“I’ll tell you what I know. Later I may know more.” Henry drew on his pipe again. “You are looking into a snake’s nest.”

  “I’m beginning to agree,” said Fleming.

  “After you left to go to America, there were those who said you would not come back, that you would die on your hunt.” Henry nodded sagely. “The men who said that also said that you were duped.”

  “Duped,” Fleming repeated darkly. “How did that happen, pray? Did they also tell you that?”

  “They said you were sent on a fool’s errand, so you could be made accountable for the killings done by The Englishman. That’s what he’s called: The Englishman.” Henry shrugged. “I don’t think it will work—making it seem you’re a former agent turned rogue and assassin. But if The Englishman has done his work well, you could be under a cloud for some time. Questions could be asked that might serve to damage your reputation.”

  “Henry, how do you find out these things?” Fleming demanded.

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “I listen, and I know men who exchange secrets as currency.” He studied Fleming. “What are you going to do?”

  “More currency?” Fleming asked.

  “No. I want to know so I can misdirect anyone attempting to impede your work.” He set his pipe down. “Cesar Holiday was my friend, and my second cousin on my mother’s side. I can see that the only chance he has for justice comes from you. I will do everything to help that come about and nothing to hinder your work, so long as it leads to the apprehension of Cesar’s killer.”

  “Very well,” said Fleming, accepting his avowal for the moment. “I will need to have some files photostatically copied; I cannot have it done by any usual service. The material is … touchy.”

  “I know someone who will do the work and ask no questions.” Henry rubbed his hands together. “What else?”

  “I want to borrow your auto,” said Fleming. “Mine is too well-known. I don’t want to signal my pursuers by giving them such an easy target to follow.”

  “Ah,” said Henry. “A clever move.”

  “At the same time, I don’t want you to drive the Rapier, because it could put you in harm’s way, and I’ve done more than enough of that for my friends already,” Fleming went on. “I’m going back to my house to collect a few things. I would appreciate it if you would follow me back in half an hour and let me ride into town with you—concealed, of course.”

  Henry nodded approval. “I can do this.”

  “Good.” Fleming cocked his head. “Increase my obligation to you: how much do you know about Walter Sissons?”

  “He has money and an attractive wife. He fancies himself a power in the world and doesn’t realize that he is nothing more than a puppet. He has some sly sense for business and imagines himself a great industrialist. He does everything he is asked to do, because he is willing to think all ideas are his, and those who employ him turn this to their advantage, including his partners.” Henry considered what else to say. “He is by nature a bully, and a fool. But he dresses well and spends his money freely enough, so he is indulged.”

  “Good Lord, Henry; are you truly so strict in your opinions?” Fleming cried.

  “You cannot imagine,” said Henry in deadly earnest, his eyes glittering.

  “Then I hope I never earn your disapprobation—or,” he added warily, “have I done so already?”

  “If you had, I would not be lending you my auto,” said Henry, his smile coming back full force. “I will come after you in half an hour and as we return to town, I will tell you all I know about Gadi Soleilsur. If I say too much here, who knows what might be overheard?” He pointed to the doorway. “Someone could listen in easily. I know. I myself have done just that on any number of occasions.”

  Fleming managed to accept this gracefully. “I’ll assume you’ll handle the photostatic copies for me after we return?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Henry. “I’ll arrange that at once.”

  “And if I hand you an envelope and address it, will you add to your kindnesses by posting it air mail special delivery for me?” Fleming was beginning to hope that all this might turn out well enough if he was able to keep a step ahead of his pursuers.

  “Of course,” said Henry blandly. “You have only to ask.”

  “I have done,” Fleming said, studying Henry for a short while. “You’re a most perplexing fellow; you know that, don’t you?”

  “Only to a few, who are clever enough to see it,” said Henry. “Off you go, then. I’ll come after in thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” said Fleming, going to the rear of the shadowy shop and out into the glary, cloud-streaked sunshine. He drove for home as fast as was prudent, taking care to watch his rear as he went. He suspected he was being followed, but he didn’t want to be too obvious in his observations for fear he would put his pursuers on notice.

