by John Kerr
Seated in the small breakfast alcove, Oakes, with a forkful of scrambled eggs, looked up at a gentle tap on the door. ‘What is it?’ he said, to which a timid voice replied, ‘It’s Mr Katz, sir. He’s here to see you.’ After a moment Charley Katz entered the small room, looking uncharacteristically sheepish as he fingered the hatband of his fedora.
‘Mornin’, boss,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Sit down,’ said Oakes. ‘Now,’ he said, fixing his gaze on Katz. ‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’
‘The local Nassau paper? Hell, I never look at that lousy fish wrapper.’
‘Maybe it’s time you did, Charley. You never know what you might learn.’
‘Jeez, boss, what’s the—?’
‘There’s a front-page article, says our friend Hamilton has bought that forty-two-acre tract. And what’s more, it says he’s planning a world-class hotel and a casino and he’s gonna draw all the tourists away from Miami Beach and Havana.’
‘Jesus,’ said Katz. ‘If Lansky hears about that …’
‘Exactly.’ Oakes paused to sip his coffee. ‘I thought you told me,’ he said, ‘that Hamilton hadn’t shown his face on the island?’
‘Listen, Harry, I’ve got men watching every plane that lands at Oakes Field and every boat from Miami, and I swear nobody’s laid eyes on him.’
‘Well, I want you to pay a call on this fellow who sold Hamilton the property. Jennings, or some such name. Has a shop on Bay Street.’
‘Sure, I know the place. That’s where I bought my hat—’
‘Listen, Charley – you tell that sonofabitch that nobody double-crosses Harry Oakes and gets away with it. I wonder how much dough Hamilton put in their pockets? Tell him I’m gonna foreclose that mortgage. That should fix Hamilton. And then check with the newspaper. We need to find Hamilton.’
‘I swear he ain’t in Nassau.’
‘Well if he is, one thing’s for sure: sooner or later he’ll show up at his lady friend’s place. So keep a lookout on her.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ said Oakes with a frown. ‘Report back as soon as you’re done.’
There were days when Evelyn imagined she might never leave her bed, drifting in and out of the sanctuary of a dreamless sleep, awakening only long enough to stretch and rearrange the pillows before shutting out all thoughts of the war and Tom and Nils Ericsson and seeking only to sleep … Drawing the soft down comforter around her neck, she curled in an embryonic ball in the warmth of the covers, savouring the cool freshness of the pillow, and slipped back into the nether world between sleeping and waking, dimly conscious of the faint light from the shuttered window while images of the English countryside floated across her mind. Her reverie was suddenly broken by the blare of a delivery truck’s horn. With a sigh, Evelyn opened her eyes to consider the day. The mere thought of rising and dressing filled her with despair; despair – mixed with intense foreboding. Perhaps if she surrendered to her deep, carnal lassitude, curled up in the soft bedcovers, the dilemma would somehow work itself out. Cursing the temptation, she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. As she sat there, feeling the coolness of the hardwood floor on her bare feet, she suddenly felt sick of her indolence, craving the sensation of hot water pouring over her, the scent of lilac soap, and fresh, clean clothes after the long hours abed.
Having slept past noon, it was almost one when Evelyn emerged from her bedroom, appearing, at least outwardly, her old self again, with her dark hair stylishly curled, a touch of make-up, and an attractive pale-blue dress. She sent word for the cook to prepare her a light lunch and settled with a cup of tea at the rattan table on the porch. Warmed by a shaft of bright sunshine, she sorted through a neat bundle of letters until she found a wrinkled envelope with a colourful stamp and Cairo postmark, her husband’s last letter, penned before Christmas. She withdrew the sheets of military stationery and reread the letter. Though the words reflected Dirk’s usual wit and intellect, and he managed to fill several pages with amusing observations, the tone was flat and the content vacuous. Why even write, she wondered? Of course there were military censors, and besides, he wasn’t about to hint at his clandestine activities. Though he ignored it, the Germans were faring badly in North Africa, having been driven by the British all the way back to Tunisia with appalling losses. What would Dirk do if the Germans lost the war? Go home to England as though his secret efforts to aid the enemy had never happened? She doubted it. He was an absolute ideologue, as rigid in his beliefs as the Bolsheviks both of them loathed. She was sure he would skulk away somewhere to some suitable Fascist haven, perhaps in South America. Well, he would have to go without her. She cared not a damn for the bloody Fascists, especially the Nazis, who struck her as ludicrously crude and savage. God, what fools she and Dirk had been at university before the war. With or without him, she was determined to go home to England and the life she’d known. The admission failed to evoke even the slightest twinge of regret. With a sigh, she folded the letter and placed it in the envelope.
