Saffire (25 page)

William Nelson Cromwell stood on a small platform behind a table so that he and I were at head height to each other. The cloths over the table in front of us hid from the guests the platform he had used to achieve his illusion of height. He had arranged it so I stood to his left, and Miskimon left of me. It was my first sense that this was an extension of the game he'd been playing by insisting I attend this party.

Cromwell motioned for the string quartet to stop and tinkled a silver fork against the side of a champagne glass, and within seconds, the hubbub of assorted conversations ended and he drew everyone's full attention.

“Welcome to all of you. While, of course, much of the evening is ahead of us, I hope you will indulge me with a small favor.”

Cromwell pointed at the wrapped package on the table, about the size of the box that had held my tuxedo. I'd found it where he'd told me it would be. From the feel of the package when I carried it, the contents were as soft and malleable as clothing. And about the same weight.

“Mr. Holt here,” Cromwell said, “as many of you know, has been asking questions, and now he has brought me a package that someone sent along without leaving a card or signature.”

He paused, and I felt the hostile stares of the crowd upon me.

“I don't know what we would do without Colonel Goethals and his American efficiency.” Cromwell tinged his words with sarcasm, which drew titters from a few of his guests.

“Mr. Holt,” Cromwell said, “if you would be so kind…”

He motioned to the package, and I dutifully passed it over. He was enough of a showman to not open it immediately. “Since we are all together, it seemed more efficient to do this here.”

Yes, I was being played. Too bad I didn't understand the game or the rules and saw no choice except to nod. He handed me back the package.

“If you and Mr. Miskimon could be kind enough to open it? I must admit, now that you've brought it to me, I do have a degree of curiosity.”

Did he think me a trained monkey? I untied the string and began to unwrap the package. Miskimon gave me little help and held his shoulders square in a posture that I interpreted as discomfort.

We unfurled a bright, colorful piece of heavy cloth. It had a green rectangle in one corner, and a red rectangle in the opposite corner, and three yellow stars.

I held one side and Miskimon the other, so that it was fully displayed to Cromwell's audience.

Seeing it only added to my bewilderment.

There were a few gasps from the crowd. Not delight, but rather as if those gasping had witnessed a social faux pas on the level of passing gas in front of royalty.

Cromwell seemed unfazed. “It appears to be a flag. While I admit to a bit of a letdown, I suppose if any of you would like to help Mr. Holt find out who delivered it, I'm sure he would be grateful. Speak to him, of course, at your leisure during the evening.”

If sounds could be translated into color, the room became black with heavy silence, all of it directed at me.

So this was how it felt to face a firing squad.

“Well then,” Cromwell said, “now that I have presented you with a much smaller mystery than I anticipated, let's continue with our evening.” He nodded at the string players, and the music resumed.

I fixed my attention on the colonel. “What was that about, Mr. Cromwell?”

“Nothing more than it appears. I was curious about the package and who might have delivered it.”

“I don't believe you.” I resisted the urge to grab his lapels and yank him closer. “I suggest you tell me the truth.”

He smirked. “Servants don't make demands of their masters. Please keep that in mind for the future, Mr. Holt.”

He walked away, and Miskimon pulled on my suit jacket to keep me from following and making a bigger fool of myself.

I had been correct in my first judgment of Raoul Amador when I met him in the dining room of the National Hotel. He
was
a knife man. And he
did
prefer to bring a knife to a fight when his opponent was unarmed.

I took no satisfaction in my prescience, as I only learned it outside the villa an hour later, alone near the carriage that was to take me back to the train station at the border outside Panama City.

I had just placed my hat and boots inside the carriage, where, waiting for me on the seat, was the clothing I'd worn to the villa. It had been indeed laundered, folded in a neat stack, and tied with string. I stepped out to find out where my driver was when Amador appeared, knife in his fist, blade pointing at the ground.

He knew what he was doing. A man inexperienced with a knife will hold it palm upward, as if ready to thrust from low to high. A good knife fighter knows his fist is also a weapon. He can punch in one motion or use that same motion to disguise a downward knife thrust.

That was deadly enough, but I couldn't flee because in his other hand he carried a pistol, pointed directly at my belly.

