“He may have been,” Fleming told him. “But what the Mounties found was rather worse than that.” His voice dropped as he tried to dismiss his apprehension from his thoughts. “I think it’s prudent to keep those details off the page, unless the Canadians release the information to the press.”

  “We’re dealing with very dangerous men here,” said Powell, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “And desperate, too, I should think,” Fleming said softly. Once again he had the impression that he had overlooked something about this investigation, something he had noticed earlier, but that he had relegated to the stack of apparently minor details that was not—the thing continued to elude him. “I’ll see what I can determine by tomorrow. And I’ll need to make a call to the States in the morning. Will the paper pay for it?”

  “Is it necessary?” Powell asked with a fatalistic sigh.

  “Very likely. I won’t be certain until I make it,” said Fleming.

  Cesar came to the door with a platter of little thimble-quiches and mushrooms stuffed with cheese-and-crab, all toasty from the broiler. “I thought you might like something to whet your appetites, sah,” he announced as he set the platter down on the table.

  “Thank you, Cesar,” said Fleming, managing a smile, although the juxtaposition of food and the discussion of hideous slaughter did not pique his hunger. “I know we’ll enjoy them.”

  “Thank you, sah,” said Cesar, and withdrew.

  “You have a wonderful houseman there, Fleming,” said Powell around a mouthful of quiche.

  “I know,” said Fleming. He reached out and took one of the stuffed mushrooms, popped it in his mouth, and let himself enjoy the savor of it.

  “I think I’ll check with Toronto again tomorrow morning.” He chewed on another quiche. “They may have released something more. In a case like this, I’d like to have a hard source we can cite, like the Los Alamos material. Speculation can get us into trouble.”

  “Attribution instead of supposition,” said Fleming with a nod.

  “So do you have any recommendations how I might go about this?” Powell asked with a slight, impish smile.

  “Hotchkiss, my FBI contact, mentioned a Captain MacGregor; you might see if you can get him to confirm any of this—officially,” Fleming suggested. He looked about uneasily as if he expected someone to appear with more bad news.

  “Captain MacGregor,” said Powell, committing the name to memory. “Do you happen to know where he’s posted?”

  “Winnipeg, I should think,” said Fleming. “If not, Winnipeg should be able to find him for you.”

  Powell shook his head. “It could be difficult. The RCMP can be as closed-mouthed as MI5.”

  “Put Miss Butterly on it. She’s the best blood-hound on your floor.” Fleming rose and began to pace.

  “She’s a good filly, no doubt,” said Powell.

  “Hardly a filly anymore,” Fleming said, and chuckled, flicking his ash away as punctuation.

  “Point taken.” Powell held up the pages and read them again.

  When the silence lengthened, Fleming said, “Well?”

  “I’m trying to decide how to divide the piece, what sort of lead-in from this to the second article would be most effective.” He studied the pages a bit longer. “It’ll come to me,” he said, and finished his gin-and-tonic. “I agree that this can be a very big story, and we’re in a unique position to take full advantage of it. No other paper has put together the information we have.” He tossed his head to show his determination and confidence.

  “And we might even perform a service to the Empire.” Fleming’s sardonic note wasn’t noticeable to Powell.

  “So we might, and a little gratitude in high places can be very worthwhile,” said Powell.

  “Without doubt,” Fleming agreed, and took another long drag on his cigarette.

  Powell had another two thimble-quiches, and around the food, he asked, “How much time will you need to finish the story?”

  “As it stands now? Perhaps three days. At least the first layer; I’ll know more after the weekend, and if there’s more to it, then who knows.” Fleming stubbed out his cigarette and sipped at his brandy.

  “Do you think there is more to this story?” Powell asked, so unconcernedly that Fleming knew it was one of his primary considerations.

  “I think it’s possible. I don’t know that it’ll be as dramatic as Robertson, but it is enough to light some fires, I’d say.” He didn’t feel entirely comfortable admitting this, but he knew he owed it to Powell to tell him.

  “You sound as if you expect more espionage to be revealed,” said Powell. “Surely Robertson is the whole of it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Fleming. “I think Churchill has discouraged the remaining Nazis, but there might be more Communists out there.”

  “Because of the War?” Powell said.

  “Yes, in part, and it is a beguiling philosophy for some,” said Fleming, then added more crisply, “Of course, if you want to be accurate, the Russians aren’t really Communists at all—they’re Socialists in an authoritarian, monopolistic state, not that anyone pays any attention to such things. How can anyone reconcile the gulag to the principles of Communism? Marx would find it totally unacceptable. They practice their sort of Socialism in a totalitarian regime, and call it Communism, and the people are too frightened and ignorant to challenge him.” He sighed. “Stalin is the worst enemy his people ever had, if only they knew.”

  “But they say the people love him,” said Powell.

  “Because they know he’s listening,” said Fleming, and shrugged. “We’re not going to change that. For what it may be worth, I don’t think we’re hunting Reds in the name of peace. I haven’t come across anything that smells Russian; I would tell you if I had, and I would have handed my information over to MI5. If you want my opinion, the men were not killed out of political differences, but something more dangerous: financial despotism. I think those men were killed so that someone could make profits without being restricted or questioned, or even noticed. I think this man, or men, have made themselves as invisible as anyone of wealth can be, and that he, or they, will do whatever is necessary to remain undetected. So I don’t anticipate another out-cry such as Robertson has caused. That would be too much to hope for. At best, I trust we’ll find out why those two men died, and who is responsible.”

