Thunder Point (27 page)

He went up the ladder to the flying bridge. Dillon didn’t say a word, simply sat there in the swivel chair smoking, and Carney switched on the engines and took the
Sea Raider
in toward St. John.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that Carney realized that the motor yacht bearing down on them was the
Maria Blanco
. “Well, damn me,” he said. “Our dear old friend Santiago. They must be moving on to Samson Cay.”

Ferguson climbed the ladder to the flying bridge to join them and Carney took the
Sea Raider
in so close that they could see Santiago in the stern with Algaro.

Carney leaned over the rail and called, “Have a nice day,” and Ferguson lifted his Panama.

Santiago raised his glass to them and said to Algaro, “What did I tell you, you fool. The sharks probably came off worst.”

At that moment Serra came along from the radio room and handed him the portable phone. “A call from London, Señor, Sir Francis.”

“Francis,” Santiago said. “How are you?”

“I was wondering if you’d had any breakthrough yet?”

“No, but there’s no need to worry, everything is under control.”

“One thing has just occurred to me. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before. The caretakers of the old hotel at Samson Cay during the war, they were a black couple from Tortola, May and Joseph Jackson. She died years ago, but he’s still around. About seventy-two, I think. Last time I saw him he was running a taxi on the Cay.”

“I see,” Santiago said.

“I mean, he was there when my mother arrived and then Bormann, you take my point. Sorry, I should have thought of it before.”

“You should, Francis, but never mind. I’ll attend to it.” Santiago put the phone down and turned to Algaro. “Another job for you, but there’s no rush. I’m going for a lie down. Call me when we get in.”

Later in the afternoon Dillon was lying on a sun lounger on the terrace when Ferguson appeared.

“I’ve just had a thought,” the Brigadier said. “This millionaire’s retreat at Samson Cay. Might be rather fun to have dinner there. Beard the lion in his den.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “We could fly over if you like. There’s the airstrip. I passed over it on my way here and that Cessna of mine can put down on land as well as water.”

“Perhaps we can persuade Carney to join us? Ring the front desk on your cellular phone, get the number and ask for the general manager’s name.”

Which Dillon did, writing the details down quickly. “There you go, Carlos Prieto.”

Within two minutes Ferguson was speaking to the gentleman. “Mr. Prieto? Brigadier Charles Ferguson here, I’m staying at Caneel. One of my friends has a floatplane here and we thought it might be rather fun to fly over this evening and join you for dinner. It’s a dual-purpose plane. We could put down on your airstrip. There would be three of us.”

“I regret, Brigadier, but dining facilities are reserved for our residents.”

“What a shame, I’d so hate to disappoint Mr. Santiago.”

There was a slight pause. “Mr. Santiago was expecting you?”

“Check with him, do.”

“A moment, Brigadier.” Prieto phoned the
Maria Blanco
, for Santiago always preferred to stay on board when at Samson Cay. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Señor, but does the name Ferguson mean anything to you?”

“Brigadier Charles Ferguson?”

“He is on the telephone from Caneel. He wishes to fly over in a floatplane, three of them, for dinner.”

Santiago laughed out loud. “Excellent, Prieto, marvelous, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Prieto said, “We look forward to seeing you, Brigadier. At what time may we expect you?”

“Six-thirty or seven.”

“Excellent.”

Ferguson handed the cellular phone back to Dillon. “Get hold of Carney and tell him to meet us at Jenny’s Place at six in his best bib and tucker. We’ll have a cocktail and wing our way to Samson Cay. Should be a jolly evening,” he said and went out.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when Jenny Grant reached Paris and Charles de Gaulle airport. She returned the hired car, went to the British Airways reservation desk and booked on the next flight to London. It was too late to connect with any flight to Antigua that day, but there was space the following morning on the nine A.M. flight from Gatwick arriving in Antigua just after two in the afternoon, and they even booked her on an onward flight to St. Thomas on one of the Liat inter-island service planes. With luck she would be in St. John by early evening.

She waited for her tickets, went and booked in for the London flight so that she could get rid of her luggage. She went to one of the bars and ordered a glass of wine. Best to stay overnight at Gatwick at one of the airport hotels. She felt good for the first time since she’d heard the news of Henry’s death, excited as well, and couldn’t wait to get back to St. John to see if she was right. She went and bought a phone card at one of the kiosks, found a telephone and rang Jenny’s Place at Cruz Bay. It was Billy Jones who answered.

