by John Kerr
‘Tennessee,’ she said. ‘Cleveland, Tennessee, to be exact.’
‘Here you are, sir,’ said the bartender, handing Hamilton his drink.
Hamilton followed Marnie over to Sir Philip’s side. ‘This is quite a place,’ said Hamilton.
Sir Philip nodded. ‘I built it in ’36 when I moved out from London. For the climate,’ he explained. ‘After my illness, I couldn’t tolerate the cold and damp.’
Hamilton studied the elaborate wheelchair, upholstered in green leather, and noticed the slackness of Sir Philip’s trousers. Above the waist, he was powerfully built, with wide shoulders and a thick chest. He wore a thin moustache that reinforced a certain rakish impression with his tanned face and dark hair streaked with grey. ‘Pull up a chair, Mr Hamilton,’ said Sir Philip, ‘and tell us what brought you to Nassau while we wait for our other guests.’
Hamilton made momentary eye contact with Sir Philip, searching for a clue but finding none. Marnie settled on the sofa, crossing her long, shapely legs, while Hamilton chose a rattan armchair. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I thought I’d combine some business with a little pleasure.’
‘What sort of business?’ asked Hopwood, who remained standing.
Hamilton glanced from Sir Philip to Hopwood. ‘Real estate,’ he replied. ‘Developing a resort hotel.’
‘We’ve more than enough hotels,’ said Hopwood. ‘And most of them are empty.’
‘The war won’t last forever,’ said Hamilton with a shrug. ‘And I’ve got something a little different in mind. A hotel with a casino. After all, Nassau’s just a hop, skip and a jump from Miami.’
‘Where were you thinking of placing this hotel?’ asked Sir Philip. Hamilton detected the slightest suggestion of a knowing look.
‘On Hog Island,’ said Hamilton. ‘I understand there’s nothing there, and it’s right across from town.’
‘Well, I should have thought a young man like yourself,’ said Hopwood, ‘could find something, well, more productive to do, what with the war on. And not going very well, I might add.’
The maid reappeared and said, ‘Sir Philip … the other folks are here.’
‘Show them in, Annie,’ Sir Philip called out. ‘Let’s take our drinks on the terrace.’ Marnie rose from the sofa and grasped the handles of his wheelchair, swivelling it toward the open French doors. Hamilton politely waited for her to roll her husband out on the terrace and then followed the couple outside. Hurricane lamps flickered along the border of the terrace, and the boom of the surf was carried along on the breeze from the darkened sea. The sound of dance music came from somewhere in the distance. Hamilton turned around just as a man and woman entered the living room. Like Marnie, the woman was tall and striking, in a pale-blue chiffon dress that accentuated her trim figure. She smiled briefly and began walking toward them with her companion, a short man with a dark moustache and slicked back hair. Like Hopwood, he was wearing a dinner jacket, a degree of formality Lady Sassoon’s offhand invitation had failed to suggest.
‘Hello, Evelyn, my dear,’ said Sir Philip as the pair stepped outside.
‘Mrs Shawcross,’ said Hopwood with a slight bow.
‘Evelyn,’ said Sir Philip, ‘let me introduce an American visitor, Mr Thomas Hamilton.’ Turning to Hamilton, he added, ‘And the Marquis de Videlou.’
Hamilton shook the man’s hand. ‘Hello,’ said Hamilton, turning to Evelyn Shawcross. ‘A pleasure.’ In the faint light of the lamps he was struck by her deep-blue eyes, dark hair and soft, pale skin that must have been shielded from the Caribbean sun. She briefly looked in his eyes and smiled.
‘Good evening, Mr Hamilton,’ said Georges de Videlou in a thick French accent. ‘Welcome to Nassau.’
CHAPTER TWO
IN CONTRAST TO the rest of the modern house, the dining-room at Eves was richly appointed with an antique walnut table, matching sideboard, and high-backed Chippendale chairs. An eighteenth-century silver tea service gleamed beneath an oil painting of a coal-black thoroughbred stallion. Sir Philip, elegant in a white dinner jacket, smiled at his guests and signalled to the servants to begin serving. Annie ladled soup from a porcelain tureen, which Henry, the genial butler, served the dinner guests.
‘You were saying, Mr Hamilton,’ said Hopwood, ‘you’re in the oil business?’
Hamilton nodded. ‘That’s right. Along with cattle ranching.’