  At his house Fleming pulled the bandages off his hands, then gathered up Sir William’s files, slipping them into an accordion file, then he tossed in a large envelope on which he had printed the address of the Pecos Vista in Roswell, New Mexico. He hurried to change into less conspicuous clothes, choosing a loose linen shirt and khaki cotton trousers, canvas-topped deck-shoes, and an anorak of muddy brown. Then he went to the pantry and took out his spare pistol, slipped it into his belt-holster, and settled the weapon against the small of his back, finding its stern, uncomfortable presence reassuring. He sat down at his typewriter and in ten minutes banged out four paragraphs on Geoffrey Krandall’s murder with just enough background information upon which to hang his next article, rolled it out of the machine, then hurried down to tack a thin sheet of plywood over the broken window in the kitchen.

  By then he could hear Henry Long’s auto barreling down his drive. He checked the locks, gathered up his things, and went out to the Aston Martin, slipping into the space behind the seats, uncomfortable though it was, and as Henry dropped a worn woolen blanket of Hunting Stewart plaid over him, said, “Make sure you complain that you couldn’t find me.”

  “I’ll stop and tell Dominique,” said Henry. “I’ll ask if she’s seen you.”

  Fleming knew such a brazen move could be hazardous, but was certain that Dominique was an excellent choice, for anyone seeking information would be likely to come to her. He did his best to lie flat as the auto bounced into the village; the sounds of the market were loud around him as Henry drew up at Dominique’s house and parked. Fleming heard him hail Bonsard.

  “Have you seen Mister Fleming?” Henry called out.

  “I have not,” Bonsard exclaimed. “Isn’t he with Bathsheba?”

  “I don’t think so; she would have mentioned it to me,” said Henry as he sauntered into the house, leaving Fleming in his awkward hiding place.

  For the next ten minutes, Fleming listened to shouts and all the noise of barter, shopping, and village business, then he heard Dominique’s dogs bark eagerly as Bonsard opened the door to let Henry out. He listened to Henry laugh, and say, “It may be, it may be,” as he got into the Aston Martin, and pressed the starter. The bellow of the engine covered any comment Bonsard might have given. A moment later, Henry drove out of the village, waving to those he knew as he went.

  “Well? What did you learn?” Fleming dared to ask as they reached the road into Kingston.

  “It was most interesting. Dominique said that she had seen nothing of Soleilsur, but I doubt that was the truth,” Henry remarked. “I think she knows precisely where he is.”

  “What makes you think so?” Fleming stretched as much as the space permitted; he was getting a cramp in the back of his thigh.

  “She volunteered too much, and far too specifically, to prove her ignorance.” Henry paused to use the hooter. “And she was frightened. Dominique is not a woman who frightens easily.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Fleming said, shocked at the implications of this remark. “Do you have any notion—”

  “And Bonsard is carrying a weapon,” Henry interrupted. “A neat little pistol in his pocket, I suspect it is a thirty-two, one of those compact guns, not useful at any range, but at close up it could be very effective.”

  “I’ve seen him carry a pistol before,” Fleming said.

  “It is an ominous sign,” said Henry with utter certainty.

  “I agree,” said Fleming.

  Henry swerved suddenly amid a tumult of squeals and honks. “Fools!” he shouted out the window. “Man can’t keep his pigs and geese together.”

  “No doubt,” said Fleming, his bruised forearms held in front of him.

  “Damned fool of a farmer!” Henry fumed.

