector Small had promised to meet him in the colonnade bar at one o’clock; it was already a few minutes past the hour but Treasure was first to arrive. He seated himself in a raffia chair at one of the pavement tables and noted that he was the sole customer.
In the twenty minutes that had elapsed since he had left the police-station Treasure had turned out of the town square on to the wide, cobbled quay. He had first inspected the handsome, lonely motor yacht moored at the centre of the long, main jetty. This had prompted him to wonder why the resourceful O’Hara had not suggested developing the underused harbour as a marina for ocean-going yachts. By all accounts such complexes were profitable and, in view of the island’s history, attracted a more desirable class of affluent caller than the self-confessed pirates of yesteryear – even if in some cases personal acquaintance suggested the distinction might be blurred.
Treasure had next followed the railway track that served the quayside a hundred yards or so westwards to the engine shed and past this to the bridge that constituted the end of town. The view from there, back across the town and harbour, had been a pleasing one – the buildings neat, the rows of small fishing-boats in the shore end lee of the eastern mole picturesque, the island’s statelier edifices behind – the Baroque church, the Governor’s residence, even the incongruous Buckingham House further up the hill – lending an air of seasoned solidity to the scene.
Apart from a seaman washing paintwork on the yacht there had been no visible human activity. Treasure recalled his wife’s conjecture that the population had still been breakfasting at nine-thirty – an indulgence that had perhaps been strung out to an hour when it could respectably be replaced by the taking of lunch.
He had threaded his way back to the square along a narrow, curving street of shuttered shops below and a curious mixture of bunting and drying washing hanging above; if the men of Rupertstown were resigned – in deference to Joe O’Hara – to spending the day at home, their womenfolk were clearly less inclined to inactivity.
The blare of record-players and radios thudding in upstairs rooms, the resonance through open windows baffled by the houses opposite – a characteristic of mean streets on hot days – at least witnessed the existence of a population. But the sailor and the children playing in the square had been the only human beings Treasure had actually observed at close quarters. He looked around for a waiter only to be confronted by an evidently agitated Mr Brown who had made a sudden appearance from the interior of the hotel.
The new arrival mopped his wig-fringed brow with an orange face-flannel. He regarded this object with a mixture of embarrassment and displeasure. Tacked in a hurry, you see, forgot my hankies. I’m so sorry.’
Treasure took the awkward apology more as evidence of acute unease than as a profession of conscious regret. ‘You must allow me to lend you a few until the shops open,’ he offered, but purely as earnest of good intention; he did not care to lend handkerchiefs or combs. ‘Shall you be staying long?’
Brown cast about him with what his companion considered an unusually wide sweep of the head for anyone not engaged in directing traffic. It was then that Treasure remembered the artificial eye.
‘Do sit down,’ said the banker, having simultaneously recalled the artificial leg. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Brown sank into a chair. ‘Most kind of you, sir . . . er, Mr Treasure. Just the one might . . . that is . . . um . . . dear me –’ he interjected a sigh – ‘I really must be giving the worst sort of impression. You see, I believe there may have been another fatality.’ This last statement came out with a rush.’
‘You mean you know someone else has pegged out – or you just think so?’
Brown shook his head vigorously from side to side. ‘Only an assumption on my part – but if the murder of Mr O’Hara was to do with the cigar company I have every reason to fear for the safety of the gentleman I’m here to see.’
‘Well, it’s far from certain O’Hara was murdered, Mr Brown. His body was mutilated but the police think that happened after death. It’s conceivable he died from natural causes. They’re doing an autopsy to find out.’ Treasure smiled reassuringly. ‘Who is it you’re concerned about?’
‘A Mr Angus McLush . . .’
‘The writer,’ Treasure nodded. ‘He’s missing, but not, I think, believed killed,’ he added lightly. ‘Tell me, what’s your interest in the cigar company – or is it a secret?’
Brown appeared to hesitate. ‘Oh dear, this really is very awkward.’ He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I work for a bank, Mr Treasure.’
‘So do I.’
‘I know that, sir, but I really am very small fry in comparison . . . that is, well even without comparison.’ Brown gave a short cough. ‘I look after the interests of a Swiss banking group in the Caribbean.’
‘How very agreeable.’
