The Cry of the Halidon: A Novel Page 12

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I am here in a political capacity. A solely Jamaican concern. You must respect that condition … and my confidence. I’d deny it anyway, and you would soil your foreigner’s hands in things Jamaican. Ultimately, however, we will control Kingston.”

  “Oh, Christ! Comes the goddamn revolution!”

  “Of a different sort, Mr. McAuliff. Put plainly, I’m a fascist. Fascism is the only hope for my island.”

  10

  McAuliff opened his eyes, raised his wrist from beneath the covers, and saw that it was 10:25. He had intended to get up by 8:30–9:00 at the latest.

  He had a man to see. A man with arthritis at a fish store called Tallon’s.

  He looked over at Alison. She was curled up away from him, her hair sprayed over the sheets, her face buried in the pillow. She had been magnificent, he thought. No, he thought, they had been magnificent together. She had been … what was the word she used? Parched. She had said: “I’m parched and I’ve been to the well …” And she had been.

  Magnificent. And warm, meaningful.

  Yet still the thoughts came back.

  A name that meant nothing to him twenty-four hours ago was suddenly an unknown force to be reckoned with, separately put forward by two people who were strangers a week ago.

  Chatellerault. The Marquis de Chatellerault.

  Currently in Savanna-la-Mar, on the southwest coast of Jamaica.

  Charles Whitehall would be seeing him shortly, if they had not met by now. The black fascist and the French financier. It sounded like a vaudeville act.

  But Alison Booth carried a deadly cylinder in her handbag, in the event she ever had occasion to meet him. Or meet with those who worked for him.

  What was the connection? Certainly there had to be one.

  He stretched, taking care not to wake her. Although he wanted to wake her and hold her and run his hands over her body and make love to her in the morning.

  He couldn’t. There was too much to do. Too much to think about.

  He wondered what his instructions would be. And how long it would take to receive them. And what the man with arthritis at a fish store named Tallon’s would be like. And, no less important, where in God’s name was Sam Tucker? He was to be in Kingston by tomorrow. It wasn’t like Sam to just take his leave without a word; he was too kind a man. And yet, there had been times …

  When would they get the word to fly north and begin the actual work on the survey?

  He was not going to get the answers staring up at the ceiling from Alison Booth’s bed. And he was not going to make any telephone calls from his room.

  He smiled as he thought about the “horrid little buggers” in his suitcase. Were there horrid little men crouched over dials in dark rooms waiting for sounds that never came? There was a certain comfort in that.

  “I can hear you thinking.” Alison’s voice was muffled in the pillow. “Isn’t that remarkable?”

  “It’s frightening.”

  She rolled over, her eyes shut, and smiled and reached under the blankets for him. “You also stretch quite sensually.” She caressed the flatness of his stomach, and then his thighs, and then McAuliff knew the answers would have to wait. He pulled her to him; she opened her eyes and raised the covers so there was nothing between them.

  The taxi let him off at Victoria’s South Parade. The thoroughfare was aptly named, in the nineteenth-century sense. The throngs of people flowing in and out of the park’s entrance were like crowds of brightly colored peacocks, strutting, half acknowledging, quickening steps only to stop and gape.

  McAuliff walked into the park, doing his best to look like a strolling tourist. Intermittently he could feel the hostile, questioning glances as he made his way up the gravel path to the center of the park. It occurred to him that he had not seen a single other white person; he had not expected that. He had the distinct feeling that he was an object, to be tolerated but watched. Not essentially to be trusted.

  He was a strange-toned outsider who had invaded the heart of this Man’s playground. He nearly laughed when a young Jamaican mother guided a smiling child to the opposite side of the path as he approached. The child obviously had been fascinated by the tall, pinkish figure; the mother, quietly, efficiently, knew better. With dignity.

  He saw the rectangular white sign with the brown lettering: QUEEN STREET, EAST. The arrow pointed to the right, at another, narrower gravel path. He started down it.

