The Cry of the Halidon (2 page)

He had found the unexpected now. And it troubled him.

It was a mathematical impossibility. Or, if not impossible, certainly improbable in the extreme.

It simply did not make sense.

“Mr. Durell?”

He turned. His Jamaican secretary, her brown skin and features bespeaking the age-old coalition of Africa and Empire, had walked out on the deck with a message.

“Yes?”

“Lufthansa flight sixteen from Munich will be late getting into Montego.”

“That’s the Keppler reservation, isn’t it?”

“Yes. They’ll miss the in-island connection.”

“They should have come into Kingston.”

“They didn’t,” said the girl, her voice carrying the same disapproval as Durell’s statement, but not so sternly. “They obviously don’t wish to spend the night in Montego; they had Lufthansa radio ahead. You’re to get them a charter—”

“On three hours’ notice? Let the Germans do it! It’s their equipment that’s late.”

“They tried. None available in Mo’Bay.”

“Of course, there isn’t.… I’ll ask Hanley. He’ll be back from Kingston with the Warfields by five o’clock.”

“He may not wish to.…”

“He will. We’re in a spot. I trust it’s not indicative of the week.”

“Why do you say that? What bothers you?”

Durell turned back to the railing overlooking the fields and cliffs of coral. He lighted a cigarette, cupping the flame against the bursts of warm breeze. “Several things. I’m not sure I can put my finger on them all. One I
do
know.” He looked at the girl, but his eyes were remembering. “A little over twelve months ago, the reservations for this particular week began coming in. Eleven months ago they were complete. All the villas were booked … for this particular week.”

“Trident’s popular. What is so unusual?”

“You don’t understand. Since eleven months ago, every one of those reservations has stood firm. Not a single cancellation, or even a minor change of date. Not even a day.”

“Less bother for you. I’d think you’d be pleased.”

“Don’t you see? It’s a mathematical imp—well, inconsistency,
to say the least. Twenty villas. Assuming couples, that is forty families, really—mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, cousins … For eleven months nothing has happened to change anyone’s plans. None of the principals died—and at our rates we don’t cater exclusively to the young. No misfortunes of consequence, no simple business interferences, or measles or mumps or weddings or funerals or lingering illness. Yet we’re not the Queen’s coronation; we’re just a week-in-Jamaica.”

The girl laughed. “You’re playing with numbers, Mr. Durell. You’re put out because your well-organized waiting list hasn’t been used.”

“And by the way, they’re all arriving,” continued the young manager, his words coming faster. “This Keppler, he’s the only one with a problem, and how does he solve it? Having an aircraft radio ahead from somewhere over the Atlantic. Now, you’ll grant
that’s
a bit much. The others? No one asks for a car to meet them, no in-island confirmations required, no concerns about luggage or distances. Or anything. They’ll just be here.”

“Not the Warfields. Captain Hanley flew his plane to Kingston for the Warfields.”

“But
we
didn’t know that. Hanley assumed that we did, but we didn’t. The arrangements were made privately from London. He thought we’d given them his name; we hadn’t. I hadn’t.”

“No one else would …” The girl stopped. “But everyone’s … from all over.”

“Yes. Almost evenly divided. The States, England, France, Germany, and … Haiti.”

“What’s your point?” asked the girl, seeing the concern on Durell’s face.

“I have a strange feeling that all our guests for the week are acquainted. But they don’t want us to know it.”

The tall, light-haired American in the unbuttoned Burberry trench coat walked out the Strand entrance of the
Savoy Hotel. He stopped for an instant and looked up at the English sky between the buildings in the court. It was a perfectly normal thing to do—to observe the sky, to check the elements after emerging from shelter—but this man did not give the normally cursory glance and form a judgment based primarily on the chill factor.

He looked.

Any geologist who made his living developing geophysical surveys for governments, companies, and foundations knew that the weather was income; it connoted progress or delay.

Habit.

His clear gray eyes were deeply set beneath wide eyebrows, darker than the light brown hair that fell with irritating regularity over his forehead. His face was the color of a man’s exposed to the weather, the tone permanently stained by the sun, but not burned. The lines beside and below his eyes seemed stamped more from his work than from age, again a face in constant conflict with the elements. The cheekbones were high, the mouth full, the jaw casually slack, for there was a softness also about the man … in abstract contrast to the hard, professional look.