Taking a final swallow of tepid tea, Evelyn looked up as Samuel approached the table, with a steaming bowl of soup and an assortment of sandwiches. ‘Anything else, Miz Shawcross?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you.’ She unfolded the linen napkin and removed her grandmother’s cutlery, polished to a fine patina. Alone again with her thoughts, she blew gently over her steaming spoonful of bisque and stared into the leafy green distance, thinking back to the look on Tom’s face as he explained his fear of an imminent German attack. If only there were a way to help him by warning the duke, without risking exposure of her husband. Tom had suggested that she say something to Wallis. So long as no one knew he’d returned to Nassau – or worse, she considered with a flutter in her chest, that he’d seen her – it might be possible.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the telephone. Samuel appeared after a moment and said, ‘You have a call, ma’am. It’s Mister Ericsson.’
Oh, God, she thought desperately. ‘Tell him I’m … No, Samuel, I’ll take the call.’ Tossing her napkin on the table, she rose from her chair and hurried to the living room. Forcing herself to be calm, she picked up the phone and said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Evelyn. I trust I’m not disturbing you.’
‘No.’
‘You’re alone, then?’
‘I’m always alone.’
‘A pity. I thought you might be entertaining your friend Mr Hamilton.’
‘What? Are you mad?’
‘You disappoint me, Evelyn. I should have thought you would have called to tell me he’s back, rather than having to read about it in the newspaper.’
‘In the newspaper?’ she said, fighting panic. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘In this morning’s newspaper, to be precise,’ said Ericsson with a carefully modulated blend of sarcasm and hostility. ‘You haven’t seen the article?’
‘Why, no. I’ve only just—’
‘Hamilton’s announced that he’s proceeding with his hotel and casino project. He’s merely trying to thwart my plans, and I won’t stand for it! Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I swear I had no idea he was here.’
‘Why should I believe you? Don’t you value your husband’s safety? Don’t you know that with one telephone call—’
‘Stop!’ she pleaded. ‘Of course I know. But an article in the local paper about this hotel venture doesn’t mean he’s actually in Nassau.’ Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘If you keep threatening to expose my husband, why should I even lift a finger to help you?’
‘If Hamilton’s here, my men will find him. As for you, I should be very, very careful. If he so much as telephones—’
‘I understand,’ she said calmly. ‘You won’t say anything about Dirk?’
‘For the time being, no. You are both more useful to me alive than … I’m sure you understand. Goodbye, Evelyn.’
‘Goodbye.’ She
hung up with the words echoing in her head: more useful alive … alive. Shivering with a sudden chill, she thought, No. Perhaps more useful dead.
Charley Katz was the sort who fancied himself a natty dresser, a man with style who could turn the heads of the nightclub girls. Strolling the counters at Mason Jennings on Bay Street, he examined the array of accessories laid out under the glass: pearl-inlaid and lapis studs and cufflinks, tortoiseshell combs, sandalwood shaving soap in a china mug next to an ivory-handled straight razor. He smiled at a nickel-plated flask, just the right size for his hip pocket, and a silver money-clip he imagined in his pants pocket, bulging with greenbacks.
‘Is there something I might show you, sir?’
Katz looked up at the sales clerk in his shabby tweed jacket that reeked of tobacco. ‘Nice merchandise,’ said Katz with a smile. He fingered a brightly coloured tie hanging from a carousel on the counter. ‘However … I need to speak to the proprietor.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me. The proprietor. Jennings.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Jennings—’
‘Here.’ Katz reached into his pocket and handed the man a business card.