Evelyn, placing her fingertips together at her chin, smiled and said, ‘You don’t fit my idea of a Texas oilman.’
‘Maybe I should have turned up in boots and a ten-gallon hat,’ said Hamilton with a smile.
‘All the same, Tom,’ said Marnie, ‘you’re a damned sight more refined than the other Texas oilmen I’ve run across.’ She lifted her spoon and took a first sip of soup, an act the others had been dutifully awaiting. Sir Philip motioned to Henry to pour the wine.
‘Magnifique,’ said de Videlou, holding his spoon aloft. ‘The finest sea turtle soup in the Bahamas.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Hamilton,’ suggested Sir Philip, ‘you acquired your polish from an Eastern education.’
‘That’s the usual American approach,’ said Hamilton. ‘You make your money and then send your kids back East for a proper education. In my case, Exeter and Yale.’
Hopwood arched his eyebrows imperceptibly.
‘Sort of the American equivalent of Eton and Oxford,’ Hamilton explained.
‘I see,’ said Hopwood, dabbing a linen napkin at his chin. During the ensuing lull, the only sounds were the clink of china and silverware and murmured requests for salt and pepper.
Finished with his soup, de Videlou lifted his wineglass and stared across the table at Hamilton. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘why have you not rushed off to fight in this war like the rest of your countrymen?’ In the awkward silence, all eyes were on Hamilton.
He gave de Videlou a tight-lipped smile. ‘Seems like a funny question for a Frenchman to ask,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m yellow. Or maybe I’ve got better things to do.’ De Videlou glared back.
‘Mr Hamilton is planning to build a hotel,’ said Hopwood, stifling a yawn. ‘And a casino.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Evelyn. ‘Here in Nassau? What a peculiar notion.’
‘Peculiar?’ said Hopwood. ‘I should say so. With the shipping losses to these dreadful U-boats, and the rioting in June, the economy is in a shambles.’
‘Well, I’m thinking about it,’ said Hamilton. ‘That’s what brought me to this quaint little outpost of British civilization.’
‘You got that right,’ said Marnie in an aside.
‘Anyway,’ Hamilton continued, ‘the war’s not going to last forever—’
‘On that point I would agree,’ interjected de Videlou.
‘And when it’s over, a first-class hotel with a European-style casino, just a short boat ride from Miami, could be a huge success.’
‘Mr Hamilton makes an excellent point,’ said Sir Philip. ‘And now I suggest we leave our poor guest alone and enjoy the main course, some excellent grouper from this morning’s catch.’
‘I have one last question,’ protested de Videlou with a slight wave of his hand. ‘Where are you are thinking of building this hotel?’
‘On Hog Island,’ said Hamilton. ‘In fact,’ – he briefly caught Sir Philip’s eye – ‘I’m planning to take a look at the site in the morning.’
‘But virtually all of Hog Island belongs to Monsieur Ericsson,’ said de Videlou.
‘Almost,’ said Hamilton, ‘but not quite.’
‘OK,’ said Lady Sassoon, as Henry appeared at her elbow with a large platter of sautéed grouper accompanied by rice and English peas. ‘Enough business talk. Let’s enjoy dinner.’
Later, after another carafe of wine had gone around and the local gossip had died away, Sir Philip invited his guests to take coffee or cordials on the terrace. Opting for coffee, Hamilton strolled down from the terrace to a low seawall with a view of the beach and narrow pier that disappeared out of sight into t
he black water. Content to be alone, he sipped his coffee and then closed his eyes and deeply inhaled the fresh breeze, fragrant with gardenias. He was soon aware of another, more subtle fragrance, which after a moment he was able to name. Opening his eyes, he turned and saw Evelyn Shawcross at his elbow. ‘Pois de Senteur,’ he said. ‘From Caron.’
‘I’m impressed.’ The blue of her dress was barely perceptible in the moonlight. ‘They’re few men on this island who would recognize that perfume, and it happens to be my favourite.’
‘Mine too,’ he said.
She took a step closer and placed her palms on the smooth tiles on top of the wall, staring out at the surf. ‘It’s lovely here,’ she said. ‘So peaceful.’
‘Yes,’ he said, leaning against the wall.
‘I’m sorry about what was said earlier,’ said Evelyn. ‘That was terribly rude.’
‘Oh, you mean that crack from the Frenchman? I forget his name.’
