Domino Island

by Desmond Bagley

  I left the Blue Water Casino and went back to the hotel, where I put in a call to London and broke the news to Jolly. He even sounded dyspeptic on the phone but absorbed what had happened to Ogilvie without apparently incurring much pain, the cold-hearted bastard. He dismissed the occurrence with a few curt words and said, ‘What are your findings on Salton?’

  ‘I’m recommending immediate payment. If he committed suicide you’ll never be able to prove it now and, anyway, the verdict of the inquest was death by natural causes.’

  ‘All right,’ he said because he couldn’t say anything else. ‘I’ll have the cheque drawn. When are you coming back? We need you here.’

  ‘When the police will let me,’ I said. ‘Otherwise, when I feel like it.’

  ‘I said we need you in London.’

  ‘And Ogilvie needs me here. What am I supposed to do? Leave him here unconscious in hospital and forget him? Besides, I haven’t finished the investigation.’

  His voice was acid. ‘You have as far as I’m concerned. And I don’t like the tone of your voice.’

  ‘So have me fired – if you can.’ He couldn’t and he knew it. ‘You can tell Costello that I’m looking into Salton Estates Ltd.’

  I put down the telephone before he could say anything else, and fumed for a while. Then the phone rang and caused me to simmer in quite a different way.

  A man said, ‘Keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you or you’ll get what your friend Ogilvie got.’ There was a click and then silence on the line and I listened to it for a long time, hearing only the surge of blood in my inner ear.

  Gently I laid the telephone on to its cradle. The chips were down and the game had started. Up to then, everything had been misty and conjectural. Hypothetically, Ogilvie could have been hammered in a street brawl that had nothing to do with the Salton case. But now I knew that someone had something to hide, someone with flesh which would bruise as readily as Ogilvie’s had. I was ready and prepared to do the bruising.

  The phone rang again and I picked it up. The receptionist said, ‘There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mr Kemp. A Mr Roker.’

  ‘Put him on the line.’

  The earpiece clicked and buzzed, and then a man said, ‘You don’t know me, Mr Kemp. My name is Roker. I’m with the Caribbean Banking Corporation here in San Martin. I’d like to have a few words with you in private.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About the … er … investigation you are apparently making here,’ he said delicately.

  ‘You’d better come up.’

  I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I didn’t bother wondering what Roker wanted; he’d tell me soon enough. I was drying off when there was a knock at the door and I opened it to find a smiling man dressed in the ubiquitous linen suit and carrying a panama hat. ‘Roker,’ he said.

  ‘Come in, Mr Roker.’ I swung open the door and continued to dry my hands. ‘Take a seat – I’ll be right back.’ I took the towel into the bathroom and when I returned Roker was standing at the window looking down into the street.

  I joined him as he said, ‘More trouble.’ He had lost his smile.

  Down in the street there was a procession of sorts, a straggling line of people – mostly men but with a few women, some carrying banners and placards. There were a handful of white faces among the black, and they all seemed poorly dressed. They set up a rhythmic chanting but I couldn’t distinguish the words.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Politics is what’s going on, Mr Kemp.’ Roker’s accent was American of the flat mid-west brand. ‘Politics, Campanilla-style. I expect it’ll get rough down there pretty soon.’

  We watched in silence as the scene unfolded. The marchers were shouting at passers-by on the pavement and gesturing at them to join in. The head of the procession stopped and the street quickly became packed with a dense crowd behind him. I crossed to another window to see if I could find out the reason for the halt and saw a line of policemen strung across the road, each armed with a long baton and carrying a riot shield. The crowd remained at a distance and were chanting at the police.

  I said, ‘Why would the police stop a political procession?’

  ‘Because it’s illegal,’ said Roker. ‘Those people are breaking the law.’ He joined me. ‘Open the window and listen to what they’re shouting.’

  I did as he said and the noise swelled instantly. The crowd was shouting one word over and over and over again.

