The Cry of the Halidon (19 page)

It was not quite real.

There were three other customers: a couple and a single woman. The couple was at the far end of the store, studying labels on the shelves; the woman was ordering from a list, being overly precise, arrogant.

McAuliff approached the counter and spoke the words he had been instructed to speak.

“A friend in Santo Domingo told me you had north-coast trout.”

The light-skinned black man behind the white wall barely looked at Alex, but within that instant there was recognition. He bent down, separating shellfish inside the case, and
answered casually. Correctly. “We have some freshwater trout from Martha Brae, sir.”

“I prefer saltwater trout. Are you sure you can’t help me?”

“I’ll see, sir.” The man shut the case, turned, and walked down a corridor in the wall behind the counter, a passageway Alex assumed led to large refrigerated rooms.

When a man emerged from a side door within the corridor, McAuliff caught his breath, trying to suppress his astonishment. The man was black and slight and old; he walked with a cane, his right forearm still, and his head trembled slightly with age.

It was the man in Victoria Park: the old man who had stared at him disapprovingly in front of the bench on the Queen Street path.

He walked to the counter and spoke, his voice apparently stronger than his body. “A fellow saltwater trout lover,” he said, in an accent more British than Jamaican, but not devoid of the Caribbean. “What are we to do with those freshwater aficionados who cost me so much money? Come, it is nearly closing. You shall have your choice from my own selection.”

A hinged panel of the butcher-block counter was lifted by the light-skinned attendant in the striped apron. Alex followed the arthritic old man down the short corridor and through a narrow door into a small office that was a miniature extension of the expensive outer design. The walls were paneled in fruitwood; the furniture was a single mahogany desk with a functional antique swivel chair, a soft leather couch against the wall, and an armchair in front of the desk. The lighting was indirect, from a lone china lamp on the desk. With the door closed, Alex saw oak file cabinets lined against the inner wall. Although the room was confining in size, it was eminently comfortable—the isolated quarters of a contemplative man.

“Sit, Mr. McAuliff,” said the proprietor of Tallon’s, indicating the armchair as he hobbled around the desk and sat down, placing his cane against the wall. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“You were in Victoria Park this morning.”

“I did not expect you then. To be quite frank, you startled me. I’d been looking at your photograph minutes before I took my stroll. From nowhere the face of this photograph was in front of my eyes in Victoria.” The old man smiled and gestured with his palms up, signifying unexpected coincidence. “Incidentally, my name is Tallon. Westmore Tallon. We’re a fine old Jamaican family, as I’m sure you’ve been told.”

“I hadn’t, but one look at your … fish store would seem to confirm it.”

“Oh, yes. We’re frightfully expensive, very exclusive. Private telephone number. We cater only to the wealthiest on the island. From Savanna to Montego to Antonio and Kingston. We have our own delivery service—by private plane, of course.… It’s most convenient.”

“I should think so. Considering your extracurricular activities.”

“Which, of course, we must never consider to the point of discussion, Mr. McAuliff,” replied Tallon quickly.

“I’ve got several things to tell you. I expect you’ll transmit the information and let Hammond do what he wants.”

“You sound angry.”

“On one issue, I am. Goddamned angry … Mrs. Booth. Alison Booth. She was manipulated here through Interpol. I think that smells. She made one painful—and dangerous—contribution. I should think you people would let her alone.”

Tallon pushed his foot against the floor, turning the silent antique swivel to his right. He aimlessly reached over for his cane and fingered it. “I am merely a … liaison, Mr. McAuliff, but from what I understand, no pressure was exerted on you to employ Mrs. Booth. You did so freely. Where was the manipulation?”

Alex watched the small, arthritic man toy with the handle of the cane. He was struck by the thought that in some strange way Westmore Tallon was like an artist’s composite of Julian Warfield and Charles Whitehall. The communion
of elements was disturbing. “You people are very professional,” he said quietly, a touch bitterly. “You’re ingenious when it comes to presenting alternatives.”

“She can’t go home, Mr. McAuliff. Take my word for that.”

“From a certain point of view, she might as well.… The Marquis de Chatellerault is in Jamaica.”