  He recalled Hammond’s words: Don’t be in a hurry. Ever, if possible. And never when you are making a contact. There’s nothing so obvious as a man in a rush in a crowd that’s not; except a woman. Or that same man stopping every five feet to light the same, cigarette over and over again, so he can peer around at everyone. Do the natural things, depending on the day, the weather, the surroundings.

  It was a warm morning … noon. The Jamaican sun was hot, but there were breezes from the harbor, less than a mile away. It would be perfectly natural for a tourist to sit down and take the sun and the breeze; to unbutton his collar, remove his jacket, perhaps. To look about with pleasant tourist curiosity.

  There was a bench on the left; a couple had just gotten up. It was empty. He took off his jacket, pulled at his tie, and sat down. He stretched his legs and behaved as he thought was appropriate.

  But it was not appropriate. For the most self-conscious of reasons: He was too free, too relaxed in this Man’s playground. He felt it instantly, unmistakably. The discomfort was heightened by an old man with a cane who walked by and hesitated in front of him. He was a touch drunk, thought Alex; the head swayed slightly, the legs a bit unsteady. But the eyes were not unsteady. They conveyed mild surprise mixed with disapproval.

  McAuliff rose from the bench and swung his jacket under his arm. He smiled blankly at the old man and was about to proceed down the path when he saw another man, difficult to miss. He was white—the only other white man in Victoria Park. At least, the only one he could see. He was quite far away, diagonally across the lawns, on the north-south path, about a hundred and fifty yards in the distance.

  A young man with a slouch and a shock of untrained dark hair. And he had turned away. He had been watching him, Alex was sure of that. Following him.

  It was James Ferguson. The young man who had put on the second-best performance of the night at Courtleigh Manor last evening. The drunk who had the presence of mind to keep sharp eyes open for obstacles in a dimly lit room.

  McAuliff took advantage of the moment and walked rapidly down the path, then cut across the grass to the trunk of a large palm. He was nearly two hundred yards from Ferguson now. He peered around the tree, keeping his body out of sight. He was aware that a number of Jamaicans sitting about on the lawn were looking at him; he was sure, disapprovingly.

  Ferguson, as he expected, was alarmed that he had lost the subject of his surveillance. (It was funny, thought Alex. He could think the word “surveillance” now. He doubted he had used the word a dozen times in his life before three weeks ago.) The young botanist began walking rapidly past the brown-skinned strollers. Hammond was right, thought McAuliff. A man in a hurry in a crowd that wasn’t was obvious.

  Ferguson reached the intersection of the Queen Street path and stopped. He was less than forty yards from Alex now; he hesitated, as if not sure whether to retreat back to the South Parade or go on.

  McAuliff pressed himself against the palm trunk. Ferguson thrust forward, as rapidly as possible. He had decided to keep going, if only to get out of the park. The bustling crowds on Queen Street East signified sanctuary. The park had become unsafe.

  If these conclusions were right—and the nervous expression on Ferguson’s face seemed to confirm them—McAuliff realized that he had learned something else about this strange young man: He was doing what he was doing under duress and with very little experience. Look for the small things, Hammond had said. They’ll be there; you’ll learn to spot them. Signs that tell you the
re is valid strength or real weakness.

  Ferguson reached the East Parade gate, obviously relieved. He stopped and looked carefully in all directions. The unsafe field was behind him. The young man checked his watch while waiting for the uniformed policeman to halt the traffic for pedestrians. The whistle blew, automobiles stopped with varying levels of screeches, and Ferguson continued down Queen Street. Concealing himself as best he could in the crowd, Alex followed. The young man seemed more relaxed now. He wasn’t as aggressive in his walk, in his darting glances. It was as though, having lost the enemy, he was more concerned with explanations than with reestablishing contact.

  But McAuliff wanted that contact reestablished. It was as good a time as any to ask young Ferguson those questions he needed answered.

  Alex started across the street, dodging the traffic, and jumped over the curb out of the way of a Kingston taxi. He made his way through the stream of shoppers to the far side of the walk.

  There was a side street between Mark Lane and Duke Street. Ferguson hesitated, looked around, and apparently decided it was worth trying. He abruptly turned and entered.