  “Have you any theories about that—other than it isn’t political?” Powell asked, trying his best to look encouraging.

  “Nothing so defined as a theory,” said Fleming. “I have an inkling or two, and a hunch, but nothing I can discuss yet.”

  “Why not, pray?” Powell inquired with extreme politeness.

  “Sorry,” said Fleming, shaking his head slowly. “There’s a lot to review here, and I want to have a careful look at all of it before I commit myself. I need something more to go on. I’m asking you to take a chance on my intuition, although I realize this might not be enough for you.” He thought about Sir William for a moment, wondering if he should mention the man to Powell, decided against it, and added, “I think I should keep mum about what I think until I have a better handle on it; I don’t want to put anyone at risk inadvertently.”

  “That’s acceptable to me,” Powell said, handing Fleming the sheets of type-written paper. “When we’ve finished eating, I’ll decide how to present this.” He smiled, adding, “If this goes well, they’ll call you back to London.”

  “Not precisely the result I was hoping for,” Fleming said, looking around his lounge as it glowed in the rich light of sunset.

  “Oh, yes, Jamaica is a lovely place, and you can find tranquility here that isn’t possible in London, but you don’t advance here. At best, you have the opportunity to vegetate in comfort. But you’re not ready for that. This can be your ticket to recognition and success. Come back here when you’ve earned your laurels and your fortune so you can live comfortably, with electricity and a better roof, and a second house for Cesar and his wife. You can keep this as your holiday retreat, but don’t turn down the advantages only to be had in London.” He coughed, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go on like that.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” said Fleming. “I’ll think over all you say.”

  “Your situation is different from mine,” said Powell, pressing his point. “I’ve reached my niche and we all know it. I’m satisfied, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want my best reporter to get the opportunities he deserves.”

  Fleming could think of nothing to say and so was doubly grateful when Cesar came to the door and announced that dinner was served.

  Chapter 34

  As THEY shared port and a ripe Stilton, Fleming said to Powell, “There’s some kind of to-do at Walter Sissons’s estate this weekend—Lord Broxton is going. It seems to be a very exclusive affair. I was wondering if you could winkle me an invitation, on behalf of the paper, of course.” He had been planning all through the meal to ask this favor, and had waited for just the right moment, which this seemed to be.

  Powell frowned. “Why? I thought you disliked Lord Broxton.”

  “Oh, I do. But something he said makes me think that there will be information to be gleaned during the festivities; there’s more going on there than meets the eye, if I read this right. If nothing else, I can report on the occasion itself, as a social event.” Fleming had a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, and he used it for emphasis, drawing smoke-sketches in the air. “But I’m convinced that something more than a party will be happening there, or so I have reason to suspect.” He thought back to the conversation he had heard between Sissons and Lord Broxton and decided that he was making the right move.

  “Something to do with this story?” Powell asked, placing his elbows on the table to demonstrate his obduracy.

  “I think it is very possible,” said Fleming. “If not, it may point to some garden-variety corruption, but that is still worth a half a column, if I can get solid information.” He took a last drag on his cigarette. “There is something going on, and I don’t trust it.”

  “How much more can you tell me?” Powell watched him closely. “I can tell you’ve been holding something back.”

  Fleming coughed, chagrined at being caught in his lack of candor. “Well, I can say that there is good reason to be alert to a new development at the harbor. I can also say there is more at risk here than a lucrative contract, although that is probably a factor.” He stared at the curtained windows, hoping he could explain his misgivings.

  “Which harbor?” Powell demanded.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what is planned, either, or what it’s supposed to accomplish. But I should know after this weekend. I should also know who is bidding on the work, and who is likely to be awarded the work, whatever it is.” He drank a little more port. “I’m not setting the Krandall-Preussin-perhaps-Cathcart investigation aside—in fact, I think there could be a connection. Monsieur Soleilsur’s name comes up in both contexts.” He achieved a tight-mouthed smile.

  “If you say so, Fleming,” Powell responded with a heavy shake of his head.

  “I have it all in the notes. If I can unearth more information about Soleilsur between now and Thursday, I know I can turn it to good use.” This last was more hope than certainty, but he spoke confidently, trying to persuade himself as much as Powell.

  “I assume this means you want to use our resources?” Powell said, sighing.

  “Yours, and others,” Fleming said, thinking of Henry Long and Dominique. “I want to be careful; nothing too obvious from any single source. I don’t want to send up any flares that might warn Soleilsur I’m looking into him.”

  “Do you think that could be a problem?” Powell was still not convinced.

  “I think Monsieur Soleilsur may be inclined to cause trouble for anyone snooping around his company. He’s the sort who doesn’t like being under scrutiny. And he’s rich as Croesus and has a Midas touch as well, if what I have found out is correct. I haven’t hard proof, but I do know that he has a great deal to gain from business expansion, and not all of it is money—he’s increasing his influence politically as well.” Fleming looked up at the ceiling as if he could discern something in its old plaster medallion or the kerosene chandelier that provided the light for the room.