Tallon spun in the antique chair to face McAuliff. For an instant he seemed frozen. He stared at Alex, and when he blinked it was as though he silently rejected McAuliff’s statement. “This is impossible,” he said simply.

“It’s not only possible, I don’t even think it’s a secret. Or if it is, it’s poorly kept; and as somebody said about an hour ago, that’s not much of a secret.”

“Who gave you this information?” Tallon held onto his cane, his grasp visibly firmer.

“Charles Whitehall. At three o’clock this morning. He was invited to Savanna-la-Mar to meet Chatellerault.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“The circumstances aren’t important. The important fact is that Chatellerault is in Savanna-la-Mar. He is the house-guest of a family named Wakefield. They’re white and rich.”

“We know them,” said Tallon, writing a note awkwardly with his arthritic hand. “They’re customers. What else do you have?”

“A couple of items. One is extremely important to me, and I warn you, I won’t leave here until something’s done about it.”

Tallon looked up from his notepaper. “You make pronouncements without regard for realistic appraisal. I have no idea whether I can do anything about anything. Your camping here would not change that. Please continue.”

Alex described James Ferguson’s unexpected meeting with Craft at the Palisados Airport and the manipulation that resulted in the electronic devices in his luggage. He detailed Craft’s offer of money in exchange for information about the survey.

“It’s not surprising. The Craft people are notoriously
curious,” said Tallon, writing painfully on his notepaper. “Shall we get to the item you say is so vital?”

“I want to summarize first.”

“Summarize what?” Tallon put down his pencil.

“What I’ve told you.”

Tallon smiled. “It’s not necessary, Mr. McAuliff. I take notes slowly, but my mind is quite alert.”

“I’d like us to understand each other.… British Intelligence wants the Halidon. That was the purpose—the only purpose—of my recruitment. Once the Halidon could be reached, I was finished. Complete protection still guaranteed to the survey team.”

“And so?”

“I think you’ve got the Halidon. It’s Chatellerault and Craft.”

Tallon continued to stare at McAuliff. His expression was totally neutral. “You have arrived at this conclusion?”

“Hammond said this Halidon would interfere. Eventually try to stop the survey. Diagrams aren’t necessary. The marquis and Craft fit the prints. Go get them.”

“I see …” Tallon reached once more for his cane. His personal scepter, his sword Excaliber. “So, in one extraordinary simplification, the American geologist has solved the riddle of the Halidon.”

Neither man spoke for several moments. McAuliff broke the silence with equally quiet anger. “I could get to dislike you, Mr. Tallon. You’re a very arrogant man.”

“My concerns do not include your approval, Mr. McAuliff. Jamaica is my passion—yes, my
passion
, sir. What you think is not important to me … except when you make absurd pronouncements that could affect my work.… Arthur Craft,
père et fils
, have been raping this island for half a century. They subscribe to the belief that theirs is a mandate from God. They can accomplish too much in the name of Craft; they would not hide behind a symbol. And Halidon
is
a symbol, Mr. McAuliff.… The Marquis de Chatellerault? You were quite correct. Mrs. Booth
was
manipulated—brilliantly, I think—into your survey. It was cross-pollination, if you like; the circumstances were
optimum. Two kling-klings in a hibiscus, one inexorably forcing the other to reveal himself. She was bait, pure and simple, Mr. McAuliff. Chatellerault has long been suspected of being an associate of Julian Warfield. The marquis is with Dunstone, Limited.” Tallon lifted his cane up laterally, placed it across his desk, and continued to gaze blankly at Alex.

McAuliff said finally, “You withheld information; you didn’t tell me things I should have been told. Yet you expect me to function as one of you. That smells, Tallon.”

“You exaggerate. There is no point in complicating further an already complicated picture.”

“I should have been told about Chatellerault, instead of hearing his name from Mrs. Booth.”

Tallon shrugged. “An oversight. Shall we proceed?”

“All right. There’s a man named Tucker. Sam Tucker.”

“Your friend from California? The soil analyst?”

“Yes.”

McAuliff told Hanley’s story without using Hanley’s name. He emphasized the coincidence of the two black men who had removed Tucker’s belongings and the two Jamaicans who had followed his taxi in the green Chevrolet sedan. He described briefly the taxi owner’s feats of driving skills in the racetrack park, and gave Tallon the license-plate number of the Chevrolet.

