The monstrous bird with the glistening wings nosed toward a landing strip. It bounced twice on macadam and its tires shrieked as they left a puffy wake of acrid, smoldering rubber. Like a beaten eagle, the plane taxied to a rolling ramp, trembled, spluttered, and whined as its four propellors ceased beating the air.
Parked near the airdrome were half a dozen old taxicabs. Salt, sun, and dust had long since removed their gloss—with one exception. Dudley’s 1942 Chevrolet looked almost as bright as the day it had left the factory. The reason was obvious. Even now, as sweat dripped from his forehead, Dudley applied wax and vigorously polished the glabrous hood of the old car. In the trunk, he had several cans of touch-up paint, bottles of heavy oil, cans of grease, and plastic containers of water. The Chevrolet, purchased from a tourist in 1947 for two hundred hard-earned banana-picking pounds—or about five hundred and sixty American dollars—was his pride and joy. As he rubbed, Dudley sang softly, rhythmically:
Carry me ackee gone o’ Linstead Market,
Not a quattie wort’ sell;
Lard, what a night, not a bite,
What a Saturday night!
He counted passengers as they stepped down the ramp. There were forty-seven. More than half of them were obviously tourists, which made this a very good flight indeed for an off-season August day. The passengers looked uncomfortable as they emerged from an air-conditioned cabin into a ninety-degree furnace, donning sun glasses and mopping foreheads.
Dudley shaded his eyes with the palm of a hand. The noontime sun, reflecting on concrete paving, magnified the red texture of his dark skin. He was humbly proud of that color because it marked him as a true Jamaican, a descendant of Arawaks and a member of the proud but obsessively primitive Maroon tribe. Dudley, however, contrary to the mores of most of his friends and kin, had chosen to face civilization and its complex problems rather than retreat to the weird mountain fastnesses near Accompong.
Now the passengers were claiming their baggage and most of the cab drivers, their eyes gleaming like freshly minted Yankee silver dollars, were eagerly bargaining with tourists, offering “special” hourly, daily or weekly rates.
Not so Dudley. He merely stood stiffly at attention beside his shining car, which had two doors open. He smiled and nodded at all new arrivals who came within nodding range but he refused—as always—to take any part in the mad scramble for fares.
The mild-mannered man who elbowed his way through the crowd, clinging to an arm of a woman with reddish hair and blue eyes, spotted the gleaming cab. The man carried a leather attaché case.
“You free?” he inquired, glancing quickly at Dudley.
“Yes, sir,” Dudley said courteously. “Climb right in, sir. Where are your bags?” He spoke with a distinct British accent.
“Over on the rack,” the man said. “Two large brown suitcases. On each of them are the initials A. A.”
Dudley reached out a hand for the attaché case but the man shook his head. “This I carry with me—always. Remember that.”
Dudley got the bags and deposited them in the trunk of the cab. He closed the curb-side doors, climbed behind the driver’s seat, pressed the foot starter, and the engine purred smoothly.
“The Myrtle Bank Hotel, sir?” Dudley asked, glancing over his right shoulder. Virtually all tourists checked in at the Myrtle Bank Hotel in Kingston to freshen up and arrange itineraries.
“It’s hot as hell,” the woman said irritably. “Get moving.”
Dudley started driving as the man replied, “Just tour around Kingston for a while until we make up our minds. We neglected to make reservations. Do you suppose there are any vacancies in good mountain lodges—about three thousand feet up—above the heat and mosquito level?”
Dudley nodded. “I daresay, sir. This morning I brought down four departing guests from the Casa Carib. It is about four thousand feet up in the Blue Mountains. The accommodations are excellent, the food is very fine, and the view is beautiful. The temperature averages about sixty-six degrees. It is an ideal place for a man and a woman to get lost.”
“What do you mean—lost?” The man sounded startled.
Dudley gestured laconically with his left hand. “Lost from all this, sir. The crowds, the traffic, the police whistles and horns.”
“You speak very good English.” Now the man sounded relieved. “You must have attended school.”
