by Wilbur Smith
I checked my luggage before I went about tidying up the final loose threads of my plan. I found a flight outwards leaving at 1.20 the following day which suited my timing admirably. I made a single reservation, then I drifted over to the inquiries desk and waited until the pretty little blonde girl in the Swissair uniform was not busy, before engaging her in a long explanation. At first she was adamant, but I gave her the old crinkled eyes and smiled that way, until at last she became intrigued with it all - and giggled in anticipation.
“You sure you’ll be on duty tomorrow?” I asked anxiously. “Yes, Monsieur, don’t worry, I will be here.”
We parted as friends and I retrieved my bag and caught a cab to the Zorich Holiday Inn just down the road. The same hotel where I had sweated out the survival of the Dutch policeman so long ago. I ordered a drink, took a bath and then settled down in front of the television set. It brought back memories.
A little before noon the following day I sat at the airport cafe pretending to read a copy of the Frmilqarw AUgmiene Zeitung and watching the arrivals hall over the top of the page. I had already checked my baggage and my ticket. All I had to do was to go through into the final departure lounge.
I was wearing a new suit purchased that morning of such a bizarre cut and mousy shade of grey, that no one who knew him could believe that Harry Fletcher would be seen in public wearing it. It was two sizes too large for me, and I had padded myself with hotel towels to alter my shape entirely. I had also self-barbered my hair into a short and ragged style and dusted it with talcum powder to put fifteen years on my age. When I peered at my image through goldrimmed spectacles in the mirror of the men’s room, I did not even recognize myself. At seven minutes past one, Sherry North walked in through the main doors of the terminal. She wore a suit of grey checked wool, a full length black leather coat and a small matching leather hat with a narrow businesslike brim. Her eyes were screened by a pair of dark glasses, but her expression was set and determined as she strode through the crowd of tourists.
I felt the sick slide and turn of my guts as I saw all my suspicions and fears confirmed and the newspaper shook in my hands. Following a pace behind and to her side, was the small neatly dressed figure of the man she had introduced to me as Uncle Dan. He wore a tweed cap and carried an overcoat across his arm. More than ever he exuded an air of awareness, the hunter’s alert and confident tread as he followed the girl.
He had four of his men with him. They moved quietly after him, quiet, soberly dressed men with closed watchful faces.
“Oh, you little bitch,” I whispered, but I wondered why I should feel so bitter. I had known for long enough now.
The group of girl and five men stopped in the centre of the hall and I watched dear Uncle Dan issuing his orders. He was a professional, you could see that in the way he staked out the hall for me. He placed his men to cover the arrivals gate and every exit.
Sherry North stood listening quietly, her face neutral and her eyes hidden by the glasses. Once Uncle Dan spoke to her and she nodded abruptly, then when the four strongarm men had been placed, the two of them stood together facing the arrivals gate. Get out now, Harry,” the little warning voice urged me. “Don’t play fancy games. This is the wolf pack all over again. Run, Harry, run.”
Just then the public address-system called the outward flight on which I had made a reservation the previous day. I stood up from the table in my cheap baggy suit and shuffled across to the Inquiries Desk. The little blonde Swissair hostess did not recognize me at first, then her mouth dropped open and her eyes flew wide. She covered her mouth with her. hand and her eyes sparkled with conspiratory glee.
“The end booth,” she whispered, “the end nearest the departures gate.” I winked at her and shuffled away. In the telephone booth I lifted the receiver and pretended to be speaking, but I broke the connection with a finger on the bar and I watched the hall through the glass door.
I heard my accomplice paging.
“Miss. Sherry North, will Miss. North please report to the inquiries desk.”
Through the glass I saw Sherry approach the desk and speak with the hostess. The blonde girl pointed to the booth beside mine and Sherry turned and walked directly towards me. She was screened from Uncle Dan and his merry men by the row of booths.
The leather coat swung gracefully about her long legs, and her hair was glossy black and bouncing on her shoulders at each stride. I saw she wore black leather gloves to hide her injured hand, and I thought she had never looked so beautiful as in this moment of my betrayal.
She entered the booth beside me and lifted the receiver. Swiftly I replaced my own telephone and stepped out of the booth. As I opened her door she looked around with impatient annoyance.
“Okay, you dumb cop - give me a good reason why I shouldn’t break your head,” I said.
“You!” Her expression crumpled, and her hand flew to her mouth.
We stared at each other.
“What happened to the real Sherry North?” I demanded, and the question seemed to steady her.
“She was killed. We found her body - almost unrecognizable - in a quarry outside Ascot.” “Manny Resnick told me he had killed her-_2 I said. “I didn’t believe him. He also laughed at me when I went on board to do a deal with him and Suleiman Dada for your life. I called you Sherry North and he laughed at me and called me a fool.” I grinned at her lopsidedly. “He was right - wasn’t he? I was a fool.”
