“So what happened?”
“Nothing much, I’m afraid. I waited there ten minutes and nothing happened, but since I was in no hurry I waited a little longer—I’d say fifteen to twenty minutes in all—and finally this car came along from the direction of the city and made the turn into the lane.”
Wallace leaned forward, his interest mounting swiftly. “Did you recognize it?” he demanded even though common sense told him this was unlikely. “Did you see who was in it?”
“A colored man was driving,” Joslyn said. “I think there was someone else with him, but I couldn’t be sure. But I did take down the license number,” he added, and reached round to lift his jacket from the back of the chair. He explored the pockets until he brought forth a small slip of paper. “X-8791,” he said before he put the paper on the table.
Wallace picked it up. There was nothing on it but the penciled number but his mind was busy as he considered what Joslyn had said and the times he had mentioned. He was ready to believe now that this was the car which he had found parked beneath the breadfruit tree the night before, but before he could speculate on this assumption he heard Joslyn sigh.
The sound was loud enough to get his attention. He saw that the older man was looking at something behind him, heard him say: “Oh, dear,” in distressed tones. He felt a brush of cool air on his cheek as one of the glass doors opened and then Ann was standing there watching him, her eyes obscured by dark glasses.
15
Dave Wallace’s first reaction as he and Joslyn stumbled to their feet was one of pleasurable surprise, and the chain reaction which followed brought an inner glow that was warm and exciting. Then, as his mind began to function, he felt a quick thrust of annoyance that hovered on the verge of anger.
“You were supposed to stay home,” he snapped and looked accusingly at Joslyn. “You knew she was in town all the time.”
Joslyn threw up his hands and took a deep breath. “She is a very headstrong girl, my boy. You might as well get used to it. When she makes up her mind—”
“But we agreed—” Wallace interrupted and was in turn cut off.
“Oh, stop it!”
Ann looked severely from one to the other, standing very straight in her thin, tailored tan dress, her chestnut hair shiny. Her tan arms and legs were bare, she wore brown-and-white spectator pumps, and her smooth round chin was set at a determined angle.
“Do you think I can sit out in the country all alone and worry myself to death? Do you? And anyway,” she added crisply, “what’s wrong with me meeting my uncle here? I did my shopping and had my solitary lunch and—”
“You see what I mean?” Joslyn said.
“Well, all right,” Wallace said, knowing further argument would be futile and loving her more than ever in her defiance. “You’re here. The damage is done.”
“What damage?” Ann said. 'The police are going to know about me eventually. I want to know what happened. I want to help. There must be something I can do.”
“All right, dear,” Joslyn said indulgently and his bespectacled smile was proud and understanding. “I’ll leave you in David’s capable hands. You keep the car and—”
“No, please.”
“I insist. I’m perfectly capable of riding the bus to Sangre Grande and hiring a car from there. I’ve done it before, you know.”
Wallace, watching them argue, found that he had no further capacity to protest. He would have liked to have put his arms about her waist and squeezed hard and kissed the tip of her cute brown nose. To stifle the impulse lest she think he approved of her behavior, he shrugged deliberately and kept his voice gruff.
“Have it your own way. What do you want to do?”
“Whatever you’re doing. And please don’t sulk,” she added loftily.
“I’m not sulking. I’m thinking.” Wallace opened one of the glass doors. “You two go ahead while I take care of the check. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Ann was waiting alone in the shade of the entryway when Wallace reached the street level. “Sidney’s off to get his bus,” she said before she could be questioned. “He doesn’t approve of me any more than you do.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In that place on Marine Square. Where’s yours?”
“Probably not far from yours but where I’m going I can walk. It’s only a couple of blocks.”
“And where is that?”
“I want to see a man named Sam Lee Fong.”
“The one who owns the restaurant and the novelty store?” She frowned as she finished. “But why, darling?”
“Because he knows as much about this island and what goes on here as anyone in town.”