“Billy? It’s me — Jenny.”

“My goodness, Miss Jenny, where are you?”

“Paris. I’m at the airport. It’s nearly seven-thirty in the evening here. I’m coming back tomorrow, Billy, by way of Antigua, then Liat up to St. Thomas. I’ll see you around six.”

“That’s wonderful. Mary will be thrilled.”

“Billy, has a man called Sean Dillon been in to see you? I told him to look you up.”

“He sure has. He’s been sailing around with Bob Carney, he and a Brigadier Ferguson. In fact, I just heard from Bob. He tells me they’re meeting in here, the three of them, for a drink at six o’clock.”

“Good. Give Dillon a message for me. Tell him I’m coming back because I think I might know where it is.”

“Where what is?” Billy demanded.

“Never mind. Just you give him that message. It’s very important.”

She put the phone down, picked up her hand luggage and still full of excitement and elation, passed through security into the international lounge.

Ferguson and Dillon parked the jeep in the car park at Mongoose Junction and walked along to Jenny’s Place. In blazer and Guards tie, the Panama at a suitable angle, the Brigadier looked extremely impressive. Dillon wore a navy blue silk suit, a white cotton shirt buttoned at the neck. When they entered Jenny’s Place the bar was already half-full with the early evening trade. Bob Carney leaned on the bar wearing white linen slacks and a blue shirt, a blazer on the stool beside him.

He turned and whistled. “A regular fashion parade. Thank God I dressed.”

“Well, we are meeting the Devil face to face, in a manner of speaking.” Ferguson laid his Malacca cane on the bar. “Under the circumstances I think one should make an effort. Champagne, innkeeper,” he said to Billy.

“I thought that might be what you’d want. I got a bottle of Pol Roget on ice right here.” Billy produced it from beneath the bar and thumbed out the cork. “Now the surprise I’ve been saving.”

“And what’s that?” Carney asked.

“Miss Jenny was on the phone from Paris, France. She’s coming home. Should be here right about this time tomorrow.”

“That’s wonderful,” Carney said.

Billy filled three glasses. “And she gave me a special message for you, Mr. Dillon.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” Dillon inquired.

“She said it was important. She said to tell you she’s coming back because she thinks she might know where it is. Does that make any kind of sense to you, because it sure as hell doesn’t to me?”

“All the sense in the world.” Ferguson raised his glass and toasted the others. “To women in general, gentlemen, and Jenny Grant in particular. Bloody marvelous.” He emptied his glass. “Good, into battle,” and he turned and led the way out.

Behind them, the bearded fisherman who had been sitting at the end of the bar listening, got up and left. He walked to a public phone just along the waterfront, took out the piece of paper Serra had given him and rang the
Maria Blanco
. Santiago was in his cabin getting ready for the evening when Serra hurried in carrying the phone.

“What on earth is it?” Santiago demanded.

“My informant in St. John. He just heard Dillon and his friends talking to Jones, the bartender at Jenny’s Place. Apparently she was on the phone from Paris, will be in St. John tomorrow evening.”

“Interesting,” Santiago said.

“That’s not all, Señor, she sent a message to Dillon to say she was coming back because she thinks she might know where it is.”

Santiago’s face was very pale and he snatched the phone. “Santiago here. Now repeat your story to me.” He listened and finally said, “You’ve done well, my friend, you’ll be taken care of. Continue to keep your eyes open.”

He handed the portable phone to Serra. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” and he turned back to the mirror.

Ferguson, Dillon and Carney crossed from Mongoose and followed the trail to Lind Point toward the seaplane ramp. Ferguson said, “Rather convenient having a ramp here and so on.”

“Actually we do have a regular seaplane service some of the time,” Carney said. “When it’s operating, you can fly to St. Thomas or St. Croix, even direct to San Juan on Puerto Rico.”

They reached the Cessna and Dillon walked round checking it generally, then pulled the blocks away from the wheels. He opened the rear door. “Okay, my friends, in you go.”