She was silent then, unable to meet my eyes. I went on talking, confirming what I had guessed.
“So after Sherry North was killed, they decided not to announce her identity - but to stake out the North cottage. Hoping that the killers would return to investigate the new arrival - or that some other patsy would be sucked in and lead them home. They chose you for the stake-out, because you were a trained police diver. That’s right, isn’t it?”
She nodded, still not looking at me.
They should have made sure you knew something about conchology as well. “then you wouldn’t have grabbed that piece of fire coral - and saved me a lot of trouble.”
She was over the first shock of my appearance. Now was the time to whistle for Uncle Dan and his men, if she was going to. She remained silent, her face half-turned away, her cheek flushed with bright blood beneath the dark golden tan.
That first night, you telephoned when you thought I was asleep.
You were reporting to your superior officer that a sucker had walked in. “They told you to play me along. And - oh baby - how you played me.”
She looked at me at last, dark blue eyes snapping with defiance, words seemed to hod behind her closed lips, but she held them back and I went on.
“That’s why you used the back entrance to Jimmy’s shop, to avoid the neighbours who knew Sherry. ““that’s why those two goons of Manny’s arrived to roast your fingers on the gas-ring. They wanted to find out who you were - because you sure as hell weren’t Sherry North. They had killed her.”
I wanted her to speak now. Her silence was wearing my nerves.
“What rank is Uncle Dan - Inspector?”
“Chief Inspector,“she said.
“I had him tabbed the moment I laid eyes on him.”
“If you knew all this, then why did you go through with it?“she demanded.
“I was suspicious at first - but by the time I knew for certain I was crazy stupid in love with you.”
She braced herself, as though I had struck her, and I went on remorselesly.
“I thought by some of the things we did together that you felt pretty good about me. In my book when you love someone, you don’t sell them down the river.”
“I’m a policewoman,” she flashed at me, “and you’re a killer.”
“I never killed a man who wasn’t trying to kill me first,” I flashed back, “just the way you hit Suleiman Dada.”
That caught her off-balance. She stammered and looked about her as if she were in a trap.
“You’re a
thief,” she attacked again.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I was once - but that was a long time ago, and since then I worked hard on it. With a bit of help, I’d have made it.”
“The throne-” she went on, “you are stealing the throne.”
“No, ma’am,” I grinned at her. “What is in the coffin then?”
“Three hundred pounds of beach sand from Turtle Bay. When you see it, think of the times we had there.”
“The throne - where is it?”
“With its rightful owner, the representative of the people of St. Mary’s, President Godfrey Biddle.”
“You gave it up?” she stared at me with disbelief that faded slowly as something else began to dawn in her eyes. “Why, Harry, why?” “Like I said, I’m working hard on it.” Again we were staring hard at each other, and suddenly I saw the clear liquid flooding her dark blue eyes.
“And you came here - knowing what I had to do?” she asked, her voice choking.
“I wanted you to make a choice,” I said, and she let the tears cling like dewdrops in the thick dark eyelashes. I went on deliberately, “I’m going to walk out of this booth and go out through that gate. If nobody blows the whistle I will be on the next flight out of here and the day after tomorrow, I will swim out through the reef to look for the dolphins.”
“They’ll come after you, Harry,” she said, and I shook my head.
“President Biddle has just altered his extradition agreements.
Nobody will be able to touch me on St. Mary’s. I have his word for it.”
I turned and opened the door of the booth. “I’m going to be lonely as all hell out there at Turtle Bay.”
I turned my back on her then and walked slowly and deliberately to the departures gate, just as they called my flight for the second time. It was the longest and scariest walk of my entire life, and my heart thumped in time to my footsteps. Nobody challenged me and I dared not look back.
As I settled into the seat of the Swissair Caravelle and fastened my seat belt, I wondered how long it would take her to screw up her nerve enough to follow me out to St. Mary’s, and I reflected-that there was much I still had to tell her.
I had to tell her that I had contracted to raise the rest of the golden throne from Gunfire Break for the benefit of the people of St. Mary’s. In return President Godfrey Biddle had undertaken to buy me a new deep-sea boat from the proceeds - just like Wave Dancer - a token of the people’s gratitude.
I would be able to keep my lady in the style to which I was accustomed, and of course there was always the case of Georgian silver gilt plate buried behind the shack at Turtle Bay for the lean and hungry off season. I hadn’t reformed that much. There would be no more night runs, however.
As the Caravelle took off and climbed steeply up over the blue lakes and forested mountains, I realized that I did not even know her real name.
That would be the first thing I would ask her when I met her at the airport of St. Mary’s island, - Pearl of the Indian Ocean.
FB2 document info
Document ID: df94491f-e425-4bf0-8bdf-23a6284f7fd7
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 11.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.50, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Wilbur Smith
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