“But why can't I—”
“Because you cant. Damn it all, Ann, this is no game. I'm grasping at straws. I'm hoping Sam Lee can give me a line on that private detective from Barbados. He has a shop in Bridgetown like the one he has on Charlotte Street. He goes over there once a month for two or three days. There’s a long chance that he might know who this Leon Doucette is.”
“All right, darling,” she said, as though recognizing the validity of his concern and growing impatience. “If I've talked too much put it down to a bad attempt to bolster my courage.” Her lip quivered before a forced smile took over. “I'm scared too.”
She put her hand on his arm and squeezed and Wallace felt a quick thrust of guilt. Before he could reply she said:
“I’ll wait in the car. I'll be looking for you if you'll walk out on Marine Square. I’ll toot my horn. . . .”
Like the Oasis, Lee Fong’s restaurant was on the second floor. It also served food and drink but here the similarity ended. Instead of chrome and glass and black painted walls, the decor at Lee Fong’s was basically wood. The walls were dark-paneled, the booths sturdily constructed, and the lighting came from shaded lamps. In place of air-conditioning there were enormous, four-bladed fans suspended from the ceiling so that the interior, if not cool, was pleasant.
The bulk of the luncheon trade had departed when Dave Wallace spoke to the Chinese girl behind the cashier’s desk and asked if he could see Sam Lee Fong. Without waiting for an answer, he moved to one of the empty front booths, and while he waited his mind went back to the afternoon when he had first met the proprietor.
Although he had never become addicted to tea drinking, there were times in New York when he would send the office boy out in the late afternoon for a carton of tea. He found it a pleasant change from coffee and it seemed to give him the sort of lift that enabled him to put in another couple of hours of work. It was a similar impulse that had brought him here one afternoon shortly after he had arrived.
He had been sketching along the water front, and when he finished, his wanderings had brought him outside the entrance on the street below. He had been looking for a suitable place to sit down and have some non-alcoholic refreshment and the sign reminded him of other afternoons in New York when he had found tea a welcome break in his work. Not knowing just what to expect, he had climbed the stairs and found a booth in the almost empty room. It was then that he noticed the little girl who was sitting in almost the same booth he now occupied, and something about her face and the way she sat so quietly intrigued him. When he had ordered his tea and cakes from the waiter, he got out his sketch pad and set to work.
He guessed her age to be about twelve and she was wearing what appeared to be a school uniform. Her dress was dark blue with white trim, her socks were knee-length, and on the bench beside her was a round straw hat with an upturned brim, a continuation of black band making a ribbon which hung over the back. Something about her very stillness and the way the light struck her young face appealed to him and he had worked quickly and well. The tea grew strong in the pot before he finished, but he was secretly pleased with the charcoal sketch and felt that he had produced a likeness that had both simplicity and charm.
He was still examining his work when he noticed the stocky, well-dressed Chinese who was standi
ng politely to one side, his glance fastened on the drawing.
“Pardon me,” he said when he got Wallace’s attention. “I am Sam Lee Fong. You find my daughter an interesting subject?”
“She’s a very pretty girl.'' Wallace tore the sheet from his pad. “Would you like it?”
Remembering the incident now, and seeing Lee Fong walking toward him from the back of the room, Wallace was reminded again that this was the only time he had seen the man display any outward sign of emotion. The normally bland and inscrutable face had smiled openly that day after the first moment of surprise; the dark eyes which were usually masked by rather thick glasses came quickly alight. Good manners made him protest the offer but his love for his daughter could not be denied. This and Wallace’s insistence made him accept and the next time, when Wallace came for dinner at Lee Fong’s invitation, Lee Fong had proudly displayed the sketch, which by then had been handsomely framed. Now, stopping by the booth, Lee Fong made a small bow and gave Wallace a formal handshake.
“I have heard the sorrowful and distressing news, Mr. Wallace,” he said. “At a time like this there is little one can say, but I wish to express my deepest sympathy.”