  “So tell me about what you’ve discovered about Soleilsur,” said Fleming, wanting to make the trip into town worthwhile.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” said Henry, and for the next hour as he motored along the road to Kingston, he told Fleming all he knew about Soleilsur, Walter Sissons, and The Englishman, also probably known as Sir William Potter; he talked about SS Industries and the rumors that had been circulating among the fishermen who had seen some distressing things in the last year; he mentioned all that he had gleaned from sailors coming into his chandlery about changes in harbors from the Near East to Panama, from Plymouth to Honolulu. Fleming listened intently, and was increasingly aware that he was in much deeper than he had ever supposed.

  Chapter 40

  AT HENRY LONG’S chandlery, Fleming handed over the accordion file and the large envelope along with a five-pound note. “This envelope is for Merlin Powell. Put it in Miss Butterly’s hands and she’ll see he gets it.” He shook Henry’s hand, saying, “Thank you for this.”

  “Just bring her back to me, as intact as possible,” said Henry, his hand on the bonnet of the Aston Martin. “It may be old but it is the best I have and I would prefer not to have to buy another.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, and do my best to comply,” said Fleming, getting into the driver’s seat. “I rely upon you to place that call to Hotchkiss in New Mexico. Tell him everything you’ve told me and inform him of where I’m going, and why. Be sure he knows what you’re going to do if I’m not back by Thursday night. And make sure someone goes to Sissons’s weekend fete, and finds my body, because if I’m not back by then, I’ll be dead. Keep my confidence until that afternoon; speak only to Hotchkiss.” He checked the papers in his wallet, and handed his passport to Henry. “Keep this for me, if you will. I have identification enough without it, and you may need something to take to the authorities. I hope it won’t come to that. It is dangerous enough with the three of us knowing. If anyone else finds out—”

  “Don’t assume this will turn out badly,” said Henry. “You have sufficient information now to be able to plan your actions.”

  “So I hope, and I thank you for all you’ve told me—it’s all been most enlightening, including the faster route to the Sissons estate at Fisher Creek,” said Fleming, pressing the ignition and working the clutch, finding it a bit stiff, as Henry had warned it was. “Keep listening to whatever you hear, and be on guard. We must assume that Sir William has duped more men than me.”

  “I will, upon my honor,” said Henry, and stood aside as Fleming roared out of the alley; then he sauntered back into his chandlery and called a distant relation who ran a photography and printing shop.

  Fleming put his mind on the journey, deliberately holding his inner doubts at bay. He slipped into the street and headed off toward the road to the mountain lane to Montego Bay, his expression set as if hewn from living rock. He rolled along the gravel surface, doing his best not to speed so that he would not draw attention to himself. As he drove out of the city into the hills, he kept watch on his rearview mirror, doing his utmost to stay alert for anyone who might be following him; eventually he was satisfied that he had got away unnoticed, and he began to focus his attention from what was behind him to what lay ahead, all the while reviewing everything Henry Long had told him, arranging the information in his mind, and piecing together all the intelligence he now had at his disposal.

  The road, graded-and-graveled—as so many roads he had been driving on had been, he pointed out to himself, remembering New Mexico—made for slow traffic, producing great clouds of dust sometimes augmented with sprays of pebbles. A half-dozen lorries lumbered up the grade, and a handful of autos, but most of the vehicles that moved on the road were drawn by animals. The high, thin clouds were thickening, turning the sky dull and the world shadowless, dark and light blending in smudges that made distances hard to judge and the lush scenery repetitive as the road angled up the spine of the island.

  When he reached the turnoff for Fisher Creek, he took extra care to be sure he was unobserved. He continued up the narrow road, thinking it was in remarkably good condition for a Jamaican country road: no doubt Sissons had sponsored the maintenance. He stepped on the brake as he swung into a steep curve and saw, far below him, the broad shine of Montego Bay; in bright weather the view would have been spectacular, but instead it was ominous, a reminder of how far away Fleming had come from everyone he knew. Shaking off this unpleasant rumination, he went through the village of Fisher Creek, noticing two large whitewashed buildings like warehouses on the east end of the village. There were a number of autos on the street, more and newer than one would expect in such a remote place. The houses all looked to be in fine repair and the schoolhouse was bright with a fresh coat of whitewash. Fleming considered all this as he drove on toward the Sissons estate, thinking that he probably would find the villagers more sympathetic to Walter Sissons than to the government.