Dudley nodded and his chest expanded. “Thank you, sir. My parents were quashies—peasants. They had nothing. It is very unpleasant, having nothing.”
“So you decided to do something about it?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir. As a child, I used to drive out to the airport with a friendly cab driver. I did many odd jobs. When the University of the West Indies was founded in 1949 I became a charter member of night-school classes.” Dudley chuckled. “I also became the charter janitor.”
* * *
—
The woman, glancing out of the cab window onto crowded Harbour Street, said icily, “Through these islands entered integration. I suppose you belong to the country club, too.”
Dudley spoke quietly. “Hardly, mistress.”
“Don’t call me mistress!” the woman said belligerently, holding out her right hand. A diamond sparkled. “We’ve been duly wed for seven stupid years.”
“Easy, Linda,” the man said. “It’s an island custom. Married women are known as mistresses.”
She spoke harshly. “Damn the island customs! Damn the island, too! Now what do we do? Go and sit on top of a mountain and twiddle our thumbs for a couple of months?”
Arthur Anders, observing the veins bulging in Dudley’s neck, said softly but firmly, “Perhaps you’d prefer to be laundering at Leavenworth. I warn you again, Linda—be careful what you say. You are on British soil, and Jamaicans, for the most part, are highly loyal subjects. I am sure you possess enough intelligence to realize that, as my hostess and confidential secretary, you are involved as an accessory before and after.”
Dudley cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir—mistress. We are now driving past the government buildings on Duke Street. Over yonder, where the coconut palms grow high, are the offices of the United States consular representative. Almost next door are the offices of the Cuban and Colombia consular representatives.”
“Interesting,” Arthur Anders said. He chuckled. “And tell me, where is the Khrushchev Club?”
“Jamaica,” Dudley replied, “does not have consular headquarters for the Russians, so far as I know, sir.”
Again Anders chuckled. “So you play cards with Fidel but Nikita is merely a kibitzer? ’Twas ever thus.”
“I fear I do not understand.”
“What is your name?” Anders asked.
“Dudley, sir.”
“Dudley what?”
“Quashies rarely have second names, sir. It makes little difference. Sometimes they adopt the name of the owner of the banana or sugar cane plantations where they work. In my case, my parents and I worked for Sir Edward Dudley.”
“I see.” Anders hesitated. “Dudley, you might be helpful to me. We expect to be here for six weeks. What would you charge to serve as our private chauffeur, on a round-the-clock basis?”
“Fifteen pounds a week, sir. Plus fuel and room and board in servants’ quarters wherever you lodge.”
“I like to work in round figures,” Anders replied, “without so many extra shillings for this and farthings for that. I’ll pay you fifty American dollars a week for six weeks. Is it a deal?”
“That will be quite satisfactory, sir.”
“The name is Anders. Arthur Anders.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Anders. Now would you and Mistress Anders like, perhaps, to visit the straw market or enjoy tall planter’s punches at one of the better pubs?”
Linda spoke spitefully. “Take us out of this stin
king town and up into the mountains. Now!”
“Yes, mistress.” Dudley spoke quietly. “You will pardon me, please, but the town does not stink. Our island, as a whole, is a poor one. There is great poverty and much unemployment. But our people are clean and decent. Patient, too, I daresay.”
“Take us up to the Casa Carib, Dudley,” Anders ordered. “Mrs. Anders is tired and nervous. We had a bumpy flight.”
Dudley made a quick left turn on to a black-top road. He drove rapidly but professionally through the city, resting an elbow on the horn button at every intersection. Twice Anders closed his eyes and clenched his fists as he waited for a crash. Then he came to realize that it was the driver with the loudest horn and fastest pick-up who managed to navigate successfully in Kingston.
They passed through several small, squalid villages. The black-top road ended abruptly and now they were climbing sharply up the mountain over a winding limestone road so narrow that no two cars could pass except at intervals of about a mile where the trail would widen briefly. Now and then, they would speed through dark tunnels, tropically and splendidly beautiful with the lush vegetation from alluvial pockets, and they could hear the wild, weird, rhythmic sound of water cascading over towering cliffs.