  “Upon what do you base these assumptions?” Powell asked, helping himself to the Stilton.

  “I base them on the way in which his name and his company seem to be haunting all the information I have obtained about the dead men; that, and a few remarks I’ve heard bruited about. Put out on the page, it looks pretty ephemeral, but there’s a smell to it, I swear to heaven there is.” He wouldn’t disclose what he had learned of Dominique and her implied dealings with Monsieur Soleilsur—she was the kind of source Powell would view askance.

  “Or you may be curious about a successful industrialist,” said Powell. “Not that I blame you. The man’s quite a mystery, for what I’ve been told.”

  “It’s always intriguing to discover someone who is going to such lengths to remain invisible,” said Fleming. “I can’t help but wonder what he has to hide.”

  “Now, there I’m with you,” said Powell. “Is there any more of your port?”

  Fleming obliged Powell by pouring him another drink. “I have another bottle, if this won’t be enough.”

  Powell laughed. “I should think this will suffice, thank you.”

  “Very good,” said Fleming, and cleared his throat. “I believe this could become dangerous.”

  “You mean this weekend party could be hazardous to your well-being?” Powell asked incredulously. “You may be a bit too close to the case, but it’s possible you’re on to something, as well.” He was thinking aloud as he sipped at his port.

  “My thought precisely,” said Fleming. “I know I’ll have to be ready for trouble.”

  “It isn’t that dramatic a situation, is it?” Powell mused.

  “I hope not, but it may be,” said Fleming.

  “Leftover War nerves, I’d reckon,” said Powell, having more of the port. He put his hand down flatly. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get you an invitation, and I’ll arrange for you to be there officially, for the paper. I’ll say you’re supposed to get coverage on the men bidding for the harbor expansion project, for profiles. That way you can get interviews without raising eyebrows.”

  “Thank you,” said Fleming, doing his best not to smile.

  “So, you will do a few interviews while you’re there, and we will print them, so I won’t destroy our credibility. We can’t have men of Lord Broxton’s position thinking ill of us.”

  “Not here, certainly. In London, it might be a cachet,” Fleming remarked, still resisting the urge to smile. “All right. I think I can get three interviews out of it, at least.” He thought of the three notes he had received, warning him off, and he suppressed a shudder: he would be going precisely where he was not wanted, and that gave him pause.

  “Something the matter?” Powell asked, taking a bit more cheese.

  “Goose walked over my grave,” said Fleming, and had a bit more port.

  Powell nodded. “I know the feeling. It’s probably just the travel.” He patted the table-top as if to reassure it. “Get some rest tonight, but be sure you’ve got the first part of your article on my desk by eleven tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Fleming.

  “Very good,” said Powell, drinking the rest of his port. “Well, you have a lot of work ahead of you. I won’t linger. Come into the office tomorrow, and I’ll have your invitation ready for you. I’ll also give you a few pounds to spend on something for your hostess. They say Alysa Sissons is a very attractive woman who knows what’s due her.”

  “I should think so,” said Fleming. “And she is quite beautiful.”

  “You’ve seen her?” Powell asked, surprised in spite of himself.

  “We met on the airplane to New Orleans. I’m a little surprised to hear she’s already back and planning such a massive party.” As he spoke, he decided it was truly peculiar—unless she had been planning this party for some time, and had its preparation well in hand when she went to New Orleans. She hadn’t given him that impression at the time, but there was no reason for him to think about such things, and no reason for her to mention her plans, so …

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said Powell.

  Fleming shook his head and looked up. “Nothing.”

  “Missus Sissons must be a real beauty,” Powell remarked knowingly.

  “She is.” Fleming didn’t enlarge upon that, preferring to suggest a yawn, his hand over his mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. You need your sleep. It’s been a demanding few days for you. I’ll be on my way.” He rose from the table, looking around in the lamplight. “This house could be a showplace, one day, if you choose wisely.”

  “I take your meaning,” said Fleming, getting up to escort his guest from the house.

  “Tell Cesar the food was delicious, as always.” Powell stepped into the corridor. “Have a good night, Fleming. And have that article on my desk—”

  “—by eleven. I will,” said Fleming, accompanying him to the door. “Thanks for letting me cover the house-party.”

  Powell waved the thanks away. “Just do me proud, Fleming. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’ll do my humble best,” said Fleming as they walked out onto the verandah; it was a cool night, and the sky was filled with scattered clouds hiding patches of stars from view. The weather was turning, Fleming could feel it, and he decided to include a waterproof anorak among his week-end clothing. Perhaps he should have the tear in the Rapier’s hood repaired while he was in Kingston, just in case he had to drive in the rain. Surely Henry Long could point him in the direction of an expert sail-maker who could sew up the canvas for him.

  Powell was climbing into his auto, his keys rattling against the steering wheel. “Always have to use full choke on this one,” he said as the engine sputtered to life. Waving, Powell backed up until he could turn around and drive away, his headlights making two cones of luminescence in the darkness.