The Spanish Hawk (1969) (5 page)

“I don’t quite see that.”

“Well now, you’ll just have to take our word for it.”

“And you’re telling me to forget about it?”

“Advising you.”

“In my own best interests?”

“Yes.”

“In fact,” Hutchins said, “we think it would be a good thing if you were to leave the island. Go back home to England.”

Fletcher stared at him. “You must be joking.”

“No; far from it. In fact we’d be prepared to pay all your expenses and something on top to compensate for any inconvenience. What do you say to that?”

“I say you must be very keen to get rid of me.”

“Well, let’s put it this way—we think that for the
moment at least your presence here could prove something of an embarrassment.”

“Because I might talk about what I found?”

“That—and other considerations—yes.”

“What other considerations?”

“I don’t think we need go into details.”

“So you don’t trust me not to talk?”

Hutchins gave a faint smile. “Trust is a commodity we don’t much deal in. It’s not—if you’ll pardon the word—to be trusted.”

“And why should anything I might say—besides those other considerations—cause any embarrassment? Embarrassment for whom, for Pete’s sake?”

“As I said before, I don’t think we need go into that. The question is, are you prepared to accept our offer?”

“How much is the something on top?” Fletcher asked.

Hutchins glanced at Brogan, then said: “What would you say to a thousand dollars?”

“I’d say it’s not enough to compensate for the inconvenience.”

Hutchins frowned slightly. “How much would be enough?”

“I don’t quite know. Suppose you make another offer.”

“Two thousand dollars, then.”

“That’s better, but it’s still not enough.”

“We’re not going any higher than that,” Brogan said, and he looked annoyed.

“Please yourselves,” Fletcher said. “It probably wouldn’t make any difference if you did. I like it here; I’m very comfortable. You’d need to go way above the kind of price you’ve been offering, and even then I might not take it.”

“So you’re set on staying?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a decision you could live to regret.”

“I could live to regret any decision. That’s the way life is.”

They didn’t like it; he could see that. They had probably expected to persuade him without much trouble, but he was damned if he was going to shift just to please them. And why were they so keen on having him say nothing about the boat and the dead men anyway? What was it to them?

“You’re stubborn,” Brogan said. “You surely are one stubborn son-of-a-gun.”

Fletcher grinned. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t make it a bitch. Gun sounds much better—in that context.”

Brogan did not return the grin. “It’s no joke, you know. We’re not playing games.”

“I didn’t think you were. Something maybe, but not games.”

“I don’t think you quite realise, John,” Hutchins said, “exactly what it is you’ve gotten yourself into.” He was adopting the reasonable, friendly tone of an older, more experienced man; a veteran talking to a rookie. “This could be dangerous.”

“Are you telling me I could end up at the bottom of the sea with a hole in the head?”

“Anyone could end up that way. You’d be safer in England.”

“So it’s just my personal safety you’re thinking about? That’s why you want me to go?”

“You know damn well it isn’t just that.” Hutchins had abandoned the fatherly stance and his voice had hardened. “You’re not that much of a fool.”

“Well, thanks for the compliment.”

“And it’s because you’re not such a fool that you should be able to see where your only interest lies. It’s yourself you should be thinking about. And if you really think about yourself you’ll get out, pronto.”

He sat back and took a long drink of his Caribbean Special. He had had his say and was waiting for results. He set the glass down empty.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Fletcher asked.

“Are you going?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure are a stubborn son-of-a-bitch,” Brogan said.

He finished his drink and they both got up and walked out. Fletcher watched their departure with some misgiving. Perhaps he was being a fool; perhaps he should have taken the money and cleared out. Certainly he was happy where he was, but it was not the only place in the world, not the only place where he could settle down and write that book—if he ever did write it. So why had he not pocketed an easy two thousand dollars and packed his bags? Well, maybe because he disliked being pushed around, being told what was best for his health and what he ought to do about it. So he would stay put; he would stay right where he was and please himself.

He drank the Caribbean Special that Hutchins had paid for and felt a touch of smug self-satisfaction at having made his own decision, at having had the strength of character to order his own affairs and never mind what other people might advise him to do. But the satisfaction failed to last long, because it occurred to him that there was not much advantage in making your own decisions if they turned out to be the wrong ones; and not much joy in
ordering your own affairs, either, if the only result was to bring a load of trouble tumbling about your ears.

