The Spanish Hawk (1969) (8 page)

It was the first time he had caught a glimpse of the driver’s face; the floppy hat had effectively screened it from his view. Therefore he had not realised that the driver was female and white. The accent said she was American, too.

“I should have introduced you,” King said; and he sounded faintly amused. “Leonora, this is Mr. John Fletcher.”

“I guessed,” she said. “Who else could it be? Hi, John.”

“Hi, Leonora,” Fletcher said. “Where’s home?”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Home is where you make it.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Now I know everything.”

He began to wonder how an American girl came to be mixed up with people like King and Lawrence, people who could do such deadly work with machetes; but it was not a question to go into just then. Besides, he did not yet know who the two men were, or why they should be so interested in him. But perhaps all would eventually be made clear. One thing at least began to look more and more certain as the Ford got further and further away from Jamestown: he was not likely to be back at Joby’s very early. In fact, it seemed more than possible that he would not return that night. Which was likely to throw his plans for a morning departure sadly out of gear.

“Do we have far to go?” he asked.

“It’s not that big an island‚” King said. “How could it be far?”

It was a large rambling old house somewhere in the hill country on the northern side of the island. To get to it they had to leave the tarred highway and take to some roads that were even worse than the one between Jamestown and Port Morgan; really rough, with some pretty steep gradients and hairpin bends that called for no little skill on the part of the driver. Picked out by the headlights of the Ford, some of the going looked hazardous indeed, and Fletcher decided that he himself would have preferred to make the drive in daylight.

He was relieved when they reached the end of the journey and Leonora brought the car to a halt in front of the house. There seemed to be no lack of lights around the place, and he concluded that a generator was working somewhere, since it was in far too isolated a situation to get its electricity in any other way. They got out of the car and climbed some wide stone steps to a spacious terrace of the same material. From the terrace they went into the house, which at first glance seemed to be an expanse of polished wood floors and heavy furniture that could well have been there from the time when the building had been completed.

The man who greeted them appeared to be about fifty; his hair was greying and his skin was tan rather than black. He was of medium height, lean and rather handsome, elegantly dressed, and with a keenly intelligent look about him. Fletcher had the feeling that he had seen him somewhere
before, but he could not remember where or when.

“Well, Mr. Fletcher,” the man said, “I’m very glad you were able to come.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Fletcher said.

“No? You will have to tell me about that. However, the main thing is that you are here.” He held out his hand and it would have seemed ridiculous as well as rude to refuse it. The grip was firm but not prolonged. “My name is Conrad Denning.”

Fletcher knew then why he had had that impression of having seen the man before. Different though the two might be in physique and many other ways, there was nevertheless a certain unmistakable facial resemblance between Mr. Denning and President Clayton Rodgers. And this was really not so very surprising, since Denning and Rodgers happened to be cousins.

“Mr. Fletcher,” Denning said, “you are welcome to my house, very welcome indeed.”

They talked in a large comfortable drawing-room which opened on to the terrace, and Fletcher kept remembering things he had heard about Conrad Denning. Like his cousin, Denning had studied law in the United States, and he had a practice in Jamestown. He was reputed to be a wealthy man and had at one time been prominent on the political scene, but he had opposed Clayton Rodgers and had lost; as Rodgers’s star ascended, so Denning’s faded—at least in the political sense. It was said that he had only avoided imprisonment or banishment from the island by agreeing to abandon politics altogether and never again meddle in affairs of state. So he had retired into the background and had concentrated on his legal business. It was safer than fighting the President.

“You are no doubt wondering‚” Denning said, “what there can possibly be that we should wish to talk to you about.”

Fletcher smiled. “I’d have to be pretty incurious not to wonder about that. You went to some lengths to get me here.”

“It became a little more complicated than we had anticipated. We were not expecting you to be carried off
by those thugs. Incidentally, what did they want of you?”

“They wanted to convince me that the island climate was bad for my health and that I ought to leave without delay.”

“But I believe you had already decided to do that. Didn’t you tell them so?”

“I told them, but I don’t think they believed me. Either that or they wanted to make sure I didn’t change my mind. And I think they took pleasure in the job for its own sake; they seemed to get quite a kick out of it.”

“They would. How are you feeling now?”

“Stiff and sore.”

“It could have been worse. If help had not arrived—”

“I’m not disagreeing with that,” Fletcher said. “But you still haven’t told me the reason. Why did you want to bring me here? What do you want to talk about?”

“About a sunken boat and five dead men, shall we say?”

Fletcher was not surprised. It seemed to be what everyone wanted to talk to him about. “Yes,” he said; “it had to be that. But how did you hear about it?”

“Information has a way of getting around once it’s been set moving. And the name of the boat was, I believe,
Halcón
Español
Right?”

Fletcher remembered the warnings he had had. “I don’t know that I want to talk about it.”

“Because the police told you not to? Because Colonel Vincent advised you to keep a still tongue, perhaps?”