‘De Videlou. He can be dreadfully obnoxious.’
‘I take it you’re not his, ah …’
‘Not on your life,’ she said with a soft laugh. ‘He’s the sort of conceited Frenchman who expects every woman to swoon at his feet. I merely took Sir Philip’s suggestion for a dinner partner.’
Hamilton studied her face in the dim light. ‘It’s Mrs Shawcross, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is. My husband’s in the army. Stationed in North Africa.’
‘I see. And what brought you here?’
‘To this quaint outpost of British civilization?’ she said with another laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m here for the duration. Of the war, that is.’
‘Why Nassau?’
‘Daddy sent me,’ she said with a shrug. ‘After the blitz – we had a bit of a close call – he thought it best I leave London. We have a winter home here. That’s where I’m staying. Greycliff.’
‘Greycliff,’ he repeated.
‘Yes. You must come for a visit. If your schedule permits it, that is.’
‘I’d be delighted.’
‘Well, Tom,’ she said, unexpectedly reaching out to shake his hand, ‘I should be going.’
‘Goodnight, Evelyn.’ He watched as she walked up to the terrace, spoke briefly with her hosts and disappeared inside. Once he was satisfied that the other guests had departed, he strolled to the terrace where Sir Philip and Lady Sassoon were seated with their drinks.
‘That was an interesting crowd,’ said Hamilton. ‘I imagine by tomorrow morning everyone in town will know what I’m supposedly doing here.’
‘That was the general idea,’ said Sir Philip.
‘Oh … I see. Well, when do you think we might have a private chat…?’
‘I would suggest tomorrow afternoon,’ said Sir Philip. ‘After you’ve had a look at the goings-on at Hog Island. I’ll be keen to hear your report.’
‘If you gentlemen will excuse me,’ said Marnie, ‘I think I’ll turn in. Tom, it’s been a pleasure.’
‘Carter is standing by to drive you to your hotel,’ said Sir Philip, once they were alone. ‘We should plan to meet here for tea, at say, four. I should be able to illuminate a few things.’
‘Good,’ said Hamilton. ‘They could use a little illumination.’ He noticed Carter in the shadows. ‘Well, Sir Philip, thanks for dinner. It’s been a long day.’
‘Good evening, Mr Hamilton.’
By the time he arrived at the hotel, Hamilton had made up his mind that Sir Philip Sassoon had handled the dinner party brilliantly while he had arrogantly spent the better part of the evening in bored agitation, resenting the fact that he’d been the object of so much attention. Yes, he concluded, as he let himself into his room, he had underestimated Sir Philip, who had orchestrated events to ensure that by morning it would be generally known in the proper circles that a wealthy American playboy, dodging the draft, had arrived in Nassau with the intention of pursuing a risky hotel scheme. Precisely the cover his superiors at OSS had decided upon. Hamilton flung his jacket on the bed, loosened his tie, and opened the door to the balcony. As the cool sea breeze washed over him, carrying the faint strains of a calypso steel drum, he felt suddenly wide-awake and energized. Walking outside, he thought about Lady Sassoon and Evelyn Shawcross, two of the most attractive women he’d encountered in a long while. A blonde and a brunette, one deeply tanned and the other with the complexion of a Geisha, both tall with terrific figures. And both married. A shame, he considered, for though not overly burdened with scruples, he drew the line at married women unless the marriage was clearly in the process of dissolution. Marnie seemed a strange match for the far older Sir Philip – he’d have to get to the bottom of that story. But Evelyn excited stronger feelings, far beyond mere sexual attraction. An aura, a mystique, perhaps having to do with her obvious intelligence or her upper-class British manners. And who was de Videlou, and why had Sir Philip invited him? For that matter, who, really, was Sir Philip? Standing at the railing, Hamilton considered that in the morning there would be much to learn.
He awoke with the sun and ordered juice and coffee, which he sipped on the balcony in the cool air. After shaving and a shower, he dressed in an old pair of dungarees, a polo shirt and rubber-soled shoes. Tucking the Beretta in his waistband, he slipped on a lightweight jacket and, with a quick glance in the mirror to make certain the pistol was well concealed, let himself out. He walked briskly past the storefronts and seedy bars that catered to sailors or the cheaper class of tourists and then abruptly encountered the burnt-out ruins of buildings that had been torched by the mob in the June riots, when more than a thousand Bahamians went on a spontaneous rampage in the centre of town, sparked by a protest over the low wages paid on the massive construction project at Oakes Field. Something about the war, Hamilton considered, as he inspected the blackened hulks, had breathed freedom into the air, inspiring the poor Bahamians to rise up in a way that their colonial masters had never thought possible. A special commission empanelled by the Duke of Windsor – appointed Governor General shortly after the fall of France – investigated the uprising, leading to a bitter clash between the Colonial Office in London and the local authorities who had brutally quelled the riots, with devastating effect on the already weakened economy.