  McAuliff realized that he knew that street. It was a free-port strip interspersed with bars. He and Sam Tucker had been there late one afternoon a year ago, following a Kaiser conference at the Sheraton. He remembered, too, that there was a diagonally connecting alley that intersected the strip from Duke Street. He remembered because Sam had thought there might be native saloons in the moist, dark brick corridor, only to discover it was used for deliveries. Sam had been upset; he was fond of back-street native saloons.

  Alex broke into a run. Hammond’s warning about drawing attention would have to be disregarded. Tallon’s could wait; the man with arthritis could wait. This was the moment to reach James Ferguson.

  He crossed Queen Street again, now paying no attention to the disturbance he caused, or the angry whistle from the, harassed Kingston policeman. He raced down the block; there was the diagonally connecting alley. It seemed even narrower than he remembered. He entered and pushed his way past half a dozen Jamaicans, muttering apologies, trying to avoid the hard stares of those walking in the opposite direction toward him—silent challenges, grown-up children playing king-of-the-road. He reached the end of the passageway and stopped. He pressed his back against the brick and peered around the edge, up the side street. His timing was right.

  James Ferguson, his expression ferretlike, was only ten yards away. Then five. And then McAuliff walked out of the alley and confronted him.

  The young man’s face paled to a deathly white. Alex gestured him against the stucco wall; the strollers passed in both directions, several complaining.

  Ferguson’s smile was false, his voice strained. “Well, hello, Alex … Dr. McAuliff. Doing a bit of shopping? This is the place for it.”

  “Have I been shopping, Jimbo-mon? You’d know if I had, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you … I wouldn’t—”

  “Maybe you’re still drunk,” interrupted Alex. “You had a lot to drink last night.”

  “Made a bloody fool of myself, I expect. Please accept my apologies.”

  “No apologies necessary. You stayed just within the lines. You were very convincing.”

  “Really, Alex, you’re a bit much.” Ferguson moved back. A Jamaican woman, basket balanced on her head, hurried past. “I said I was sorry. I’m sure you’ve had the occasion to overindulge.”

  “Very often. As a matter of fact, I was a hell of a lot drunker than you last night.”

  “I don’t know what you’re implying, chap, and frankly, my head’s too painful to play anagrams. Now, for the last time, I apologize.”

  “For the wrong sins, Jimbo-mon. Let’s go back and find some real ones. Because I have some questions.”

  Ferguson awkwardly straightened his perennial slouch and whisked away the shock of hair on his forehead. “You’re really quite abusive. I have shopping to do.”

  The young man started to walk around McAuliff. Alex grabbed his arm and slammed him back into the stucco wall. “Save your money. Do it in London.”

  “No!” Ferguson’s body stiffened; the taut flesh around his eyes stretched further. “No, please,” he whispered.

  “Then let’s start with the suitcases.” McAuliff released the arm, holding Ferguson against the wall with his stare.

  “I told you,” the young man whined. “You were having trouble. I tried to help.”

  “You bet your ass I had trouble! And not only with Customs. Where did my luggage go? Our luggage? Who took it?”

  “I don’t know. I swear I don’t!”

  “Who told you to write that note?”

  “No one told me! For God’s sake, you’re crazy!”

  “Why did you put on that act last night?”

  “What act?”

  “You weren’t drunk—you were sober.”

  “Oh, Christ Almighty, I wish you had my hangover. Really—”

  “Not good enough, Jimbo-mon. Let’s try again. Who told you to write that note?”

  “You won’t listen to me—”

  “I’m listening. Why are you following me? Who told you to follow me this morning?”

  “By God, you’re insane!”

  “By God, you’re fired!”

  “No!… You can’t. Please.” Ferguson’s voice was frightened again, a whisper.

  “What did you say?” McAuliff placed his right hand against the wall, over Ferguson’s frail shoulder. He leaned into the strange young man. “I’d like to hear you say that again. What can’t I do?”

  “Please … don’t send me back. I beg you.” Ferguson was breathing through his mouth; spots of saliva had formed on his thin lips. “Not now.”