  ‘Sal-ton, Sal-ton, Sal-ton, SAL-TON.’

  Then a missile flew and I saw a couple of policemen duck. Two more followed, and suddenly the blue line charged, batons flailing, and the chanting turned into screams. More police appeared from somewhere, several carrying big-barrelled guns. The air was ripped with a series of sharp cracks, blooms of white smoke appeared and the tear gas tore holes in the thick crowd.

  In minutes the street was empty, except for four still figures lying in the roadway. I couldn’t tell if they were dead or not.

  From behind me, Roker said, ‘You were responsible for that, Mr Kemp.’

  I turned and stared at him. ‘How do you make that out, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I’ll get to that,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, you’ll get to that? Who the hell are you, anyway?’

  ‘I represent the Caribbean Banking Corporation and you are working for Western and Continental Insurance of London. Right?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Western and Continental own thirty per cent of Caribbean Banking, so you could say we’re working for the same people.’

  ‘I suppose you want me to welcome a new colleague,’ I said sarcastically. ‘You’re clearly after something, so why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?’

  He sat down uninvited in an armchair and said blandly, ‘You can go back to London.’

  I studied him silently for a while, then said, ‘Why should I?’

  ‘You’re a bit of grit in the works. The machine isn’t running so smoothly any more.’

  ‘You’ll have to come out with something plainer than a bad metaphor,’ I said.

  He jerked his head at the window. ‘Those people out there believe that David Salton was murdered. After he died there were riots like that, but because of the findings at the inquest things quietened down. Now someone is stirring things up again – and that someone is you.’

  ‘How in hell would a crowd like that know about me?’ I demanded. ‘I’ve only been here two days.’

  ‘Two days too long,’ said Roker bitterly. ‘The word is that Mr Kemp says David Salton was murdered. And the word is spreading like a prairie fire.’

  ‘I don’t know who has the long ears,’ I said. ‘But whoever he is, he’s got it wrong. Admittedly, in a couple of private conversations I might have mentioned the possibility of murder – along with a few other hypotheses such as suicide, accident and natural causes. I suppose you believe Salton wasn’t murdered.’

  ‘I don’t know a goddamn thing about it,’ said Roker. He spread his hands. ‘But I do know what was found at the inquest. Go home, Kemp. You’re rocking the boat.’

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Does it matter? Look, Kemp, it’s delicate here in Campanilla, like sitting on top of an atom bomb. If it goes off, a lot of people could get hurt.’ He pointed to the window. ‘You saw what just happened.’

  ‘You make me sick,’ I said. ‘You’re not worried about people being hurt. You just don’t want anyone stabbing you in the wallet. You’ve got a sweet set-up here and you don’t want someone messing about with the laws.’

  ‘It makes no difference what my reasons are,’ he said equably. ‘You are going back to London.’

  ‘And how are you going to make me do that?’

  Roker became exasperated. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a single word I’ve been saying? Your company owns a big piece of mine. Our interests are the same. It’s your duty to quit.’

  ‘When I need
a lesson in ethics I won’t come to you,’ I said.

  Roker looked at me in wonder. ‘Well, for Christ’s sake!’ he said softly. ‘A goddamn knight in shining armour. It makes no difference. I can have you pulled out of here.’

  I walked across the room, picked up the telephone and dumped it in front of him. ‘You’ll be just in time to catch the London office before it closes.’

  He looked at the telephone but made no move to pick it up. ‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘I can have you fired, you know.’

  ‘There’s the telephone – try it. Go back to Cardew Street and tell the gang it hasn’t worked. Now, will you leave by the door or do I have to toss you out of the window?’

  Roker wasn’t scared, I’ll say that for him. ‘You’re nuts,’ he said. ‘A crazy man – a genuine crazy man. Don’t you know we can have you deported?’