Ahead lay Rawson Square, where even at the early hour, Bahamian women in colourful garb were setting up stands to hawk their straw baskets, hats, and trinkets. On an impulse, Hamilton approached a heavy-set woman with large, gold loops dangling from her ears, and purchased a simple straw hat, the sort he supposed a man out to catch fish would wear for protection from the sun. He hurried on to Prince Georges Wharf, past the docks where rusting fishing vessels were berthed next to a Royal Navy patrol boat with a five-inch gun turret. With the stench of rotting fish and bunker fuel assailing his nostrils, he arrived at the long wharf at precisely 8:00 a.m.
At first Hamilton failed to recognize the tall black man lounging against a stack of lumber, wearing an old pair of shorts, a cotton shirt and worn-out sandals. But then he made contact with the intelligent eyes beneath a long-billed fishing cap and identified Sir Philip’s man, Carter. As Hamilton walked up, Carter smiled and said, ‘Mornin’, Mr Tom. Ready to go?’
‘Hello, Carter,’ said Hamilton. ‘Didn’t recognize you for a second.’
Carter reached for a canvas bag and motioned toward the end of the wharf. ‘The boat’s down this way,’ he said, as he began walking. Hamilton followed him to a slip where a sleek powerboat was bobbing in the clear turquoise water.
‘She’s a beauty,’ said Hamilton, gazing at the satiny wooden hull as Carter climbed on board.
‘And she’s fast,’ said Carter, letting the canvas bag drop with a thump. ‘A Chris Craft utility cruiser, with a 275-horsepower V-8. And with a hundred gallon tank, we can make it from here to the Abacos and back in a day.’ He turned the ignition and backed the boat out of the slip as Hamilton peered at the wharf above them, satisfied that no one was paying them any attention. Within moments they were crui
sing at ten knots toward the open sea. Carter pushed down the throttle and the boat surged forward, planing across the calm, blue water. ‘I’ll make for the north-east channel,’ Carter called to Hamilton, who was standing beside him with one hand grasping the windshield and the other holding down his hat, ‘before swinging back around to Hog Island.’ Hamilton looked at the uninhabited island that was separated from New Providence by only a few hundred yards, directly across from town. As Carter lowered the throttle, the water turned from turquoise to dark azure, the deeper waters that run north to Grand Bahama and the Abacos. Once they were far out of sight from the shore, Carter steered toward the west, arcing around the northern tip of Hog Island. Hamilton glanced at the dashboard, noting their cruising speed of 40 m.p.h. Carter turned toward him and smiled. ‘In a few more minutes,’ he said, ‘we’ll run in for a quick look at Shangri-La.’
‘Shangri-La?’ repeated Hamilton.
‘The place the Swede bought and fixed up for himself.’ He pulled out a pair of binoculars and handed them to Hamilton. ‘Take a look,’ he said.
Hamilton squinted through the lenses at a large colonial style home set back from the beach. ‘Shangri-La,’ he said softly, following the outline of the pale-yellow villa with graceful arches and a red tiled roof, noting the manicured grounds and a high fence that disappeared into a thick stand of trees. ‘I can’t make out any kind of pier. How the hell do you get there?’
‘Around to the left there’s a channel,’ explained Carter, as he abruptly turned to head back out to sea. ‘You take that into a big marina the Swede’s building. They call it Hurricane Hole.’ He lowered the throttle and the Chris Craft surged forward with a powerful roar.
‘Why Hurricane Hole?’ asked Hamilton.
‘They say he’s building it strong enough to take a direct hit from a hurricane….’
‘Or a bomber,’ said Hamilton almost to himself.
‘Anyway,’ Carter continued, ‘there’s no way to get close enough for a good look. The Swede has armed patrol boats, and they mean business. Shot at a fishing boat last week.’ He steered the boat toward the far tip of the island barely visible above the flat expanse of sea.