‘Oh, I see,’ said the clerk, studying the reference to Sir Harry Oakes. ‘Just one moment.’
Within several minutes he returned and said, ‘Mr Jennings wonders if you would see him in his office.’
‘Sure,’ said Katz. He followed the clerk up a badly lit staircase to a garret-like office. The balding storeowner was hunched over his desk, examining a pile of receipts under a green-shaded lamp.
‘Morning, Mr Jennings,’ said Katz as the clerk hurriedly departed. ‘The name’s Katz. Charley Katz.’ Gazing down at Jennings, he ran his fingers over the grainy blond finish of the desk.
Making no motion to offer his hand to his visitor or invite him to sit, Jennings scowled and said, ‘So Oakes sent you. I shoulda figured.’
‘Yeah,’ said Katz with a smile. He hiked up his trouser leg and placed a well-polished oxford on the chair. ‘Sir Harry sent me.’
‘So what does he want? I’m busy, you know.’
Katz leaned down and rested his elbow on his knee, letting his wide, garish tie dangle in front of him. ‘Where’s Hamilton?’ he asked.
‘Who? Oh, Hamilton.’
‘Yeah, Hamilton.’
‘Christ, I dunno. Listen, mister—’
‘Whaddaya mean, you don’t know? You made a deal with the sonofabitch, you took his dough, right? So where is he?’ Taking his foot from the chair, Katz glared menacingly at Jennings, who seemed to shrink.
‘Hey, listen,’ said Jennings nervously. ‘It’s none of your business. Who says you can barge in here—’
‘I says.’ Stepping quickly around the desk, Katz grabbed Jennings by the shoulder and raised his fist. ‘Now tell me where that sonofabitch is,’ he said, ‘before I bust your chops.’
‘I swear I don’t know!’ cried Jennings, raising an arm to ward off the blow. ‘I never laid eyes on him! He ain’t even in Nassau, so far as I know.’
Katz studied Jennings’s face, pleased by his terrified reaction. ‘OK,’ he said casually, lowering his fist and releasing his grip. ‘Let’s get this straight. You never saw Hamilton. But you sold him the property—’
‘I dealt with the lawyer,’ interjected Jennings, his voice quaking. ‘A man named Dobbs,’ he added before Katz could ask. ‘A solicitor here in town.’
‘Who signed the papers?’ asked Katz sceptically.
‘Dobbs signed. He had a power of attorney.’
Katz blinked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘What about the dough?’
‘The dough?’
‘The money! Where’d Dobbs get the money?’
‘He had a cashier’s cheque. From the Royal Bank of Canada….’
‘How much?’
‘What? Oh, I’m not sure I should—’
‘How much?’ growled Katz, raising his fist again.
‘A thousand,’ said Jennings timorously. ‘Ah, the equivalent of a thousand dollars.’
‘A grand?’ said Katz. ‘So he sends his lawyer over here with a, what did you call it?’
‘A power of attorney.’
‘And a cheque for a grand, and, bingo, you make a deal.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Jennings, ‘that’s about it.’
‘So where do I find this Dobbs?’
‘His office is by the courthouse. Harold Dobbs.’
‘OK,’ said Katz, slipping on his fedora and buttoning his suit jacket. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he added with a smile. ‘Nice hat. I’m gonna pay Mr Dobbs a little visit. And meanwhile, keep your trap shut. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ said Jennings meekly. He slowly exhaled as Katz quickly left the office.
Sir Harry Oakes paced in his library, hands clasped behind his back, wearing the pin-striped Savile Row jacket in place of his usual rumpled cardigan. Charley Katz, lounging comfortably with legs crossed in an armchair, looked at him expectantly. ‘Soo,’ Oakes said at last, staring at a print on the panelled wall, ‘Hamilton’s not in Nassau.’
‘Nope,’ said Katz as he twirled his hat in his lap, ‘he ain’t.’
‘You’re certain the lawyer’s telling the truth?’
‘His story jived with Jennings,’ replied Katz, ‘as far as the ah, whaddaya call it, the—’
‘Power of attorney?’
