“I’m afraid not. I was trying to learn to snorkel.”
“Well . . . I can only say that some people can wear bikinis and others shouldn’t even try . . . let me freshen your glass, Henry . . .”
Later, in the bar, Henry and Emmy saw the Schipmakers deep in conversation with a man whom they recognized as one of the “East Coast intellectuals.” Schipmaker smiled and Ginny waved graciously, but it was clear that both were very much otherwise engaged and had no time for purely social conversation. Henry and Emmy found themselves bar stools, ordered drinks, and then took advantage of a lull in business to have a word with Francis Fletcher.
Henry started the ball rolling. “We met your young brother today, Francis.”
Francis grinned. “Which one? There’s a whole heap of us.”
“Martin. Out at Sugar Mill Bay.”
“Oh, him. Sure. Got a good job. Ain’t nobody knows how to run a house like Miss Lucy. Martin’s learning his trade the right way.” Henry said, “I gather that you and Miss Lucy are both interested in the Tampica Research and Development Company.”
Francis grinned again. “Sure are.”
“Of course, Miss Lucy’s just a stockholder, but she tells us you are Chairman of the Board.”
“Sure am.”
“That must be quite a job.”
Francis’s grin was immovable. “Not so bad. Nothing much doing as yet. Could be big things one day, for sure.”
“You have some shares yourself?”
“Two rum punches, Francis!” called a suntanned man in a bright orange shirt from the other end of the bar.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Robertson. Right away, sir.” And Francis was gone. The bar was filling up with pre-dinner drinkers, and the chance for conversation had passed. As he signed his chit, Henry said, “What time do you finish here, Francis?”
“Ten . . . ten-fifteen . . . all depends how long people sit up. There’s no dance tonight, so we’re liable to close early.”
“We thought we might drop in to Barney’s Bar later on,” Henry said. “I’ve got to hand back the moke. Perhaps we might see you there. We’d like to buy you a drink.”
Francis Fletcher looked at Henry, bright-eyed and still smiling. “Might just see you there,” he said.
Barney’s Bar was noisy and crowded and more relaxed and cheerful than it had been the night before. Henry and Emmy sought out Barney and returned the keys to the moke. In return, Barney invited them to have a drink. Nobody mentioned the incident of the previous evening, and everybody seemed to be going out of the way to be friendly. It was not long after ten o’clock that Henry saw Francis Fletcher coming into the bar. He looked around, spotted the Tibbetts, and made his way between the gyrating dancers to where they sat.
“Hi, there,” he said. His grin was as wide as ever. He sat down, accepted a beer, greeted friends as they danced past, and—in the short interval between deafening band sessions—asked Henry and Emmy how they had enjoyed their snorkeling, and offered to show them some of the best reefs on outlying beaches.
Then the band struck up again, and Fletcher leaned toward Henry. In the same good-humored tone, and with the same smile, he said quietly, “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’m here to warn you, man. Keep your nose out of the Research and Development Company. That’s Tampican business, man, for Tampicans only, and any goddam foreigner who meddles in there is going to get hurt. You won’t be warned again, and you better take it seriously.” As the cacophony of the band died down, he stood up, still smiling. His hand went to his coat pocket, and Henry could see his fist clenching through the thin fabric, as though it was grasping something small and heavy. “Well, good to see you folks. Remember what I said, now. I really mean it.” And he strolled out of the bar.
Henry said to Emmy, “Finish up your drink. We’ll leave, too.” There was no sign of Francis Fletcher when the Tibbetts emerged from Barney’s Bar into the tropical night. They walked silently between the hedges of oleander, glimmering palely in the moonlight, through the gates of Pirate’s Cave and across smooth lawns to their cottage. Once inside, Henry closed the windows and the door leading to the verandah. When he was satisfied that they could not be overheard, he said, “I’m sorry you were let in for that, darling. But it’s interesting, isn’t it?”
Emmy shivered. “I thought it was frightening,” she said.