  “Send you back? I don’t give a goddamn where you go! I’m not your keeper, little boy.” Alex removed his hand from the wall and yanked his jacket from under his left arm. “You’re entitled to return-trip airfare. I’ll draw it for you this afternoon, and pay for one more night at the Courtleigh. After that, you’re on your own. Go wherever the hell you please. But not with me; not with the survey.”

  McAuliff turned and abruptly walked away. He entered the narrow alleyway and took up his position in the line of laconic strollers. He knew the stunned Ferguson would follow. It wasn’t long before he heard him. The whining voice had the quality of controlled hysteria. Alex did not stop or look back.

  “McAuliff! Mr. McAuliff! Please!” The English tones echoed in the narrow brick confines, creating a dissonant counterpoint to the lilting hum of a dozen Jamaican conversations. “Please, wait.… Excuse me, excuse me, please. I’m sorry, let me pass, please …”

  “What you do, mon?! Don’t push me.”

  The verbal objections did not deter Ferguson; the bodily obstructions were somewhat more successful. Alex kept moving, hearing and sensing the young man closing the gap slowly. It was eerily comic: a white man chasing another white man in a dark, crowded passageway that was exclusively—by civilized cautions—a native thoroughfare. McAuliff was within feet of the exit to Duke Street when he felt Ferguson’s hand gripping his arm.

  “Please. We have to talk … not here.”

  “Where?”

  They emerged on the sidewalk. A long, horse-drawn wagon filled with fruits and country vegetables was in front of them at the curb. The sombreroed owner was arguing with customers by a set of ancient scales; several ragged children stole bananas from the rear of the vehicle. Ferguson still held McAuliff’s arm.

  “Go to the Devon House. It’s a tourist—”

  “I know.”

  “There’s an outside restaurant.”

  “When?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  The taxi drove into the long entrance of Devon House, a Georgian monument to an era of English supremacy and white, European money. Circular floral gardens fronted the spotless columns; rinsed graveled paths wove patterns around an immense fountain. The small outdoor restaurant was off to
the side, the tables behind tall hedges, the diners obscured from the front. There were only six tables, McAuliff realized. A very small restaurant; a difficult place in which to follow someone without being observed. Perhaps Ferguson was not as inexperienced as he appeared to be.

  “Well, hello, chap!”

  Alex turned. James Ferguson had yelled from the central path to the fountain; he now carried his camera and the cases and straps and meters that went with it. “Hi,” said McAuliff, wondering what role the young man intended to play now.

  “I’ve got some wonderful shots. This place has quite a history, you know.” Ferguson approached him, taking a second to snap Alex’s picture.

  “This is ridiculous,” replied McAuliff quietly. “Who the hell are you trying to fool?”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing. Please cooperate.” And then Ferguson returned to his play-acting, raising his voice and his camera simultaneously. “Did you know that this old brick was the original courtyard? It leads to the rear of the house, where the soldiers were housed in rows of brick cubicles.”

  “I’m fascinated.”

  “It’s well past elevenses, old man,” continued an enthusiastic, loud Ferguson. “What say to a pint? Or a rum punch? Perhaps a spot of lunch.”

  There were only two other separate couples within the small courtyard restaurant. The men’s straw hats and bulging walking shorts complemented the women’s rhinestoned sunglasses; they were tourists, obviously unimpressed with Kingston’s Devon House. They would soon be talking with each other, thought McAuliff, making happier plans to return to the bar of the cruise ship or, at least, to a free-port strip. They were not interested in Ferguson or himself, and that was all that mattered.

  The Jamaican rum punches were delivered by a bored waiter in a dirty white jacket. He did not hum or move with any rhythmic punctuation, observed Alex. The Devon House restaurant was a place of inactivity. Kingston was not Montego Bay.

  “I’ll tell you exactly what happened,” said Ferguson suddenly, very nervously; his voice once more a panicked whisper. “And it’s everything I know. I worked for the Craft Foundation, you knew all about that. Right?”