‘Yeah, right. And the cashier’s cheque.’
‘A thousand dollars,’ said Oakes, pausing to stare out the leaded glass window. ‘Nothing but a goddam bribe.’
‘Dobbs swore that each time Hamilton phoned, the call was from Texas. He even called in his gal, and she says, Oh, yessir, the calls were from an operator with a Southern accent.’
‘What about the newspaper?’
‘I checked that angle, too,’ said Katz, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and then thinking better of it. ‘Dobbs gave ’em a press release, which he says Hamilton dictated over the phone.’
‘Hamilton’s smarter than I thought,’ said Oakes, sitting on the edge of the desk and unbuttoning his jacket. ‘Why show his face on the island? I figure he’s on to something with Ericsson, and doesn’t want to take any chances.’
‘But what about the dame?’
‘Who? Oh, Mrs Shawcross.’ Oakes scratched his head. ‘I figured he’d come back to see her, but you never can tell.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Katz.
‘The first thing I’m going to do is foreclose and see what kind of poker player Hamilton is. Meanwhile, keep a close watch on Mrs Shawcross, Charley. My gut tells me something’s happening with Ericsson, and I don’t like it.’
‘OK,’ said Katz, slipping on his hat. ‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ said Oakes curtly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WEARING A FADED pair of shorts, Hamilton clasped his hands around his knees, basking in the hot tropical sun on the pier as he watched a formation of brown pelicans sail low over the waves. He closed his eyes and listened to the cries of the gulls and the gentle surf, thinking about the news from home … another classmate killed, shot down in the South Pacific. Everyone he knew was in the war, in the navy or marines in the Pacific or, like his brother Charles, an infantry officer in North Africa, while he was idling away his days in Nassau. Thinking about Evelyn. He tried to imagine that there was no war, nothing to stop him from driving into town and calling on her at Greycliff. No, he considered, if there were no war, she would be gone, home to England to be with her husband. Opening his eyes just as a pelican dove into the glassy sea, he decided he had to get her out of his mind. Having convinced Donovan to send him back, what more could he do? Maybe he’d bought some time, but he was one man against Ericsson’s well-armed security force, and the rest of the Germans would probably be arriving soon enough. The British, meanwhile, adhered to their indolent colonial routines as if there were no war, keeping the natives in line, and doing little to protect the colony from the threat Ham
ilton believed was imminent.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Shielding his eyes, Hamilton squinted up at the tall, muscular black man. ‘Hello, Carter,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair.’
Carter dropped lightly down on the weathered boards and gently massaged his thigh where a bright pink scar had healed over the bullet wound. ‘Nice day to go fishin’,’ he said with a smile.
‘Fishing?’
‘I’ve been workin’ on the boat. She’s in tip-top shape. Good time of year for bonefish.’
Hamilton studied the man’s handsome features, trying to penetrate his dark eyes. ‘You’re not here to talk about fishing,’ he suggested.
‘Maybe not.’ Carter traced a circle with his finger on the boards. ‘What are you planning to do, Tom?’ he asked after a few moments. ‘It’s got me worried.’
‘It’s got me worried too.’
‘There’s got to be something we can do,’ said Carter in a low voice. ‘Those Germans take over this island, it would be a terrible thing for Sir Philip. And for my people, too.’
Hamilton nodded and said, ‘Yes it would be.’
‘We’ve got a fast boat,’ said Carter, his eyes flashing, ‘and I know where we could get our hands on a 30-calibre machine-gun and a box of grenades.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Hamilton. ‘I admire your courage, but all we’d manage to do is go down in a blaze of glory. Sure, we could shoot up the place, but there’s no way we can head off a German attack.’
Carter hung his head. ‘Then what are we gonna do?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’m working on it,’ said Hamilton, regretting his tone the instant the words left his mouth.
‘I think you ought to ask Sir Philip,’ said Carter. ‘No offence intended.’
‘You’re right,’ said Hamilton. ‘I’m out of ideas.’ Scooping up his shirt, he jumped up and slipped on his leather sandals.