“Not really,” Henry assured her. “Fletcher is trying to pull a bogeyman scare on us, but actually he’s the one who is frightened. This is a not-too-intelligent reaction by a man who knows he’s on the wrong side of the law, and is scared of being found out. It’s just about proof positive that Fletcher is the front man for people who have a financial interest in the company, even though they know they have no right to—which must mean politicians and diplomats.”
Emmy said, “I can hardly believe that Sir Edward . . .”
“He’s the hard-liner, remember. He’s doing his best to ensure that the talks break down. The Prime Minister himself appears to be ready to compromise—which either means that he’s not financially concerned, or else that he’s being very clever and using Ironmonger as a front. And then there are the others at the Embassy-Nelson and Holder-Watts.”
“They can’t affect the outcome of the conference,” Emmy objected. “Holder-Watts isn’t even here, and Nelson is only a member of Sir Edward’s staff.”
“Nevertheless, if they do hold stock secretly, it’s vitally important to them that Ironmonger should continue to take his hard line, whether or not he’s in a conspiracy with them.” Henry paced up and down the room, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Then he said, “This is beginning to make a sensible pattern for the first time. Somebody . . . maybe several people . . . have a vital, financial interest in keeping Ironmonger in office. Somebody realized that his career would never survive a really serious scandal in Washington—that it would certainly wreck his chances of becoming prime minister in the near future, which is what the Research and Development people are really after. That could provide a very good reason for disposing of Mavis Ironmonger.”
Emmy said, “But Henry, she did create a scandal just before she died! The person who fed her Alcodym . . .”
“. . . certainly didn’t intend her to start singing bawdy and insulting songs to a distinguished diplomat,” said Henry. “The idea was that she should pass out quietly, in order to stage a supposed suicide. Sir Edward would have behaved with great dignity, and received much sympathy. And his road to the premiership would have been wide, wide open.”
“Poor Mavis,” said Emmy. She paused. “I never met her, but I can’t help thinking of her as Mavis, and in a funny way I can’t help liking her. She may have been immoral, but she doesn’t seem to have done anybody any harm—and yet they all hated her. Mrs. Holder-Watts and Dorabella were jealous of her. Nelson and Michael Holder-Watts thought she was ruining her husband’s career. Even Sir Edward himself . . . I mean, it’s just possible, isn’t it? . . . and now that this Development Company has come into the picture . . .”
Henry said, “It’s interesting, what you’ve just said. There were three different and distinct motives for doing away with Lady Ironmonger. Personal dislike, political ambition and money. It’s just occurred to me that there’s one person who had all those motives. Eleanor Holder-Watts.”
16
The next morning, Henry and Emmy went snorkeling again. This time, they reserved one of the Pirate’s Cave fleet of small motor boats, and were ferried out to a crescent of sandy beach on a tiny, uninhabited island called Little Goat. The boatman waved them good-bye, promising to return at mid-day—and they found themselves living the legendary daydream of being alone on a tropical island of their own.
They swam and sunbathed naked, and—with the help of flippers and mask—explored a living coral reef as freely and naturally as the brilliant fish who made it their home. Bright blue angel-fish with mouths curved upward in perpetual smiles; black and white striped zebra fish; pale yellow fishes, almo
st transparent, with long, drifting tails and fins, floating like ghosts among the forest of lacy coral . . . Twelve o’clock came round with indecent speed, sending Emmy grabbing for a beach towel as the chugging of the engine from around the point signaled the return of the motor boat.
After lunch, Henry telephoned to The Lodge and asked if it was possible to speak to Mr. Winston Nelson. After a long period of silence, the operator returned to ask Henry’s name and business. Henry gave his name, said the matter was personal, and waited again. He was on the point of hanging up, when a deep voice at the other end of the line said, “Ironmonger.”
“Sir Edward! Tibbett here. I’m afraid there has been a mistake. I wanted to talk to Mr. Nelson.”
“No, there has been no mistake.” Ironmonger sounded tired. “I hope you are enjoying your holiday.”
“Very much indeed. Tampica is a beautiful island.”