  I smiled. ‘I wouldn’t do that. You can tell Conyers that we have some very good newspapers back in the United Kingdom. A Prime Minister suppressing an investigation into the possible murder of the leader of the opposition would be just their meat. I’m surprised they haven’t got on to it already. And when they get their teeth into a thing like this, they spend money like water and put a really big team on to it. They’d roast Conyers alive, and you can bet those people in the street would get to hear of it. You’d get a few burns too.’

  Roker stood up. ‘You’re a guy who can think fast on his feet,’ he conceded. ‘But why you’re being so hard-nosed about it I don’t know.’

  ‘If you don’t know now you’ll never know,’ I said.

  He paused at the door, twirling his hat in his hand. ‘Be reasonable, Kemp. Okay, maybe I’ve gone about this the wrong way. But suppose I said we could do something for you? Suppose that something was the offer of a good job at maybe double your present freelance rate?’

  ‘Since it’s a supposition I’ll pretend you didn’t say it. Because if you did say it, I’d be inclined to break your bloody neck. Now get out.’

  He shook his head and opened the door. ‘They’ll never believe this.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, and he turned back eagerly. ‘Did you or your Cardew Street boys instigate Salton’s murder?’

  He flinched. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘You’re a really dangerous man. You’d better watch it.’ The door slammed.

  I stood there looking at the closed door then slowly lifted my hands and found they were trembling. I picked up the telephone and put it back where it lived and then, on impulse, picked up the handset and rang Negrini.

  ‘Anything for me?’

  His voice was pained. ‘Give me time.’

  ‘There’s something else. When next we meet – and I don’t know when that will be – I’ll want to know everything there is to know about a man called Roker of the Caribbean Banking Corporation. Can do?’

  ‘Okay, Mr Kemp,’ he said resignedly.

  I smiled. ‘Since we’re going to be working together you can call me Bill.’

  He burlesqued a Western accent. ‘Well, Bill, I’ll allow that’s mighty nice of you.’

  I smiled again as I put down the handset and picked up my coat; I could get along with Negrini. As I was leaving the room the phone rang again. I don’t know what Bill Kemp was doing to the political life of Campanilla but he was certainly increasing the profits of the Campanilla Telephone Company.

  I went back. ‘Kemp here.’

  ‘Well now, Mr Kemp, would you like to know a little thing about David Salton?’ The voice was deep, rumbling and American, but not very cultured.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Come on, man, you must surely be bugged,’ he said reproachfully. ‘And that’s why you don’t get no name, neither.’

  I hadn’t thought about anyone bugging the telephone but I certainly wouldn’t put it past Hanna. I said, ‘So it’s a stand-off.’

  ‘It’s hot today, man. Supposin’ you took a walk, you’d raise quite a sweat and maybe get thirsty. Now, if you were around the Rainbow Rooms near the market on the waterfront, you’d likely drop in for a nice cool drink – say, a Cuba Libre. I hear the Rainbow Rooms are real popular.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘When?’

  ‘Say now? I get thirsty too, so you order two drinks.’ The voice sharpened. ‘But if you’ve been tailed, man, you’ll have to drink them both.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I promised, and put down the phone.

  IV

  I seemed to be gaining a degree of popularity. When I reached the hotel lobby, I was hailed by Jake McKittrick. He had lost the look of a field labourer and appeared to be what he really was: a professional man. He wore the standard linen suit and carried a black bag.

  ‘Mr Kemp, I was hoping to find you.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Dr McKittrick?’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I have an appointment – rather urgent.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he said.

  I peered into the lounge, which seemed moderately empty. ‘All right. Let’s go in there.’

  We sat at a table and McKittrick said, ‘So you talked about me to Mrs Salton.’

  ‘I passed on your message.’

  ‘And she told you about me?’

  ‘As did Mr Stern,’ I said dryly.

  McKittrick smiled ruefully. ‘I can guess what he said. What was Mrs Salton’s attitude?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her,’ I said. ‘I’m not one to pass on gossip.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s an honest answer. I had that coming.’ He paused. ‘The word is going around that you think David Salton was murdered. True?’