  Passing the elaborate wrought-iron gateway to the estate, Fleming counted six guards—two carrying shotguns—and saw a sign warning that the grounds were patrolled by dogs, not very encouraging indications. He continued on, going down into the thickening forest and the green gloom of an impending storm. About a mile beyond the limits of the Sissons fence, he pulled to the side of the road, set up the Aston Martin with the bonnet lifted as if because of motor troubles, then took his knapsack and began to walk back in the direction of the estate.

  At the chain-link fence, he went away from the road, looking for a tree that might give him access to the inside of the fence. About half a mile from the road he found one, with branches extending well beyond the fence. He set his jaw and began the climb upward, ignoring his bleeding hands as he went. Balancing along the sturdiest limb proved awkward: a clutter of birds took vociferous offense at his presence, and a regiment of spiders and insects—some of remarkable size and texture—accompanied him on his arboreal journey. When he finally dropped into the grounds of the estate, he was prepared to welcome the guard dogs as preferable to the six- and eight-legged companions of his climb.

  Making his way carefully up the slope, he paused frequently to listen, trusting to his ears to tell him what his eyes could not. In a quarter hour he reached a great midden that told him the stable was not far ahead. He decided to use the powerful odor of horse dung to help conceal his presence from the dogs in case they were about, and looked for a place near the midden where he could wait a bit and do his best to discern the layout of the grounds ahead. He hunkered down on the slope beyond the dung heap and took stock of his situation.

  “That mare bites,” said a voice on the other side of the midden. His accent was from London’s East End, not the musical cadences of the island.

  “Too right,” agreed another in the same dialect. “Still, she’s a treat on the polo field, isn’t she?”

  “That doesn’t mean I want to muck out her stall,” said the first. “Give me that roan gelding. Now there’s a sweet horse.”

  “Got a lot of speed on him, does old Wellington,” agreed the second voice affectionately. “Nice a horse as any in the stable. Scratch his withers and he’ll love you like a brother.”

  “Not so much speed as Lady Wyndemere, for all that she bites,” said the first.

  “The game will do them good. They’ve been in their stalls too long—getting barn-sour, they are.” The second clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  “They’re all ready for a run,” the first agreed.

  “Yes. Well, then,” his companion responded as the aroma of rum-soaked pipe tobacco began to permeate the scent of dung.

  “How many more do we got coming in for the weekend?” The first sounded ill-used.

  “Eighteen, I think. Six horses each, three more polo players. Yeah. Eighteen. We’ll have to put them two to a stall.”

  “When do they start arriving?” The first was preparing to complain. “It’s going to be a hard time with so many to care for.”

  “Most of ’em’ll be here Thursday morning, but Sawyer is arriving tomorrow before noon. Says he wants a day to longe his string and let ’em settle in. The first match is Friday at ten.” The second voice laughed. “If it doesn’t rain. By the look of the sky, we could have a wet day or two.”

  “There’s a concert in the afternoon on Friday, isn’t there? Out on the terrace?” The first grunted and a moment later a stable-rakeful of stall-cleaning struck the pile.

  “For that pompous ass Broxton,” the second confirmed. “Considering what he’s being paid to help Sissons get what he wants, I shouldn’t have thought it would be necessary to give him chamber music as well.”

  “Probably makes it seem less like a bribe,” said the first.

  “The Missus set it up,” said the second. “All hoity-toity, and snooty, for the guests.”

  “Well, they are supposed to be impressed,” said the first. “That’s the point of the whole thing.”

  The second was unimpressed. “If a stable of well-cared-for horses can’t do that, I shouldn’t think a dozen musicians could.”

  “They’re bringing in more cooks, too,” said the first. “We’ll dine well.”