Wallace thanked him as he considered the broad high-cheek-boned face and the thick gray-black hair. Somehow he was not surprised that Lee Fong had heard the news but when he had thanked him he said:
“How did you know?”
“I have lived here all my fife, Mr. Wallace. I have a few friends and many acquaintances, some at Police Headquarters.”
“Do you know the details?”
“No details. Only that your wife was killed sometime during the night and her body discovered this morning. If there is anything I can do—”
“There may be,” Wallace said as he remembered the drink Lee Fong had bought him at the Tavern the night before. “You know Neil Benedict and Nick Rand and Joe Anderson.”
“I know Mr. Benedict and Mr. Rand. I know who Mr. Anderson is but nothing more.”
Wallace explained that he and Fay had had dinner at the Tavern the night before. “We left a little before nine,” he said. “You hadn’t come in yet, had you?”
“A few minutes after, I think.”
“Were Rand or Benedict or Anderson at the bar then?”
“Mr. Anderson and Mr. Rand left a few minutes before you returned. You must have just missed Mr. Benedict.”
“I saw him leaving as I drove in,” Wallace said as he tried to associate the approximate times mentioned with others that were still in the back of his mind.
“You said you had friends at Headquarters,” he added as he took out the slip of paper on which Sidney Joslyn had penciled the license number X-8791. “Do you think you could find out who owns that car?”
“I will try.” Lee Fong slid from the booth. “Excuse me, please.”
He walked over to a wall telephone which stood in an alcove beyond the cashier’s desk. When he came back he returned the slip of paper.
“It will take two or three minutes but I do not expect any difficulty. Is there anything else?”
“There could be,” Wallace said. “If I’m lucky. You have a store in Bridgetown, Barbados, like the one you have here, don’t you?”
“For many years.”
“And you go over there once a month or so to check on it.”
“About once a month—when I can manage it. I like Barbados. It makes a nice change. As you know, there are no good beaches near Port-of-Spain. In Barbados there are miles of them. Very lovely. The bathing is delightful in many places. Also”—the suggestion of a smile touched the comers of his mouth—“in the evening there are interesting places to go for the man who travels alone.”
Wallace took the business card he had removed from his wife’s wallet the night before, and pushed it across the table. “Have you ever heard of this man? Is there anything at all that you know about him?”
Lee Fong picked the card up and read aloud: “Leon Doucette. Private Investigations.” He put the card back on the table and turned his head, his bespectacled gaze fastening at some point at the end of the room. “I think I have heard of him ” he said finally. “Unfortunately, I have no personal knowledge of the man or his work. However,” he added as his eyes came back to Wallace, “there is a man here who may be able to help you.”
“Ahh—” Wallace said as a flicker of new hope made itself felt.
“It is only a possibility,” Lee Fong warned. “But the one I had in mind was for many years a police detective in Port-of- Spain. He now works privately. He has been employed from time to time by local merchants when they find too much merchandise disappearing. Also there is divorce work to be done here, just as in the States.”
He took a wallet from his hip pocket and extracted a business card. He turned this face down on the table, found a ballpoint pen in his breast pocket, and began to print a name and address. When he offered the card Wallace read the name aloud just as Lee Fong had done.
“Hassan Rahmat . . . An East Indian?”
Lee Fong nodded and put his wallet and pen away. “His office is just around the corner from Henry Street. A stairway next to a radio and appliance shop will take you to it.”
Wallace thanked him and again Lee Fong allowed himself a faint smile. “Rahmat is not a man who gives information for nothing,” he said. “But if you will show him my card and he understands that I sent you he will perhaps be more generous this time.”
The telephone rang as he finished and again he slid from the booth and walked quickly to the alcove. As he picked up the phone, Wallace came to his feet and moved toward the entrance. He could not hear what Lee Fong said and when he hung up and came forward there was nothing on his face to indicate whether the news was good or bad.