  I wagged my head wearily: he’d obviously been talking to the same snitch as Roker. ‘Untrue. It was just one of a number of suggestions that happened to come up. The medical evidence at the inquest was hardly satisfactory.’

  ‘I can accept that, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t give a hoot in hell whether you accept it or not,’ I said feelingly, adding, ‘And I’d like to know who’s been eavesdropping on my private conversations.’

  ‘It’s immaterial, of course,’ said McKittrick. ‘What matters is what people think you think. That must be straightened out or there’s going to be trouble. Suppose you make a statement to the Chronicle that Salton wasn’t murdered?’

  I stared at him. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?

  ‘Because I don’t know that he wasn’t. There’s no evidence one way or the other.’

  McKittrick was waspish. ‘There’s such a thing as being too honest.’ He leaned forward and said urgently, ‘Mr Kemp, there’s trouble coming and people are going to die on the streets. Campanilla is coming to the boil because of this rumour. There’s already been violence.’

  ‘I saw some of it,’ I said, and pointed to the window. ‘Just out there.’ It had crossed my mind that Roker might somehow have laid that little performance on especially for my benefit, but now another thought occurred to me. ‘I don’t suppose you stirred that one up, did you?’

  McKittrick appeared genuinely shocked. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘My job is to heal people, not to get them killed or hurt. Where did you get that idea – from Stern?’

  ‘No, but Mrs Salton told me of your quarrel with her husband and said that since then you’d gone even further towards radicalism. In fact, she called it a bloody revolution.’

  That hit him. ‘She said that of me?’

  I offered him a concession. ‘She said it might not be what you wanted, but you were heading that way despite yourself, maybe.’

  ‘Nobody wants that kind of revolution – well, I don’t, at least.’

  ‘But there are some who do?’ I studied him. ‘It seems to me you’ve got yourself into a trap, Dr McKittrick. You’d have done better staying with Salton. If he’d lived, he’d have been the leader of the next government, by all accounts. His way was better than yours. And now you’re out on a limb.’

  ‘Let’s forget about me,’ he said tightly. ‘And keep to the point at issue.’ />
  ‘Look, I can do this much for you,’ I said. ‘I spoke to London this morning and recommended that Mrs Salton’s claim be met immediately. The cheque is being drawn now. If I gave that fact to the press, perhaps it would cool things a bit.’

  ‘Would you do that now?’ he said eagerly.

  ‘I don’t see why not. I’ll tell Jackson straight away.’

  Jackson was acid on the phone. ‘No connection with Western and Continental, Mr Kemp. Isn’t that what you told me? You had me fooled there for quite a while – until I heard a couple of things last night. Seen the Chronicle this morning?’

  ‘I haven’t had time.’ I picked idly at the printed telephone instructions pasted up in the hotel lobby booth.

  ‘I’ll bet you haven’t,’ he said. ‘But it makes good reading. What do you want now?’

  ‘I called to tell you that I’ve recommended Mrs Salton’s claim be met in full. Western and Continental in London agree and are following through.’

  ‘Can I quote you on that?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Mr Jackson, I wouldn’t tell you anything you couldn’t quote.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He sighed. ‘So Jill Salton’s the richer by a million and a quarter bucks. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, ain’t that so, Mr Kemp?’

  ‘Cracker barrel philosophy doesn’t suit you,’ I said.

  I was about to put down the phone when Jackson said hurriedly, ‘Don’t hang up, Kemp. Stay on the line a second.’ There was a clatter and a babble of background voices for a couple of minutes, then Jackson said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to give me your views on something, Mr Kemp?’

  ‘Depends on what it is,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to comment on the death of your assistant, Ogilvie?’

  I felt as though someone had belted me in the stomach. For a few seconds I couldn’t speak. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago. I had a man at the hospital and it’s just come through.’ He waited for me to speak and, when I said nothing, he quacked, ‘Well, Mr Kemp, anything for attribution?’