This softness, too, was in his eyes. Not weak, but inquisitive; the eyes of a man who probed—perhaps because he had not probed sufficiently in the past.

Things … things … had happened to this man.

The instant of observation over, he greeted the uniformed doorman with a smile and a brief shake of his head, indicating a negative.

“No taxi, Mr. McAuliff?”

“Thanks, no, Jack. I’ll walk.”

“A bit nippy, sir.”

“It’s refreshing—only going a few blocks.”

The doorman tipped his cap and turned his attention to an incoming Jaguar sedan. Alexander McAuliff continued down the Savoy Court, past the theater and the American Express office to the Strand. He crossed the pavement and entered the flow of human traffic heading north toward
Waterloo Bridge. He buttoned his raincoat, pulling the lapels up to ward off London’s February chill.

It was nearly one o’clock; he was to be at the Waterloo intersection by one. He would make it with only minutes to spare.

He had agreed to meet the Dunstone company man this way, but he hoped his tone of voice had conveyed his annoyance. He had been perfectly willing to take a taxi, or rent a car, or hire a chauffeur, if any or all were necessary, but if Dunstone was sending an automobile for him, why not send it to the Savoy? It wasn’t that he minded the walk; he just hated to meet people in automobiles in the middle of congested streets. It was a goddamn nuisance.

The Dunstone man had had a short, succinct explanation that was, for the Dunstone man, the only reason necessary—for all things: “Mr. Julian Warfield prefers it this way.”

He spotted the automobile immediately. It had to be Dunstone’s—and/or Warfield’s. A St. James Rolls-Royce, its glistening black, hand-tooled body breaking space majestically, anachronistically, among the petrol-conscious Austins, MGs, and European imports. He waited on the curb, ten feet from the crosswalk onto the bridge. He would not gesture or acknowledge the slowly approaching Rolls. He waited until the car stopped directly in front of him, a chauffeur driving, the rear window open.

“Mr. McAuliff?” said the eager, young-old face in the frame.

“Mr. Warfield?” asked McAuliff, knowing that this fiftyish, precise-looking executive was not.

“Good heavens, no. The name’s Preston. Do hop in; I think we’re holding up the line.”

“Yes, you are.” Alex got into the backseat as Preston moved over. The Englishman extended his hand.

“It’s a pleasure. I’m the one you’ve been talking to on the telephone.”

“Yes … Mr. Preston.”

“I’m really very sorry for the inconvenience, meeting like this. Old Julian has his quirks, I’ll grant you that.”

McAuliff decided he might have misjudged the Dunstone man. “It was a little confusing, that’s all. If the object was precautionary—for what reason I can’t imagine—he picked a hell of a car to send.”

Preston laughed. “True. But then, I’ve learned over the years that Warfield, like God, moves in mysterious ways that basically are quite logical. He’s really all right. You’re having lunch with him, you know.”

“Fine. Where?”

“Belgravia.”

“Aren’t we going the wrong way?”

“Julian and God—basically logical, chap.”

The St. James Rolls crossed Waterloo, proceeded south to the Cut, turned left until Blackfriars Road, then left again, over Blackfriars Bridge and north into Holborn. It was a confusing route.

Ten minutes later the car pulled up to the entrance canopy of a white stone building with a brass plate to the right of the glass double doors that read
SHAFTESBURY ARMS
. The doorman pulled at the handle and spoke jovially.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Preston.”

“Good afternoon, Ralph.”

McAuliff followed Preston into the building, to a bank of three elevators in the well-appointed hallway. “Is this Warfield’s place?” he asked, more to pass the moment than to inquire.

“No, actually. It’s mine. Although I won’t be joining you for lunch. However, I trust cook implicitly; you’ll be well taken care of.”

“I won’t try to follow that. ‘Julian and God.’ ”

Preston smiled noncommittally as the elevator door opened.

Julian Warfield was talking on the telephone when Preston ushered McAuliff into the tastefully—elegantly—decorated living room. The old man was standing by an antique table in front of a tall window overlooking Belgrave Square. The size of the window, flanked by long white drapes, emphasized Warfield’s shortness. He is really quite a small
man, thought Alex as he acknowledged Warfield’s wave with a nod and a smile.