He ordered another drink to see what that would do for him, and it did very little. He came to the conclusion that the Caribbean Special was after all an over-rated form of refreshment and decided to go back to Port Morgan.

Joby arrived home earlier than expected. The Americans had soon tired of Mariana Bay and had decided to return to Jamestown. Joby had decanted them on to the pier and had taken his pay and come home.

Fletcher told him about the two men who had introduced themselves to him and made him an offer. Joby listened with a slightly worried expression on his face.

“An’ you don’ know who they were?” he said when Fletcher had finished. “I mean apart from the names.”

“I’ve a good idea,” Fletcher said.

“So how ’bout tellin’ me?”

“Well, who else would they be but C.I.A. men? Who else would be interested enough to make an offer like that?”

“Why would the C.I.A. be that keen to get you out of the island?”

“I don’t know.”

“You reckon this here’s a political thing?”

“It certainly begins to have that kind of look. Doesn’t it seem that way to you?”

“Mebbe so,” Joby said. “An’ you refused the money?”

“Yes.”

“Why, man, why?”

“Perhaps because I happen to like being here.”

“Mebbe you shoulda taken it all the same.”

“Do you mean you want to get rid of me? Is that what you’re saying?”

Joby made a motion of the shoulders. “Look, you know it ain’t that we don’ like havin’ you here. We like it fine. All the same, mebbe it’d have bin wiser to take the cash an’ beat it. Seems like somethin’ could be buildin’ up. Like a hurricane mebbe. Best to run for shelter when there’s a hurricane comin’.”

Fletcher could see how uneasy Joby was, and he wondered whether it would be quite fair to him—and to Paulina and the children—if he were to stay on. If he brought trouble on himself he might bring trouble on them also. But what trouble could he bring on himself or them? It was all nonsense; no trouble was coming to him or them. Still, if Joby wanted him out of the way he would go.

“Are you asking me to leave?” he said. “Are you telling me you’d rather I wasn’t here?”

Joby seemed to be avoiding his eyes, as though embarrassed by the question.“I’m leavin’ it to you.”

“Well,” Fletcher said, “I’ll think about it, if that’s the way you feel. Maybe I’ll go; yes, maybe I will. We’ll see.”

“An’ take the dollars?”

“They may not still be on offer.”

“Be a pity to lose all that lovely money,” Joby said. “A real pity.”

Fletcher was inclined to agree with him on that point.

He walked down to the Treasure Ship in the evening and bought himself a drink. Fat Annie served him.

“Had any more Leopards throwing their weight about?” Fletcher asked.

Annie shook her head, agitating the folds of flesh under her chin. “No, we ain’t. Don’t want none, neither. We had the cops, though.”

“The police! What did they want?”

“Wanted to know where Mr. Dharam Singh lived.”

“And I suppose you told them?”

“Why not? Ain’t no secret.”

“That’s true,” Fletcher said. “When was this?”

Annie glanced at the brass clock on the wall behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, mebbe. Somethin’ wrong, Mist’ Fletcher?”

“I hope not,” Fletcher said. “I just hope not.”

He finished the drink quickly and left Fat Annie in the Treasure Ship with a faintly puzzled expression on her broad expanse of face.

The front door of Dharam Singh’s house was standing open and he could see the electric bulb shining in the glass chandelier. There was a big black car parked outside the house with nobody in it, and there were lights showing in the upper windows but there was not a peep of sound coming from up there. The sisters appeared to be keeping themselves very quiet, so perhaps they had heard the police car arrive and had decided it might be wise to attract as little attention as possible. If there were any visitors on the premises, they seemed to be keeping their heads down, too.

He did not bother to ring the bell, but walked straight in. He was damned if he knew why he did so, since the police were just about the last people he wanted to see
right then; but there was a kind of compulsion driving him, an irresistible curiosity regarding what was going on. It might have nothing whatever to do with him—and he hoped it had not—but he was afraid it might, and that was the devil of it; he was only too much afraid it might.