“Yonder,” Dudley said, pointing to a magnificent tree with decorative hanging clusters of capsular fruits, “is one of our Ackee trees. Very good fruit. Mashed with beef, pork, and onions, it makes very good soup.”
“How much further?” the woman asked.
“Four, perhaps five miles, mistress. The Blue Mountains are very steep. We must wind around and up.”
* * *
—
Half an hour later, they emerged into a level clearing where the air was cool and invigorating and the view of Kingston and its busy harbor fairly breathtaking. Dudley braked the car to a halt at the steps of a structure that was architecturally British yet which resembled a stateside split-level ranch house built into the side of a mountain.
A tall, thin, agile man, carrying an armful of late-blooming cassias, stepped blithely down the steps from a wide verandah and greeted his new guests.
“Harry Chalmers, at your service,” he said cheerfully, opening a car door. “Welcome aboard. Had my binoculars on you as you wound up the trail. Sorry Mrs. Chalmers is not with me. A bit under the weather, you know.”
He helped Linda out of the car and presented her with the bouquet. She murmured her thanks. Then he shook hands firmly with Anders, who said, “My wife, Linda, Mr. Chalmers. I am Arthur Anders. I trust you have a vacancy.”
Chalmers nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Off season, you know. Four guests departed this morning. Only two other couples here. Honeymooners.” Chalmers chuckled. “We see very little of them. We have a nice chalet overlooking the city, with twin beds, a tub and facilities for preparing snacks. Dudley, take their luggage over to the Mango Chalet. The door is open. Mrs. Anders, Mr. Anders, follow me. I shall order a fresh pot of tea while you register.”
“Dudley,” Anders said sharply, “the attaché case. I’ll take it. It always stays with me. Remember?”
“Yes, sir,” Dudley said.
Linda yawned. “I don’t like tea. I really think I need a drink and a shower. I’ll go with Dudley.”
Chalmers looked apologetic.
“Shower?” he said. “I regret we have never installed showers. What a pity. But I shall have Matilda, our house girl, draw you a warm tub immediately.”
“You got a swimming pool?” Linda asked irritably.
Chalmers nodded. “Yes, indeed. A charming pool. Fed by mountain springs.” He smiled. “A bit on the coolish side for you statesiders. About sixty degrees. But invigorating. Most definitely.”
“I’ll bet,” Linda said, trailing after Dudley. “Invigorating like an ice cube down your back.”
“Don’t mind her,” Anders said, as Linda and Dudley vanished around a corner. “Long flight. Bumped into some squalls—all that sort of business.”
“I understand,” Chalmers said pleasantly. “Understand perfectly, old man. Sudden changes of altitude, too, you know. Such things are sometimes temporarily bothersome to newcomers. Tomorrow, she’ll feel like a new woman….Here—over this way. Here is the registry book. The rate for the Mango Chalet, double occupancy, is ten pounds a day. This includes dinner at sevenish each evening in the Manor House. Most guests prepare their own breakfasts. You’ll find the refrigerator adequately supplied. Then they tour the island, visiting our historic spots, and return for dinner.”
Anders merely grunted. He was registering with care. At a New York hotel, he had made the dangerous mistake of signing correctly, “Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Anderson.”
“I’ll pay you two weeks in advance,” Anders said crisply, laying four one hundred dollar bills on the desk. Chalmers studied his signature, counted the bills twice, and gave him eight American dollars in change.
“Now for a spot of tea, Mr. Anders?” Chalmers suggested, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Or perhaps you might prefer scotch and soda?”
Anders shook his head. “Thanks. I’ll take a rain check.”
Chalmers looked bewildered.
“I mean,” Anders said, laughing, “I’ll accept the invitation after I have freshened up and discussed plans with my wife.”
“Most certainly,” said Chalmers. “Delighted to have you, any time. By the way, Mango Chalet is so named because it rests beneath a large mango tree. If, during the night, you hear thumps on the roof, do not be alarmed. Occasionally, when breezes gust, mangoes drop.”