“You’ll send the accrual statistics on to Macintosh, then,” said Warfield deliberately into the telephone; he was not asking a question. “I’m sure he’ll disagree, and you can both hammer it out. Good-bye.” The diminutive old man replaced the receiver and looked over at Alex. “Mr. McAuliff, is it?” Then he chuckled. “That was a prime lesson in business. Employ experts who disagree on just about everything and take the best arguments from both for a compromise.”

“Good advice generally, I’d say,” replied McAuliff. “As long as the experts disagree on the subject matter and not just chemically.”

“You’re quick. I like that.… Good to see you.” Warfield crossed to Preston. His walk was like his speech: deliberate, paced slowly. Mentally confident, physically unsure. “Thank you for the use of your flat, Clive. And Virginia, of course. From experience, I know the lunch will be splendid.”

“Not at all, Julian. I’ll be off.”

McAuliff turned his head sharply, without subtlety, and looked at Preston. The man’s first-name familiarity with old Warfield was the last thing he expected. Clive Preston smiled and walked rapidly out of the room as Alex watched him, bewildered.

“To answer your unspoken questions,” said Warfield, “although you have been speaking with Preston on the telephone, he is not with Dunstone, Limited, Mr. McAuliff.”

Alexander turned back to the diminutive businessman. “Whenever I phoned the Dunstone offices for you, I had to give a number for someone to return the call—”

“Always within a few minutes,” interrupted Warfield. “We never kept you waiting; that would have been rude. Whenever you telephoned—four times, I believe—my secretary informed Mr. Preston. At his offices.”

“And the Rolls at Waterloo was Preston’s,” said Alex.

“Yes.”

“So if anyone was following me, my business is with Preston. Has been since I’ve been in London.”

“That was the object.”

“Why?”

“Self-evident, I should think. We’d rather not have anyone know we’re discussing a contract with you. Our initial call to you in New York stressed that point, I believe.”

“You said it was confidential. Everyone says that. If you meant it to this degree, why did you even use the name of Dunstone?”

“Would you have flown over otherwise?”

McAuliff thought for a moment. A week of skiing in Aspen notwithstanding, there had been several other projects. But Dunstone was Dunstone, one of the largest corporations in the international market. “No, I probably wouldn’t have.”

“We were convinced of that. We knew you were about to negotiate with I.T.T. about a little matter in southern Germany.”

Alex stared at the old man. He couldn’t help but smile. “That, Mr. Warfield, was supposed to be as confidential as anything you might be considering.”

Warfield returned the good humor. “Then we know who deals best in confidence, don’t we? I.T.T. is patently obvious.… Come, we’ll have a drink, then lunch. I know your preference: Scotch with ice. Somewhat more ice than I think is good for the system.”

The old man laughed softly and led McAuliff to a mahogany bar across the room. He made drinks rapidly, his ancient hands moving deftly, in counterpoint to his walk. “I’ve learned quite a bit about you, Mr. McAuliff. Rather fascinating.”

“I heard someone was asking around.”

They were across from one another, in armchairs. At McAuliff’s statement, Warfield took his eyes off his glass and looked sharply, almost angrily, at Alex. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Names weren’t used, but the information reached me. Eight sources. Five American, two Canadian, one French.”

“
Not
traceable to Dunstone.” Warfield’s short body seemed to stiffen; McAuliff understood that he had touched an exposed nerve.

“I said names weren’t mentioned.”

“Did you use the Dunstone name in any ensuing conversations? Tell me the truth, Mr. McAuliff.”

“There’d be no reason not to tell you the truth,” answered Alex, a touch disagreeably. “No, I did not.”

“I believe you.”

“You should.”

“If I didn’t, I’d pay you handsomely for your time and suggest you return to America and take up with I.T.T.”

“I may do that anyway, mightn’t I? I
do
have that option.”

“You like money.”

“Very much.”

Julian Warfield placed his glass down and brought his thin, small hands together. “Alexander T. McAuliff. The ‘T’ is for Tarquin, rarely, if ever, used. It’s not even on your stationery; rumor is you don’t care for it.…”

“True. I’m not violent about it.”

“Alexander Tarquin McAuliff, forty-four years old. B.S., M.S., Ph.D., but the title of Doctor is used as rarely as his middle name. The geology departments of several leading American universities, including California Tech and Columbia, lost an excellent research fellow when Dr. McAuliff decided to put his expertise to more commercial pursuits.” The man smiled, his expression one of how-am-I-doing; but, again, not a question.