The hall was deserted, but he knew where they were because he could hear them. He turned to the left and went down a short passageway and found himself in the doorway of the studio. The place was in a hell of a mess. There were two policemen in uniform and they had iron-tipped batons with which they appeared to be breaking everything in sight. There was another heavily-built man in plain clothes who was evidently directing operations, and Dharam Singh was there with some blood trickling from his mouth, which seemed to indicate that he had attempted to protect his property and had received a blow in the face for his pains. Mrs. Singh was there too, holding her husband’s hand and watching with a horrified expression the destruction that was taking place. The rest of the family were keeping out of sight, which was probably the wisest thing to do.

When Dharam Singh saw Fletcher he tore himself away from his wife, ran to the door and grabbed Fletcher’s arm.

“Mr. Fletcher, sir, tell them to stop. Tell them I am an honest, innocent man. Tell them I have done nothing wrong. Mr. Fletcher, my dear sir, I beseech you, I beg of you, save me from ruin.”

“But what’s going on?” Fletcher asked.

“What is going on!” Dharam Singh raised both hands above his head in a gesture of despair. “Oh, my goodness, you ask what is going on! Do you not see? They are destroying everything, everything. How can I do my work
if all is gone? How can I live? How can I earn bread for my family? Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Fletcher, sir, what is to become of me?”

“There must have been some mistake.”

“A mistake! Oh, my goodness, yes, a mistake!” Dharam Singh gave a hysterical laugh. “And the mistake will cost me all I possess. That is the kind of mistake it is. What am I to do? Tell me, good sir, what am I to do?”

Fletcher had no idea what to advise the photographer to do, and he still could not understand why the policemen were there; but he had no further chance of discussing the matter with Dharam Singh because the plain-clothes policeman came across to him and said:

“Are you Mr. Fletcher? Mr. John Fletcher?”

“I am,” Fletcher said; and had a sudden wish that he might have been somebody else.

“My name’s McIver—Sergeant McIver.” The policeman flipped open a warrant card, and the name was there sure enough. “You’ve saved us a bit of trouble. We were coming for you.”

It sounded ominous to Fletcher, and his stomach gave a kind of flutter. “For me? Why?”

“We have to take you to Jamestown. Colonel Vincent wants to see you.”

“At this hour! Can’t it wait until morning?”

Sergeant McIver shook his head. It was a large head, like a block of ebony topped by a narrow-brimmed straw hat. “No, sir, it cannot wait. There’s a car standing outside.”

“I saw it.”

“You and Mr. Singh will both come with us to Jamestown.” He snapped an order at the two uniformed men.
They stopped smashing things; there was little left to smash anyway.

Dharam Singh began to protest volubly. Sergeant McIver struck him on the mouth with the back of his hand, causing more blood to flow and silencing the protests.

“You didn’t have to do that‚” Fletcher said.

Mclver stared at him coldly. “Are you telling me how to do my work?”

“I’m saying it wasn’t necessary to hit the man.”

“Look,” Mclver said, “I’ll decide what’s necessary. You just do what you’re told. Okay?”

Fletcher shrugged. It was no use arguing.

“Let’s go,” Mclver said.

Mrs. Singh clung to her husband and started wailing, as though she saw them being parted for ever. One of the uniformed policemen tore her away from him while the other took Dharam Singh by the arm and marched him out of the room. He went quietly, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief, apparently resigned to his fate. Fletcher was resigned also; he went with the others out of the house and got into the car. One of the uniformed men drove, with Sergeant McIver sitting beside him. The other policeman sat in the back with Fletcher and Dharam Singh. Mrs. Singh watched them go, weeping and wringing her hands in despair.

Colonel Vincent looked at Fletcher in silence for a while. Captain Green was also present. It was, Fletcher reflected, a kind of reunion; but it was not one he would have wished to attend. He did not think he was very much in favour
with these two men; the way Colonel Vincent was looking at him certainly indicated that he was not.

He had been separated from Dharam Singh. Singh had been led away by Sergeant McIver, a tragic expression on his face, and Fletcher had no idea what was going to happen to him. He was completely in the dark regarding the nature of Dharam Singh’s crime—if there had been a crime.

