The Cry of the Halidon (16 page)

“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?”

“Obviously,” answered McAuliff. “I made it a condition of your employment that you stay away from Craft. You agreed.”

“I didn’t have a choice. When we got off the plane, you and Alison stayed behind; Whitehall and the Jensens went on ahead to the luggage pickup. I was taking some infrared photographs of the airport.… I was in between, you might say. I walked through the arrival gate, and the first person I saw was Craft himself; the son, of course, not the old fellow. The son runs the Foundation now. I tried to avoid him. I had every reason to; after all, he sacked me. But I couldn’t. And I was amazed—he was positively effusive. Filled with apologies; what outstanding work I had done, how he personally had come to the airport to meet me when he heard I was with the survey.” Ferguson swallowed a portion of his punch, darting his eyes around the brick courtyard. He seemed to have reached a block, as if uncertain how to continue.

“Go on,” said Alex. “All you’ve described is an unexpected welcome wagon.”

“You’ve
got to understand
. It was all so strange—as you say, unexpected. And as he was talking, this chap in uniform comes through the gate and asks me if I’m Ferguson. I say yes and he tells me you’ll be delayed, you’re tied up; that
you
want me to have your bags sent on to the hotel. I should write a note to that effect so British Air will release them. Craft offered to help, of course. It all seemed so minor, quite plausible, really, and everything happened so fast. I wrote the note and this chap said he’d take care of it. Craft tipped him. Generously, I believe.”

“What kind of uniform was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think. Uniforms all look alike when you’re out of your own country.”

“Go on.”

“Craft asked me for a drink. I said I really couldn’t. But he was adamant, and I didn’t care to cause a scene, and you were delayed. You
do
see why I agreed, don’t you?”

“Go on.”

“We went to the lounge upstairs … the one that looks out over the field. It’s got a name.…”

“Observation.”

“What?”

“It’s called the Observation Lounge. Please go on.”

“Yes. Well, I was concerned. I mean, I told him there were my own suitcases and Whitehall, the Jensens. And you, of course. I didn’t want you wondering where I was … especially under the circumstances.” Ferguson drank again; McAuliff held his temper and spoke simply.

“I think you’d better get to the point, Jimbo-mon.”

“I hope that name doesn’t stick. It was a bad evening.”

“It will be a worse afternoon if you don’t go on.”

“Yes … Craft told me you’d be in Customs for another hour and the chap in uniform would tell the others I was taking pictures; I was to go on to the Courtleigh. I mean, it was strange. Then he changed the subject—completely. He talked about the Foundation. He said they were close to a major breakthrough in the baracoa fibers; that much of the
progress was due to my work. And, for reasons ranging from the legal to the moral, they wanted me to come back to Craft. I was actually to be given a percentage of the market development. Do you realize what that could mean?”

“If this is what you had to tell me, you can join them today.”

“Millions!” continued Ferguson, oblivious to Alex’s interruption. “Actually
millions
 … over the years, of course. I’ve never had any money. Stony, most of the time. Had to borrow the cash for my camera equipment, did you know that?”

“It wasn’t something I dwelled on. But that’s all over with. You’re with Craft now.”

“
No
. Not yet. That’s the point. After the survey. I
must
stay with the survey—stay with
you
.” Ferguson finished his rum punch and looked around for the waiter.

“Merely stay with the survey? With me? I think you’ve left out something.”

“Yes. Actually.” The young man hunched his shoulders over the table; he avoided McAuliff’s eyes. “Craft said it was harmless, completely harmless. They only want to know the people you deal with in the government … which is just about everyone you deal with, because most everyone’s
in
the government. I am to keep a log. That’s all; simply a diary.” Ferguson looked up at Alex, his eyes pleading. “You
do
see, don’t you? It
is
harmless.”

McAuliff returned the young man’s stare. “That’s why you followed me this morning?”

“Yes. But I didn’t mean to do it this way. Craft suggested that I could accomplish a great deal by just … tagging along with you. Asking if I could join you when you went about survey business. He said I was embarrassingly curious and talked a lot anyway; it would be normal.”

“Two points for Craft.”