“And will become even more so in the future, I trust.” Sir Edward’s voice had a wry edge to it. “However, I understand that you had an unpleasant experience at Barney’s Bar the other evening. I’d like to apologize, on Mr. Nelson’s behalf, to you and your wife.”
“You’re very kind, Sir Edward, but it really isn’t necessary. I’m afraid we may have behaved tactlessly. I must explain that we were invited to the bar by Dr. Duncan—”
“You don’t have to explain, my dear fellow. I know exactly what happened, and I’m very sorry about it.” A little pause. “And now you want to speak to Nelson. May I ask why?”
“Just a small point. Concerning the reception at the Tampican Embassy. Inspector Bartholomew and I are preparing our report,” said Henry mendaciously.
“I see. Well, I’m afraid you can’t talk to him. I sent him back to Washington yesterday.”
“You did?”
“Immediately following the incident at Barney’s Bar. I sent a car to bring him back here, and I told him to be on the first plane in the morning. I do not intend to tolerate such behavior among my staff. In any case, his real work here was to arrange things before the conference opened; he will be more useful in Washington. However, perhaps I can help you. What was it you wanted to know?”
Henry hesitated, then said, “It’s a small point, Sir Edward, but I wrondered why Mr. Finkelstein was being introduced to Lady Ironmonger so late in the evening. Surely he must have passed along the receiving line and shaken hands like everybody else? Or did he arrive so late that the line had broken up?”
At once, Ironmonger said, “No, no. Just the reverse. He arrived too early.”
“Too early?”
“Yes. Let me explain. For some reason, our reception was a popular event—and parking in Georgetown is not easy. Quite a few guests arrived well before six o’clock. I was ready to receive them, with Dorabella and Holder-Watts and Nelson, but my wife . . . well, you know what women are like. She took rather a long time to dress, and she didn’t come down to join the receiving line until nearly a quarter past six—by which time Mr. Finkelstein and quite a lot of others had already shaken hands and moved on. I can’t imagine why you should think it important, but that’s what happened, so your mystery is easily solved.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, thank you, Sir Edward. I had it all the wrong way around. I thought he must have been late.”
Monday started for the Tibbetts with an unenergetic game of tennis, after which they went for a long walk on Goat Hill. They arrived back for lunch, to find a message that Miss Pontefract- Deacon had been calling Mr. Tibbett. Would he be kind enough to go down to the Tampica Harbour Yacht Marina the following day and call her up on the Children’s Hour?
Henry was baffled. “What on earth is the Children’s Hour? And why wait until tomorrow? Why can’t I call her today?”
The young American at the desk explained. There were no telephone lines to Sugar Mill Bay. However, Miss Pontefract-Deacon was equipped with a two-way radio, which could be tuned to the frequency used by shipping. Private messages and conversations— which must be kept brief—might be exchanged between half-past eleven and half-past twelve each morning, a period which was locally dubbed the Children’s Hour. And now, if Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett would care to avail themselves of the cold buffet. . . ?
After lunch and a siesta, Henry and Emmy went down to the beach at about half-past three, and were surprised to find both George and Magnolia Belmont sunning themselves under an artificial palm tree.
“Hi, there,” Magnolia called. “We wondered where y’all were this afternoon. Come and join us.”
“As soon as we’ve had a dip, we’d love to,” Emmy said. She dropped her beach bag and towel onto the sand, and splashed her way into the crystalline water. A few minutes later, much refreshed, she and Henry were lying on towels spread on the warm sand, letting the sun dry the salt water off their skin.
Henry said, “We didn’t expect to see you so early, Senator. Is the meeting over for today?”
George Belmont grunted. “Haven’t you heard?”
“‘‘Heard what?”
“The communique hasn’t been officially issued yet, but I thought everyone at Pirate’s Cave knew.”
“Not everyone,” Emmy assured him. “We’ve been out most of the day. What’s happened?”
“Deadlock. That’s what happened. Talks called off, with no prospect of agreement in sight. We’re making pious noises about going home to consult our government, but the fact of the matter is that Ironmonger has won. We can’t possibly agree to his terms, and he won’t let Drake-Frobisher budge an inch. So the navy might just as well start packing its bags—which is exactly what these people want.”