Ferguson went first, followed by Carney. Dillon opened the other door, climbed into the pilot’s seat, slammed and locked the door behind him, strapping himself in. He released the brakes and the plane rolled down the ramp into the water and drifted outwards on the current.

Ferguson looked across the bay in the fading light. “Beautiful evening, but I’ve been thinking. We’ll be flying back in darkness.”

“No, it’s a full moon tonight, Brigadier,” Carney told him.

“I checked the weather forecast,” Dillon added. “Clear, crisp night, perfect conditions. The flight shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Seat belts fastened, life jackets under the seat.”

He switched on, the engine coughed into life, the propeller turned. He taxied out of harbor, checked to make sure there was no boat traffic and turned into the wind. They drifted up into the air and started to climb, leveling out at a thousand feet. They passed over part of the southern edge of St. John, then Reef Bay and finally Ram Head before striking out to sea toward Norman Island, Samson Cay perhaps four miles south of it. It was a flight totally without incident, and exactly fifteen minutes after leaving Cruz Bay he was making his first pass over the island. The
Maria Blanco
was lying in the harbor below, three hundred yards off-shore, and there were a number of yachts, still a few people on the beach in the fading light.

“A real rich folks’ hideaway,” Bob Carney said.

“Is that so?” Ferguson said, unimpressed. “Well I hope they do a decent meal, that’s all I’m interested in.”

Carlos Prieto came out of the entrance to reception and looked up as the Cessna passed overhead. There was an ancient Ford station wagon parked at the bottom of the steps, an ageing black man leaning against it.

Prieto said, “There they are, Joseph, get up to the airstrip and bring them in.”

“Right away, sir.” Joseph got behind the wheel and drove off.

As Prieto turned to go inside, Algaro emerged. “Ah, there you are, I’ve been looking for you. Do we have an old black somewhere around called Jackson, Joseph Jackson?”

“We certainly do. He was the driver of that station wagon that just drove off. He’s gone to the airstrip to pick up Brigadier Ferguson and the others. Do you need him for anything important?”

“It can wait,” Algaro told him and went back inside.

Dillon put the Cessna down for a perfect landing, taxied toward the other end of the airstrip, turning into the wind, and switched off. “Not bad, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You can fly a plane, I’ll grant you that.”

“You’ve no idea how good that makes me feel,” Dillon said.

They all got out and Joseph Jackson came to meet them. “Car waiting right over here, gents. I’ll take you down to the restaurant. Joseph’s the name, Joseph Jackson. Anything you want, just let me know. I’ve been around this island longer than anybody.”

“Indeed?” Ferguson said. “I don’t suppose you were here in the War? I understand it was unoccupied?”

“That ain’t so,” Jackson said. “There was an old hotel here, belonged to an American family, the Herberts. The hotel was unoccupied during the War, but me and my wife, May, we came over from Tortola to look after things.”

They had reached the station wagon and Ferguson said, “Herbert, you say, they were the owners?”

“Miss Herbert’s father, he gave it to her as a wedding present, then she married a Mr. Vail.” Jackson opened the rear door for Ferguson to get in. “Then she had a daughter.”

Dillon sat beside Ferguson and Carney took the front seat beside Jackson. The old boy was obviously enjoying himself.

“So, Miss Herbert became Mrs. Vail, who had a daughter called Miss Vail?” Dillon said.

Jackson started the engine and cackled out loud. “Only Miss Vail then became Lady Pamer, what do you think of that? A real English lady, just like the movies.”

“Switch off that engine!” Ferguson ordered.

Jackson looked bewildered. “Did I say something?”

Bob Carney reached over and turned the key. Ferguson said, “Miss Vail became Lady Pamer, you’re sure?”

“I knew her, didn’t I? She came here at the end of the War with her baby, little Francis. That must have been in April forty-five.”

There was a heavy silence. Dillon said, “Was anyone else here at the time?”

“German gent named Strasser. He just turned up one night. I think he got a fishing boat to drop him off from Tortola, but Lady Pamer, she was expecting him . . .”

“And Sir Joseph?”

“He came over from England in June. Mr. Strasser, he moved on. The Pamers left and went back to England after that. Sir Joseph, he used to come back, but that was years ago when the resort was first built.”