At last Colonel Vincent gave a sigh. “You did not tell me everything‚” he said.

Fletcher tried to give the impression of a man who did not understand. “Not everything?”

“Yesterday—when you came to report the discovery of a sunken boat and five dead men. You made us believe that you had given a full and complete account of the incident; but you had not. There was one important detail that you had omitted, wasn’t there?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Can’t you? If that is so you must have a very short memory. But I don’t believe that. I believe you are perfectly well aware of the detail I am referring to and that you purposely omitted it because you did not wish us to know about it. Mr. Fletcher, why didn’t you tell us you took photographs of the boat and the men?”

“What makes you think I took photographs?” Fletcher asked; and he was wondering why Dharam Singh should have told them and why they should have rewarded him for the information by smashing up his studio and taking him into custody. It seemed a very ungrateful thing to do.

For answer Colonel Vincent unlocked a drawer in the mahogany desk and pulled out a newspaper. He opened it out and pushed it across the desk towards Fletcher.

“Take a look at that.”

Fletcher took a look at it. It was not a very well printed paper but the pictures on the front page were clear enough for him to recognise them. There were three: one showing the name of the boat,
Halcón
Español
;
one showing a general view of the five bodies in the cabin; and another giving a close-up of one of the men and the bullet-hole in his head. There were possibly other pictures on another page, but he did not look for them; three were enough. He saw that the paper was called
Freedom,
and there was a banner headline reading: “Why is this crime being hushed up?”

Fletcher had heard of
Freedom,
though this was the first time he had seen a copy. It was an underground left-wing paper dedicated to the cause of overthrowing the President and his regime, and it was a crime even to be seen reading it. The
Freedom
press had several times been discovered and destroyed and its operators arrested, but always, after a brief interval of silence, it would spring up again like some cut-down weed the seeds of which had been left hidden in the soil.

Colonel Vincent tapped the paper with his forefinger. “In case you might imagine that this rag is already in circulation,” he said, “I may as well tell you that we have here the only surviving copy. Fortunately we received information which led us to the press and we were able to seize the entire edition before distribution could start.”

“That was very fortunate,” Fletcher said.

“Now I ask you again: why didn’t you tell us you had taken these photographs?”

“You think I took them?”

Colonel Vincent made a gesture of impatience. “Surely you are not going to be stupid enough to deny it?”

Fletcher did not answer the question. He said: “And you also think I supplied these pictures to
Freedom
?”

Vincent shook his head. “No. We know who supplied them—Dharam Singh.”

Fletcher had already worked that out for himself. Singh had evidently kept copies of the photographs and as a good man of business had seen where he could sell them. Apparently he had known how to get in touch with the editor of
Freedom,
but that was not altogether surprising; he was the kind of man who would have that sort of knowledge. Only in this instance he had over-reached himself and had brought the roof down on his head. It was obvious now why the police had been smashing up his place.

“And Dharam Singh told you I took the photographs?”

Vincent smiled coldly. “There was no need. Where else would he have got them?”

“He is a photographer himself.”

“But not a skin-diver.”

“There are plenty of skin-divers knocking around.”

“But only one who has reported finding a sunken boat.”

“Some people don’t like reporting things to the police.”

“And some people make only incomplete reports. Come, Mr. Fletcher, tell the truth. You took the photographs, didn’t you?”

There was not much point in denying it; they would not have believed him. And even if Dharam Singh had not already made a statement regarding the origin of the photographs, there could be little doubt that he soon would.

“Yes,” he said; “I took them.”

“And why didn’t you tell us?”

“I was afraid you’d pinch the film.”

Both Vincent and Green gave a laugh at that; it seemed
to touch their sense of humour. Fletcher joined in the laughter, but he was not really feeling like it. Not there; not then. His laughter was a little strained.

It all ended abruptly.

“You should have known we would need the photographs,” Vincent said.

“I thought you might prefer to take your own.”

It sounded thin even to him, and he could see that it sounded thin to them, too. Colonel Vincent pressed his lips together and looked sceptical.

“Why did you take the film to Dharam Singh?” Captain Green asked.

“He’s the one I’ve always taken my films to. He’s handy.”