“And we have to go home tomorrow, instead of spending all week here,” said Magnolia, with a pout.
“Now, look, honey,” the Senator protested, “I told you—you stay here just as long as you want. But I have to go back.”
“It’s no fun here on my own,” said Magnolia. Then, to Emmy, “How long are you folks staying? If you were going to be here . . .”
Emmy rolled over, propped herself on her elbows, and looked inquiringly at Henry. He said, “I think we’ll be leaving very soon, Mrs. Belmont. Tomorrow or the day after.”
“But y’all just got here! And all the way from England!”
“Oh,” said Henry, “this is just one stop on quite an extended tour. We go to the States next.”
“Well, imagine! If you come to Washington, you surely must come and see us, mustn’t they, George?” The Senator grunted again. “Do you reckon to be around the District of Columbia any time, Mr. Tibbett?”
“It’s possible,” said Henry. Then, to Senator Belmont, “Tell me, sir—this is a purely hypothetical question—but what effect would it have on these talks of yours if it came to light that certain political figures in Tampica had a financial interest in the development company you mentioned yesterday?”
“They wouldn’t be allowed to hold stock,” said the Senator flatly.
“Not in their own names. But there’s such a thing as a nominee—”
The Senator, who had been lying on his back with his eyes closed, now opened them. “I can’t say what it would do to the talks,” he said, “but it sure would be one big scandal. Say, do you have information on this? I couldn’t even find out the name of the company, let alone the stockholders. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just a bunch of rumors.”
“Well,” said Henry, “it might be worth making a few more inquiries—before the next round of talks.”
The steel band played again that evening. Henry and Emmy, leaving the dance floor, saw Otis and Virginia Schipmaker sitting alone at a secluded table in the shadows at the edge of the terrace overlooking the sea. Henry led Emmy over and said, “Hi. Nice to see you. Mind if we join you for a while?”
“Of course not. Come and sit down. What are you drinking?” Drinks were ordered and served, and conversation turned to the day’s activities—Virginia enthusing over the beauty of Tampica, and her husband confessing that he preferred St. J
ohn’s. “We’ll be moving on there tomorrow for a few days,” he added. “You’ve heard about the breakdown of the talks? No sense in staying on here. Everybody Mil be back in Washington by tomorrow afternoon.”
“By the way,” Henry said, “many thanks for your note. I gather that the information you gave me is pretty hard to come by.”
Otis Schipmaker looked a little uncomfortable. “I just happened to hear the name of the company,” he said. “I can’t imagine why there should be any mystery about it.”
Ginny Schipmaker leaned back in her chair and sent a twinkling glance in Henry’s direction. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said.
Otis said, “Ginny—” but his wife went on as if she had not heard him. “You remember when you mentioned the company the other evening, and Otis pretended to know nothing about it?”
“I remember.”
“Well, afterwards I reminded him that he had talked to me about a Research and Development Company. He wasn’t sure if it was the one you meant, but I said it must be, and that he should tell you. Now, have I earned a dance?”
“Mrs. Schipmaker,” said Henry, “you certainly have.”
Much later, in their cottage, Emmy said, “How odd that Otis Schipmaker knew about the development company all along. I wonder how he found out?”
“Haven’t you figured that out yet?” Henry asked.
“No, I haven’t. He hasn’t been to Tampica for years, and he only met the Ironmongers for the first time at the reception . . .”
“Of course,” said Henry. “I forgot that you didn’t know. It seems that Otis Schipmaker had a somewhat tempestuous love affair with Mavis Ironmonger here in Tampica, before he met Ginny. I heard about it from his brother, who’s married to the Barringtons’ daughter. Virginia knows nothing about it to this day—which is why she was so keen to come here and he wasn’t, and why she’s quite relaxed and he’s like a cat on hot bricks.”
Emmy said, “Do you think they met in Washington recently— Mavis and Otis, I mean?”
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