“Any luck?”
“Oh, yes. The number you gave me has been assigned to your friend Mr. Anderson. . . .”
Wallace found the appliance shop without difficulty but Henry Street was a one-way affair and there was no parking place available. It had been decided when he had located Ann’s car in the Marine Square parking place that it would be a lot easier to ride together and she was at the wheel as they pulled to a stop and she asked how long he would be.
“If he’s in,” Wallace said, “probably not more than three or four minutes.”
“Then I’ll go round the block. If I can find a place here or in the next square I’ll take it. If you don’t find me wait here until I pick you up.”
The small blackboard nailed to the wall at the foot of the narrow stairs listed the four tenants on the floor above as two solicitors, an accountant, and Hassan Rahmat, no occupation specified. His office, number four, was at the right rear and Wallace stepped into a cluttered room whose chief features were a battered and ancient rolltop desk and a bulky sport-shirted man who sat in the swivel chair behind it.
In the moment of mutual inspection while Rahmat’s dark eyes assessed him, Wallace saw a round plump face topped by thinning gray hair that was fast receding. The brows were heavy over the speculating eyes, the sport shirt was worn outside the somewhat wrinkled tan slacks but the brown shoes were polished.
“Mr. Rahmat?” Wallace said as he sat down in a cane-seated chair without being asked.
“That’s right, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to get some information about a private detective from Barbados named Leon Doucette.” He offered Lee Fong’s card. “Sam Lee Fong said you could probably help me.”
Rahmat took the card. He was still watching Wallace but when he realized that nothing more would be offered he looked at both sides of the card.
“Doucette?” he said finally. “Oh, yes. A colleague of mine. We meet occasionally.”
“Does he ever come to Port-of-Spain?”
“I believe so.”
“Where do you think he might stay?”
“Do you have reason to believe he’s in town now, sir?”
“It’s a possibility.”
; “Mmm.” Rahmat bunched his lips and glanced out the one window. He tipped back in the swivel chair and crossed his arms. “I would say at the Victoria or possibly the Flamingo.” Wallace had heard of neither hotel, but this was not surprising since he doubted that Doucette would be sufficiently affluent to patronize the Hillside or the Brittany or the Queens Park. In any case the hotels mentioned could be easily located in a phone book and he was getting ready to depart when Rahmat stopped him.
“You’re Mr. Wallace, aren’t you?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I did a bit of work for your wife.”
Wallace leaned forward slowly, his mouth open and his blue eyes startled and disturbed. Instinct told him that this was not just an idle statement even though he could not yet understand how such a thing could be. Aware that he was staring, he tried to put aside the growing confusion in his mind. “Lately?”
“Not lately. This was around the middle of February, I believe.”
Wallace tried to think what he had been doing during that time and then gave up when he realized it was not important. The only thing that mattered was that at that time Fay had already been in residence at the bungalow for more than a month and his affair with Ann was in full blossom. Thinking again of the man named Leon Doucette and the theory that had come to him, he found it hard to understand Rahmats part in the picture.
“What did she want?”
Rahmat’s smile revealed yellowing teeth and there was a sly look in his eyes.
“It was your wife who engaged me,” he reminded Wallace. “You must understand that the relations between client and private detective are confidential. I suppose it would do no harm,” he added, the smile fading but the look in the eyes unchanged, “to say that I was only occupied with your case for a week or so.”
Rahmat waited, the eyes veiled now, a vestige of a smile on the wide mouth, his body at ease. Something about his attitude held Wallace’s attention as his mind grew speculative and he was reminded of a statement Lee Fong had made that the detective seldom gave out information for nothing. Very deliberately then he reached for his wallet. With the same deliberation he put two ten-dollar bills on the near corner of the desk. He kept his fingertips on them, making the gesture obvious, and he was pleased to see that Rahmat’s gaze had followed every move.
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