Although it was inky black in the night air, I saw all of this clearly in the light from the lantern at the rear of the carriage, which was well away from the other carriages. Arranging for the carriage to be solitary. I realized, had been no accident.

I glanced around.

“Your driver has been sent away. It's just you and me, Mr. Holt. Let's go for that walk, as I have questions for you.”

“Given that you have weapons and I don't, that would seem like a stupid thing to do.”

“Stupidity fits with who you are.” He waved his pistol, motioning me to step away from the carriage. “Do as I say.”

“No.” I'd been told that someday my stubbornness would be the death of me. This could be the day. “You might as well shoot me here.”

“I predict that when faced with the certainty of dying in the next few seconds, you'd rather walk, hoping somehow that you'll find a way to disarm me. Which, by the way, won't happen because, of course, I'm anticipating such an attempt. And surely you are curious. Let's move away from here where I'll have the leisure to ask the questions I want to ask. I'll even answer a few of your own. Wouldn't you rather die at least knowing why you are going to die?”

“No. Not that curious.”

Where exactly was Miskimon? Wasn't it his job to have my back? Especially given the conversation we'd had after Cromwell unceremoniously turned his back on me? The conversation where we'd agreed something was in play and we needed to be cautious here, away from the safety of the American Zone?

“Goethals's man won't be showing up,” Amador said. “You can trust me on that. I repeat. It's just you and me.”

“And everyone else who will appear after they hear a gunshot. Otherwise, you wouldn't try to get me away from here where you can corner me with that knife.”

“Not really a concern. After I've shot you dead, I'll just put the knife in your hand and call it self-defense.”

“You'll have to shoot me in the back. Running from a knife seems smart anyway. And there goes your statement of defense.”

“You
are
irritating. You really think your death would be important enough to warrant a trial?”

He raised the pistol and, before I could react, switched it to his right hand, dropping the knife so he could steady the pistol with both hands. I could see the intent in his eyes. He pointed the pistol at my chest. He was going to shoot.

I could not force myself to turn and flee. I would not give him the satisfaction.

“Coward,” I said. I braced myself.

The shot did not come. Instead, there was a blur of motion behind him that I couldn't quite understand, given the flickering light of the lantern. I did hear a heavy clunk, and he fell forward, so completely and immediately unconscious that he made no attempt to break his fall with his arms.

I kicked the knife to the side and grabbed the pistol. I doubted he would wake soon, but no sense in taking a chance.

Only then did I look to the back of the carriage to seek the person who had intervened.

All I found was a shovel used to scoop horse manure. I took the lantern from the carriage. It showed a clump of hair on the shovel, stuck in horse manure. Amador's hair. I scraped it off with my shoe and tossed the shovel away.

I moved to a squatting position beside Amador and felt for the pulse in his neck as I weighed my options.

He was alive.

Given my status among these aristocrats, did I have a chance of convincing them that Amador had stepped outside with the intent to murder me? Not likely.

What about dragging him away and finding a way to wake him up and force him to answer questions. But would he answer? And would I have the coldness to back up my threats with the knife since a gunshot would draw attention?

No. Not a good plan.

Did I want the carriage driver to return and find Amador here?

Clearly not.

The best thing to do was the simplest thing to do.

Goethals had wanted me to be a tethered goat until we found out who the hunter was. I had the final answer for him. The predator was the man on the ground in front of me. Tomorrow, I would give Goethals the answer. I didn't even need to waste time going to the site of the Chagres dam. Goethals could decide what to do with the information. Tonight, I would sleep in the safety of the American Zone, and tomorrow, after meeting Goethals to tell him about Amador, I was finally headed home.

I grabbed Amador's heels and dragged him away from the carriage. He was chest down, and his face bumped on the dirt and gravel, his limp arms outstretched in front of him.

I suppose I could have taken more care, but in my fine leather shoes, I stepped in clumps of fresh horse droppings, which Amador smeared further with his chest and face as I continued dragging him away from the building, through my footsteps.

What a shame.

When I judged he was far enough away that the driver would not see him, I walked back to the carriage and called for his return so we could ride the half hour back to the lights of Panama City, where I would catch a train back to my bachelor quarters in Culebra.

In the morning, I supposed, during my meeting with Goethals, I'd need to thank Miskimon for his work with the shovel.