“What?”

“An obsolete American expression. Nevertheless, you followed me.”

“I didn’t mean to. I rang your room. Several times. There was no answer. Then I called Alison.… I’m sorry. I think she was upset.”

“What did she say?”

“That she thought she heard you leave your room only minutes ago. I ran down to the lobby. And outside. You were driving away in a taxi.
Then
I followed you, in another cab.”

McAuliff put his glass aside. “Why didn’t you come up to me in Victoria Park? I saw you and you turned away.”

“I was confused … and frightened. I mean, instead of asking to tag along, there I was, really following you.”

“Why did you pretend you were so drunk last night?”

Ferguson took a long nervous intake of breath. “Because when I got to the hotel, I asked if your luggage had arrived. It hadn’t. I panicked, I’m afraid.… You see, before Craft left, he told me about your suitcases—”

“The bugs?” interrupted Alex angrily.

“The what?” Instantly, James understood. “No.
No!
I swear to you, nothing like that. Oh, God how
awful
.” Ferguson paused, his expression suddenly pensive. “Yet, of course, it makes sense.…”

No one could have rehearsed such a reversal of reactions, thought Alex. It was pointless to explode. “What about the suitcases?”

“What … oh, yes, Craft. At the very end of the conversation, he said they were checking your luggage—
checking
, that’s all he said. He suggested, if anyone asked, that I say I’d taken it upon myself to write the note; that I say you were having trouble. But I wasn’t to worry, your bags would get to the hotel. But they weren’t
there
, you see.”

McAuliff did not see. He sighed wearily. “So you pretended to be smashed?”

“Naturally. I realized you’d have to know about the note; you’d ask me about it, of course, and be terribly angry if the luggage was lost; blame me for it.… Well, it’s a bit unsporting to be hard on a fellow who’s squiffed and tried to do you a good turn. I mean, it is, really.”

“You’ve got a very active imagination, Jimbo-mon. I’d go so far as to say convoluted.”

“Perhaps. But you didn’t get angry, did you? And here we are and nothing has changed. That’s the irony: Nothing has changed.”

“Nothing changed? What do you mean?”

Ferguson nervously smiled. “Well … I’m tagging along.”

“I think something very basic has changed. You’ve told me about Craft.”

“Yes. I would have anyway; that was my purpose this morning. Craft need never know; no way he could find out. I’ll just tag along with you. I’ll give you a portion of the money that’s coming to me. I promise you that. I’ll write it out, if you like. I’ve never had any money. It simply a marvelous opportunity. You do see that, don’t you?”

H
e left Ferguson at the Devon House and took a cab into Old Kingston. If he was being followed, he didn’t give a damn. It was a time for sorting out thoughts again, not worrying about surveillance. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He had conditionally agreed to cooperate with Ferguson. The condition was that theirs was a two-way street; the botanist could keep his log—freely supplied with controlled names—and McAuliff would be kept informed of this Craft’s inquiries.

He looked up at the street signs; he was at the corner of Tower and Matthew, two blocks from the harbor. There was a coin telephone on a stanchion halfway down the sidewalk. He hoped it was operable. It was.

“Has a Mr. Sam Tucker checked in?” he asked the clerk on the other end of the line.

“No, Mr. McAuliff. As a matter of fact, we were going over the reservations list a few minutes go. Check-in time is three o’clock.”

“Hold the room. It’s paid for.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t, sir. Our instructions are only that you’re responsible; we’re trying to be of service.”

“You’re very kind. Hold it, nevertheless. Are there any messages for me?”

“Just one minute, sir. I believe there are.”

The silence that ensued gave Alex the time to wonder about Sam. Where the hell was he? McAuliff had not been as alarmed as Robert Hanley over Tucker’s disappearance. Sam’s eccentricities included sudden wanderings, impulsive
treks through native areas. There had been a time in Australia when Tucker stayed four weeks with an outback aborigine community, traveling daily in a Land Rover to the Kimberleys survey site twenty-six miles away. Old Tuck was always looking for the unusual—generally associated with the customs and lifestyles of whatever country he was in. But his deadline was drawing near in Kingston.