Two Jakes (30 page)

Soon
all he heard was the shower. He looked into the mirror again. This guy wasn’t
faking it. A warm stream ran down Scarne’s leg and he smelled the dead man’s
urine. The line had disappeared entirely into his assailant’s neck. His face
was a horrible blue. Above the sound of the shower water and the roaring in his
ears, Scarne heard his name, as if from a distance. Alana was still standing
naked at the entrance. She hadn’t fled. She stared at him with a strange
fascination.

“Jake.
Enough. For God’s sake. Enough.”

“Get
out of here,” he said harshly through gritted teeth.

She
lifted one of the complimentary robes hanging on the door and walked out. He
heard her on the phone. He tried to let go of the cord, but it had bitten into
his hands and he could barely unclench his fingers. He knelt in the tub to
lower the dead man to the floor. Water from the shower cascaded over his body.
He let it. He felt defiled. It took several minutes to open his hands. Then the
pain hit. His side, his leg, both hands. He stood up, turned off the shower
with his elbows and stepped out of the tub over the body. He leaned against the
sink, breath rasping. The room stank; in death the man had lost control of more
than his bladder. Scarne had trouble using his numbed hands and arms but
managed to turn on the water in the sink and let it run over his cut and
bruised palms. He knew he wouldn’t be swinging a golf club any time soon.
Despite the pain, he pulled his wet and bloody shirt over his head. He used it
to wipe off his face and then threw it into the tub. His vision swirled and his
legs buckled. He pivoted, sank to his knees and vomited violently into the
toilet.

CHAPTER
36 – BAD FOR THE TOURIST TRADE

When
Scarne finally emerged from the bathroom, he found Alana sitting on the edge of
the bed with a drink in her hand. She extended the shaking glass to him and he
drained it. She stood and put her head into his chest, holding him tight. They
stood like that, silently, until they heard the pounding at the door.

“Ms.
Loeb! Ms. Loeb! Are you all right?”

It
was Maurice. Scarne gently untangled from her.

“Are
you OK?” She nodded and he kissed her. “Go sit out on the lanai.”

When
he opened the door, the hotel manager recoiled. He was with a young man and
behind them were two curious cleaning ladies.

“Mr.
Scarne. What happened? When you dashed off I didn’t know what to think. Then
Ms. Loeb called and asked for a doctor.”

“There
was an intruder.”

“My
God. Is he gone?”

“In
a manner of speaking.”

Scarne
listed against the door frame. He was woozy.

“Hey,
easy, pal,” the other man said. “Let’s take a look at you.”

“This
is Dr. Bonamo,” Maurice said. “He’s a guest. I asked him to help.”

Scarne
led them into the cottage.

“Would
you like me to call the police?” Maurice said.

From
his tone, Scarne could tell that the manager would rather not involve the
authorities in a simple break-in. It would be bad for the tourist trade.

“Do
what you think is best,” Scarne said, pointing into the abattoir of a bathroom
where a nearly decapitated body hung from the wall.

“Holy
shit,” the doctor said. Then he turned to Maurice, whose face was a mask of
horror. “Call the goddamn police, you idiot.” Then he sat Scarne on a chair and
began tending to his wounds.

“Nothing
appears to be broken,” he said after a few moments, “but you’re going to need
some sutures. I’ll wash out the wounds. They don’t look too bad. Got any
Listerine or alcohol?”

“In
the bathroom,” Scarne said dryly.

“The
hell with that,” the doctor said. “How about some vodka”? Then he smiled. “For
internal and external use. What the fuck happened in there?”

For
some reason the fact that the doctor was a fellow American pleased Scarne. He
gave a short version of the event. It took his mind off the stinging of the
vodka as the doctor, using some clean pillow cases, patted down Scarne’s slashes.
He was particularly gentle with Scarne’s hands.

“Take
a slug of this,” he said, putting the vodka bottle to Scarne’s lips. “It’s a
sin to use it only as an antiseptic.”