“Glad it’s not a coconut tree,” Anders said jovially.
A bland-faced, uniformed Jamaican maid was leaving the chalet as Anders entered. She bowed her head.
“The mistress is in the tub, sir,” she said. “Dudley has gone to the servants’ quarters. On the table in the breakfast nook are two hand bells. All you need do for service is step out on the verandah, ring the small bell for me, the larger one for Dudley.”
“Thank you,” Anders said, admiring her figure as she left. Inside the chalet, he heard Linda splashing in the tub and singing. The words were slightly slurred. Anders suspected she had company in the tub: a bottle. In recent years, her capacity for alcohol had numbed her boudoir bounteousness not to mention her executive reliability. They were heading, Anders often thought, for the point of no return.
“Linda,” Anders called. “Are you all right? It’s Arthur.”
He heard her giggle. “Isn’t it a crying shame. I thought maybe it was Dudley. He does look like Belafonte, doesn’t he?”
“I want to talk to you,” Anders said.
“Come on in. Bring Belafonte and Mr. Chalmers and Matilda. We’ll have a hootenanny.”
* * *
—
Angrily, Anders opened the bathroom door. The place was quaintly decorated, to put it mildly. Someone had converted an old rum vat into a tub. Linda was sitting in the tub, well lathered with suds and bourbon. A half-empty bottle rested precariously on the edge of the bathtub.
“On top of Old Smokey,” she sang. “All covered with booze…”
“Damn it, Linda! Are you going to start this nonsense again?”
She looked at him with innocent blue eyes and blew an alcoholic bubble. “What else is there to do, darling—on top of Old Smokey? Twiddle our thumbs or pick pineapples or peel bananas? You tell me.”
“Look,” he said, swallowing his anger, “we’ve almost got it made. This is a nearly perfect hideout. About a month from now, after I’m sure we haven’t been tailed, we’ll fly to Caracas.”
“Caracas,” she said, imitating him. “Polly want a Caracas. But Linda wants out—back to New York where the lights are brighter and the martinis dryer.”
“You’ll like Caracas,” he said quietly. “Lots of life and laughter. And from what I gather, by the
time we get there, the Commies will be running the show in Venezuela. I’ll be on top. We’ll take vacations in Mexico City and Acapulco.”
“Have you gathered anything else—like dough?” Linda demanded in a bitter voice.
“I’m moving cautiously. Our money—one hundred thousand dollars—lies just four thousand feet below us in the vault of the Bank of Nova Scotia. Within the next few days, I’ll contact Señor Cabrera of the Cuban consulate. I’ll turn the papers over to him. He’ll present them to the Soviet agent. We’ll get our money, and after a cooling off period, we’ll be on our way to South America.”
She pouted. “Linda doesn’t like Jamaica. Linda doesn’t want South America. Linda wants New York—and out.”
“You’re in too damn deep to ever get out,” he said savagely.
She laughed and wagged a pink finger at him. “Arthur’s been a naughty boy,” she said. “What would they say on Pennsylvania Avenue if Linda went back and told them how naughty?”
Anders shrugged. “It’s as I told you. If you like the idea of laundering at Leavenworth, go on back to the states. You’re hooked good. Don’t forget it.”
He walked out of the bathroom.
“Don’t stumble over any cliffs, darling,” he heard Linda call out, and simultaneously, someone knocked softly on the front door. He opened it abruptly.
“Pardon me, sir,” Dudley said, handing him a fur neckpiece. “The mistress left this in the car.”
“Thanks,” Anders said ungraciously. He tossed the neckpiece on a chair. But as Dudley started to leave, he spoke again. “Dudley, I understand there are some mountain trails for tourists around here. Would you show me where they start?”
“Gladly, sir. Just follow me.”
They walked behind the chalet and through a forest of mango and ebony trees. They reached a narrow limestone trail which afforded a spectacular view of the British cantonment, Newcastle, high in the mountains. The trail snaked perilously close to a precipice and a portion of it was sturdily fenced off with lignum vitae wood. Anders rested his arms on the fence.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 133