Fletcher reflected that Denning seemed to know a great deal. Information certainly had a way of getting around, though he could not understand how.

“There were others.”

“Ah, yes. Americans, possibly?”

So he knew that too. Or guessed.

It was the girl who broke in now. She was sitting on a sofa with her legs tucked under her and her shoes kicked off; and now that he could see her clearly Fletcher had to admit to himself that she had a lot going for her physically. He would have put her age at about twenty-five or so, and she was dark-haired, sloe-eyed, and with a pretty good sun-tan, which was not surprising considering the climate. She was wearing a shirt and slacks, and he thought she looked fine in them. She would have looked fine in just about anything—or nothing, if it came to that.

“Look, John,” she said, using his first name in that easy way Americans had, “why bother about all that official secret garbage? We know you found the boat, so let’s take it as read, shall we?”

“Well, if you know all about it already,” Fletcher said, “why did you go to the trouble of bringing me here? You could have saved yourselves a deal of bother.”

She glanced at Denning, leaving it to him.

Denning said: “There’s something else we want to know. What happened to the other photographs?”

“What do you mean by other photographs?” Fletcher asked.

“I mean there was one set of prints that Dharam Singh held back and then sold to
Freedom.
They were destroyed when the press was raided by the police. Singh may have kept others, but they will also have been destroyed or confiscated by the same people. That leaves the negatives and the prints he made for you. What we should like to know is, do you still have them?”

Fletcher shook his head. “No.”

Denning seemed disappointed. “No?”

“You appear to be so very well informed,” Fletcher said, “I should have thought you would have known that when the police picked up Dharam Singh they picked me up too. They guessed that I must have taken the photographs and they weren’t at all pleased with me for not having mentioned them when I reported finding the boat. I think it was touch and go whether or not they slung me in the jug, but finally I was let off with a caution. Then a Captain Green accompanied me back to Port Morgan and picked up the prints and negatives. He seemed to be in half a mind to take the camera as well, but he let me keep it. I suppose he thought I was hardly likely to go out to the wreck again and take another set of photographs.”

“And you didn’t keep any copies?”

“How could I? He was breathing down my neck all the time like a damned bloodhound.”

“I thought you might perhaps already have hidden some away.”

“Why the devil should I do that?”

Denning sighed. “Why, indeed! I suppose it never occurred to you that there might be such a demand for them?”

“You can bet your life it didn’t. And I still don’t understand why there’s such a song and dance about them.”

He thought Denning might give him an explanation, but he was to be disappointed in that. Denning was silent; he seemed to be thinking.

Fletcher looked at King. “You seem to have had all your bother for nothing. No pictures.”

“You should be glad we took the bother,” King said.

“Oh, I am. Believe me, I’m very grateful.”

Denning gave him a speculative look. “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course I mean it. Do you think I enjoy being beaten up?”

“In that case perhaps you would be prepared to show your gratitude in a practical way.”

Warning bells started ringing in Fletcher’s head; he had a nasty feeling that he was about to be asked to do something which might get him into more trouble. And he wanted no more; he just wanted to get away from it all; far, far away.

He answered warily: “What kind of way would that be?”

“You said just now you supposed Captain Green must have thought it was hardly likely you’d be fool enough to go back to the wreck and take some more pictures.”

“Now wait,” Fletcher said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to ask me to do just that.”

They were all staring at him now; he could almost feel them putting the pressure on him with their eyes.

“Why not?” Denning said.

“Why not! I’ll tell you why not. Because it’s crazy, that’s why not; just downright crazy.”

“Why crazy?”

“Well, for one thing because there wouldn’t be a chance of doing it. There’ll be police hanging around. They’ll be dredging up the bodies. Maybe salvaging the boat.”

“I don’t think so,” Denning said. “I don’t think the police will take any action of that kind whatever.”

“You may not think so, but that’s hardly good enough, is it? And even if they aren’t there, it wouldn’t be the same, you know.”

“In what way?”

“The corpses. I don’t know a lot about such things, but I’d say they’ll be deteriorating all the time. The pictures might not be so good.”

“That’s a risk we’d have to take.”

Which was all very fine for him, Fletcher thought. Who did he imagine was the joker who would be taking the risk?

“It can’t be done anyway.”

“No?” Denning said. “Why not?”

“I haven’t got my camera and diving gear.”

“But you know where they are.”

“And you think I can simply walk in and pick them up and tell Joby Thomas I want him to take me out to the same place? He’d never do it; never in a million years.”

“I was not suggesting that you should go with Mr. Thomas. This time we will provide the boat.”

“You?”

“Certainly. That’s no problem.”

“But there’s still the other problem.”

“You mean getting the camera?”

“Yes.”

“But it could be done. And you don’t need to bother about the diving gear; we can provide that too.”

“Are you suggesting I go back tonight and pick up the camera?”