Scarne
took a deep swig. The doctor also took a belt.

“Drinking
on the job. I hope your malpractice premiums are up to date.”

Bonamo
laughed and told Scarne to hold a vodka-soaked napkin to the wound on his ear.

A
woman shrieked. One of the cleaning ladies had chanced a peek into the
bathroom. Maurice was now dragging her away.

“Would
you mind looking at the lady on the lanai?” Scarne said. “She has had quite a
shock. The man tried to strangle her.”

“Your
wife?”

“No.”

“Way
to go.”

He
spent a few minutes with Alana and came back.

“She’s
shaken a bit and there’s a little bruising to the neck, but she’ll be fine.
Tough lady.”

The
local constabulary finally arrived. A tall black officer in a crisp tan
uniform, complete with matching cap and baton, started barking orders.

“Don’t
nobody touch nothing.” He walked over to Scarne and pointed at the bathroom.
“You do that in there?”

“This
man has to get to a hospital,” Bonamo said. “He was attacked.”

“Who
are you, man?”

“I’m
a doctor, and I want you to call an ambulance.”

The
policeman started to object, but Bonamo interrupted him.

“Now!”

The cop
turned to an underling and told him to get on the radio.

Bonamo
winked at Scarne and said, “My wife and I are in 211. There are a bunch of us
sawbones from Pittsburgh down for a week.” He picked up the vodka bottle and
took another healthy swig. “If you need anything, give us a call. We can send
in the Marines if these people start fucking with you.” He tapped Scarne gently
on a part of his arm that didn’t hurt and left.

Another
man walked into the cottage and started talking to the police officer. He, too,
was obviously an American. He was sturdily built and was wearing a lightweight
tropical suit. Scarne could see the bulge under his left shoulder. He heard the
word, “Ballantrae” and the cop walked over to Scarne. His whole demeanor had
changed.

“The
ambulance will be here directly. Apparently the lady was attacked and you saved
her life. The man had a knife and you were unarmed. That was very brave. We can
wait until later to take your statement.”

***

Scarne
spent two hours in the local hospital. In addition to the more than 60 stitches
in torso and calf, his badly bruised hands were X-rayed and bound with gauze.
His upper back and neck, which had taken the brunt of his fall into the tub,
ached. He knew that by the next day the pain would be much worse. He was given
a tetanus shot and a prescription for Cipro.

“No
sense in messin’ around,” the emergency room doctor said. “If you won the
fight, Mon, I’d hate to see the other fella.” He also provided some
suspiciously large orange-colored pills.

Scarne
looked at him.

“Who
was your last patient, Secretariat?”

The
doctor laughed. “Don’t take more than one at a time. No booze.”

“Doc,
I won’t be running at Epsom Downs, but I’m gonna have a drink.”

“Well,
not too much booze. And don’t drive.”

When
he and Alana finally left the hospital, the kid-glove treatment continued. They
were allowed to drive to police headquarters in St. John in a Ballantrae
corporate car without escort. Once there, they gave their statements in each
other’s presence, which broke every rule of interrogation procedure. The man in
the suit never left their side. Alana introduced him as the head of security
for Ballantrae Antigua. His name was John Merryman, and if ever a name didn’t
fit, this was it. He didn’t smile and spoke mostly in monosyllables. Scarne
wondered when Alana had called him. The local cops obviously knew him. It was
almost his meeting. And since he obviously answered to Alana, she was
subsequently treated very gingerly by the Chief Inspector who debriefed them
over a pot of very good tea. To keep up appearances, the Inspector, a
distinguished looking and highly starched man named Wilmoth Baldwin, initially
was more formal with Scarne.

“And
you found it necessary to kill the gentleman by garroting him in the bathroom?”
British accent, perfect diction. “Why was that, sir? Could you not have merely
immobilized him?”

When
Scarne started to reply, Merryman interrupted.

“Don’t
answer that.”

Scarne
said, “Excuse me Inspector,” and slowly turned to Merryman. “I don’t take
orders from you. Let the man ask his question.”