‘Er . . . yes, and as you might suppose, not at all arduous. I was lucky to secure the post some years ago – I was in London then, though I’d had a good deal of experience out here with a Canadian bank. But that’s of no consequence. My employers are Grifer, Lerc of Zurich.’
‘Well, I never. And how’s Pierre Lerc?’
‘He’s the President.’
Treasure chuckled. ‘I know, and a very old friend. Charming chap.’
‘I’m sure, though I fear I’ve never had the pleasure.’ Brown hesitated again, but his expression changed from one of uncertainty into something approaching determination. ‘This is in confidence, Mr Treasure, but in the circumstances I’m sure . . .’
‘I shall observe your confidence. But shall we order that drink? Lager or something stronger?’ A white-coated waiter had at last appeared and was eyeing the two more out of curiosity than by way of anticipating their need for service. Brown nodded. ‘Two Carlsbergs, please.’ The waiter retreated without comment or, as Treasure divined from experience in more sophisticated premises, any commitment as to brand.
‘The bank has a customer, Mr Treasure,’ Brown was continuing, ‘to whom we have been making regular and substantial advances against earnings from the King Charles Tobacco Company.’
‘But without security?’
‘Um, in a sense, yes. It’s a private company, of course, and its component parts . . .’
‘Amount to an operation rather than a tangible organization, or a negotiable asset.’
‘Precisely. The customer is Grade A with the bank, however, and funds do materialize on due dates.’
‘But the bank often has a largish balance at risk.’ Brown nodded agreement. ‘Which is why we, as it were, keep an eye on the island in general and the tobacco company in particular. Some time ago we made an arrangement with Mr McLush to . . .’
‘To keep you posted?’
The face flannel appeared again and was used to mop the glistening brow. ‘The arrangement was on a very confidential basis for fear of offending susceptibilities. Mr McLush was not. . . er, is not aware the bank is retaining his services.’
Treasure affected mild surprise. ‘Then who . . . ?’
‘He was led to suppose – indeed, he virtually led himself to suppose he was in the pay of some national intelligence service.’ There was an embarrassed pause before Brown continued. ‘I fear it was I who encouraged this . . . this, er, harmless subterfuge.’
‘In case he was caught poking his nose into other people’s affairs and was obliged to offer an explanation?’
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br /> ‘Exactly, Mr Treasure.’ Brown nodded eagerly. ‘I should add that Zurich is not privy to . . . er . . .’
‘To McLush’s belief he’s a spy.’ Treasure chuckled. ‘He doesn’t sell vacuum-cleaners as a cover, does he?’
The allusion was lost on Brown. ‘No, he’s a journalist by profession,’ he answered seriously. ‘It was in that capacity that yesterday he discovered through an informant that the tobacco company was to be sold for a sum a lot lower than the price we’d been led to believe it was worth. I transmitted this information to Switzerland and was immediately instructed to order Mr McLush to . . . er . . . to press some further enquiry.’
‘Of what nature? I mean, what did you tell him to do?’ Brown sighed. ‘To obtain samples of the cigars currently being produced.’
Treasure was all too aware of the difficulties that might attend such a task. ‘Did you instruct him to break into the factory? It’s part of a convent.’
‘That I left to his discretion,’ Brown answered hurriedly. ‘In any event, I told him that another agent –’ he coughed nervously – ‘that’s me of course, would be here this morning to confer. I took the first flight from Grand Cayman to Montego Bay. I was not aware there was no morning flight from there to King Charles. You know the rest.’
‘But there’s no sign of McLush. Frankly, I should say it’s a little early to imagine he’s . . .’ Treasure allowed his voice to tail off. The waiter had returned with glasses and two cans of Red Stripe beer; it was some consolation to note that the cans were frosted.
When the two men were alone again it was Treasure who re-opened the conversation. ‘I assume you’re not able to reveal the name of the bank’s customer.’
‘The point is academic, Mr Treasure. I don’t know it.’
Treasure nodded, and mentally calculated the time of day in Zurich. He imagined he could himself put a name to the man whose expenditure exceeded his income from the King Charles Tobacco Company – but it would be nice to have the point confirmed. It would have been ingenuous to suppose that such information was available for the asking, even between friends, but if the directors of Grifer, Lerc were so anxious to obtain up-to-date intelligence on the status of the cigar company Treasure was perhaps in a better position to supply it than McLush, and since one good turn deserved another . . .
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