Tallon reached for his telephone and dialed without speaking to Alex. “This is Tallon,” he said quietly into the phone. “I want M.V. information. It is urgent. The license is KYB four-four-eight. Call me back on this line.” He hung up and shifted his eyes to McAuliff, “It should take no longer than five minutes.”

“Was that the police?”

“Not in any way the police would know.… I understand the Ministry received your permits today. Dunstone does facilitate things, doesn’t it?”

“I told Latham I was leaving for Ocho Rios tomorrow afternoon. I won’t if Tucker doesn’t show up. That’s what I want you to know.”

Once again, Westmore Tallon reached for his cane, but
not with the aggressiveness he had displayed previously. He was suddenly a rather thoughtful, even gentle man. “If your friend was taken against his will, it would be kidnapping. A very serious crime, and insofar as he’s American, the sort of headline attraction that would be an anathema. It doesn’t make sense, Mr. McAuliff.… You say he’s due today, which could be extended to this evening, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest we wait. I cannot believe the parties involved could—or would—commit such a gargantuan mistake. If Mr. Tucker is not heard from by, say, ten o’clock, call me.” Tallon wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Alex. “Commit this to memory, please; leave the paper here.”

“What are you going to do if Tucker doesn’t show?”

“I will use perfectly legitimate connections and have the matter directed to the most authoritative officials in the Jamaican police. I will alert highly placed people in the government; the governor-general, if necessary. St. Croix has had its murders; tourism is only now coming back. Jamaica could not tolerate an American kidnapping. Does that satisfy you?”

“I’m satisfied.” Alex crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and as he did so, he remembered Tallon’s reaction to Chatellerault’s appearance in Savanna-la-Mar. “You were surprised that Chatellerault was on the island. Why?”

“As of two days ago, he was registered at the Georges Cinque in Paris. There’s been no word of his leaving, which means he flew here clandestinely, probably by way of Mexico. It is disturbing. You must keep a close watch on Mrs. Booth. You have a weapon, I assume?”

“Two rifles in the equipment. An .030 Remington telescopic and a long-power .22 automatic. Nothing else.”

Tallon seemed to debate with himself, then make his decision. He took a key ring from his pocket, selected a key, and opened a lower drawer of his desk. He removed a bulky manila envelope, opened the flap, and shook a pistol onto his blotter. A number of cartridges fell out with the gun. “This is a .38 Smith & Wesson, short barrel. All markings
have been destroyed. It’s untraceable. Take it, please; it’s wiped clean. The only fingerprints will be yours. Be careful.”

McAuliff looked at the weapon for several seconds before reaching out and slowly picking it up. He did not want it; there was a finality of commitment somehow attached to his having it. But again, there was the question of alternatives: Not having it might possibly be foolish, though he did not expect to use it for anything more than a show of force.

“Your dossier includes your military service and experience in small-arms fire. But that was a long time ago. Would you care to refresh yourself at a pistol range? We have several, within minutes by plane.”

“No, thank you,” replied Alex. “Not too long ago, in Australia, it was the only diversion we had.”

The telephone rang with a muted bell. Tallon picked it up and acknowledged with a simple “Yes?”

He listened without speaking to the party on the other end of the line. When he terminated the call, he looked at McAuliff.

“The green Chevrolet sedan is registered to a dead man. The vehicle’s license is in the name of Walter Piersall. Residence: High Hill, Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny.”

M
cAuliff spent another hour with Westmore Tallon, as the old Jamaican aristocrat activated his information network. He had sources all over the island.

Before the hour was up, one important fact had been uncovered: the deceased, Walter Piersall of Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny, had in his employ two black assistants with whom he invariably traveled. The coincidence of the two men who had removed Sam Tucker’s belongings from the hotel in Montego Bay and the two men who followed Alex in the green Chevrolet was no longer far-fetched. And since Piersall had brought up Sam’s name with Alison Booth, the conclusion was now to be assumed.

Tallon ordered his own people to pick up Piersall’s men. He would telephone McAuliff when they had done so.