The
room got quiet. The only sound was from an overhead fan and the tinkle of
Alana’s spoon as she stirred her tea. The Inspector cleared his throat.

“Well,
yes, then. Suppose you tell me why you had to kill your, ah, assailant.”

“It
seemed like the right thing to do, given the circumstances.”

He
looked at Merryman, who nodded imperceptibly. Scarne turned his attention back
to the officer. He had noted the use of the term “assailant.” The man was going
through the motions. After a few more desultory questions, the interview was
over.

“I
will have your statements typed up and send someone round to your hotel for you
to sign them,” Inspector Baldwin said. “This appears to be a simple case of a
burglary going bad. The man panicked when Ms. Loeb walked in on him. He got
more than he bargained for, and probably what he deserved. I think we may even
be able to do without an inquest, although I certainly can’t speak for the
Chief Magistrate’s Office.”

“I’m
sure we can rely on your judgment in this matter, Inspector,” Alana said. “We
will be happy to fulfill our legal obligations, whatever they may be.”

No
questions about who the dead man was. Or why he would break in to a cottage
early in the morning, when every guest at a sold-out resort was likely in bed.
The man had been well dressed. Then there was the matter of Jake being called
to the hotel just before the attack. It was only chance that brought him back
in time. Which meant Alana was a deliberate target.

The
Inspector wished them “the very best of luck.” As they walked out, Scarne
remarked, “Next time I kill someone, I’ll be sure to do it in Antigua.”

Merryman
didn’t smile, but Scarne thought he came close.

They
had to wait almost four hours before a Ballantrae corporate jet arrived from
Venezuela. The next commercial flight out wasn’t scheduled until the next day
and despite the home-team treatment they had gotten from the authorities, Alana
and Merryman were anxious to get Scarne off the island. He wasn’t about to argue.
He didn’t know the nationality of the man in the shower and until that was
resolved he would feel safer back in the States.

The
Ballantrae hanger at the airport was almost as large as the main terminal, and
much better appointed. It had a bar, conference room and lounge. Attendants
provided them with a decent lunch and some much-needed drinks. The only time
Merryman left Alana’s side was to speak to two tough looking men who were
obviously security. Scarne had little time alone with her.

There
were no local police in sight. Their only visitor was a man who brought their
suitcases from the hotel. Scarne went into the men’s room and changed into
fresh clothes. It was a painful experience, but he felt a lot better for doing
it. He thought about asking for his cell phone, which was probably now buried
in one of his bags. Then he remembered it had not survived his fall into the
tub during the fight. The face was smashed and the whole device now sounded
like a baby’s rattle when he shook it. He considered using a hangar phone or
borrowing someone’s cell but decided against it. He’d wait until he got to
Miami. Besides, he was dead tired. The adrenaline had long since worn off and
the horse pill he had been given at the hospital made him groggy. The double
bourbon he inhaled didn’t help.

There
was a small room off the main lounge for pilots and other staff. It had a couch
and Alana went in to lie down. An attendant covered her with a blanket. Scarne
made do with a deep leather seat in the lounge. No one gave him a blanket. He
put his feet up on a table and was almost instantly asleep. He was awakened by
a whining roar in his ear and a sharp pain in his shoulder. Momentarily
disoriented, he sat up and lashed out in self defense.

“Hey,
easy pal. I’m on your side.” Merryman was shaking his shoulder to wake him. The
roar was from a mid-size Citation as the craft taxied towards them. The sleek
corporate jet didn’t pull into the hanger but swung into position just outside,
engines idling. “Come on pal, time to go.”

“Let’s
get a couple of things straight, Merryman. I’m not your pal. Touch my shoulder
again I’m going to feed you into one of those turbofans.”

Merryman
took the crankiness well. He was a pro.

“Sorry.
I forgot about your arm. Please get on the plane.”

“What
about the police statements?”

“I
wouldn’t concern myself about any statements.”