“No; it is too late and there would be the risk of the car being stopped. I have a feeling, Mr. Fletcher, that after what has happened you may be on the police wanted list. Don’t you think it’s possible?”

“That’s all I needed,” Fletcher said. “So how do you
expect me to get the camera? Do I just go back to Port Morgan tomorrow in broad daylight?”

Denning shook his head. “No; that would be very unwise indeed.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“That you wait until tomorrow night.”

“And then go and pick it up?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Fletcher said, “but it’s not on; it’s simply not on.”

Denning frowned. “You mean you don’t think you can get the camera?”

“Well, it could be a bit dodgy; but I wasn’t thinking about that part of the operation. It’s the other part that really gives me the willies.”

“You mean the underwater work?”

“Yes.”

Surely you are not telling me you’re afraid?” Denning sounded incredulous.

“That’s exactly what I am telling you, and I don’t mind admitting it. But even if I wasn’t, I’m not sure I’d want to do it.”

“So much for gratitude,” Leonora said.

There was enough scorn in her voice to sting a little, and Fletcher turned on her sharply.

“Don’t push it too hard. I don’t think anyone was acting solely in my interests. Anyway, I’ve had strict orders not to meddle any further in this business.”

“Orders from the police?”

“Yes.”

“You think you owe them anything? Looks to me like they’re not using any kid-glove methods with you.”

“You mean the beating up? That wasn’t the police; it was another lot.”

“We know who it was; but all orders come from the same source, ultimately. They’re all working for the same man. You know that. Are you going to take this sort of thing lying down? Don’t you want to hit back at them? Don’t you have any spirit, for Pete’s sake, or are you just one big spineless slob?”

He was stung again by her words and the tone in which they were spoken, though he knew that that was her purpose. She wanted to goad him into doing what they asked. But he saw no reason why he should, and a lot of very good reasons why he should not.

“If you’re so keen on the damned photos,” he said, “why don’t you get somebody else to take them? Why doesn’t one of you go down there and have a shot at it?”

“We don’t have anyone with the necessary experience, that’s why. If we had, do you think we’d bother with you?”

Fletcher laughed. “So now we’re getting to the truth. You really need me, don’t you?”

“You need us, too,” Denning said softly.

Fletcher glanced at him quickly. “How do you figure that out?”

“You’re in our hands. We could hand you over to the police.”

“The police haven’t got anything on me.”

“No? You think they won’t connect the death of two men in a burnt-out hut in a junk-yard with you? There’ll be witnesses to swear that you left Port Morgan with the two men in a car. They’ll take fingerprints from the car and match them up with yours. Would you like to make a bet
you didn’t touch anything? Think about it, Mr. Fletcher; think about it.”

Fletcher thought about it and saw the kind of situation he was in. If the police got hold of him again they would surely lock him away this time, and maybe he would never get out again alive, however hard he tried to explain things and however much he might protest his innocence. Protestations would not be enough, not nearly enough.

“With us,” Denning said, “you are safe. Being with us is possibly the only way you are safe. You have so many enemies, so few friends. Think about it.”

It was a situation that left him little choice. He was in it now, in it up to the neck, and he could see no way out.

“I came to write a book,” he said, “and look what’s happened.”

“You’ll still live to write the book,” Denning said. “But you’re with us now.”

It was what King had said. Fletcher was beginning to think it might be true.

“So I’m to stay here tonight?”

“There is a room prepared for you?” Denning said.

It was a large pleasant room with a balcony. From the balcony there was a magnificent view, as he discovered when he got up in the morning. From the terrace in front of the house the ground fell away fairly steeply at first, then more gently. He could see the road up which they had come the previous night; it was like a narrow stream meandering between outcrops of rock, trees, undergrowth; creeping ever downwards until it finally disappeared from sight. To the left and right the hills were green with the
abundant vegetation, mist still rising like steam from hollows into which the sun’s heat had not yet penetrated. It was the kind of country in which a man could vanish and evade pursuit, perhaps for years, perhaps for ever. Guerrilla country.

He went to the bathroom and found that a razor had been provided. He shaved and took a shower and went down to breakfast. Leonora was there, but not the others. She was wearing a multi-coloured shirt and a brief denim skirt. It was the first glimpse he had had of her legs and he could find nothing wrong with them. Taken all in all, he decided that she was the kind of girl it would be pleasant to have breakfast with; and perhaps not just once, either.

She cocked her head on one side and gave him a critical inspection. “John!” she said. “You look well enough. How do you feel?”

“A lot better than might have been expected,” Fletcher told her. “Apart from a few bruises and some stiffness here and there, I feel fine.”

“That’s good. We wouldn’t have wanted a cripple on our hands.”

“You’re looking at it simply from your own point of view, of course?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, come now, John; you’re not expecting tea and sympathy and all that jazz, are you? This is a tough, cynical old world, and you have to face up to it.”