“Very good,” said Fleming, taking care to lock the three files he had been studying, along with his notes, in the lowest drawer before leaving the study and going along to the dining room where Cesar had set his place and put out a crab omelette and a wonderful small salad of greens and fruit in a dressing that was sweet and tangy at once.

  “I’ve opened a Mosel white, the one your brother sent in August. It should have rested enough,” said Cesar.

  “That cache of his—German wines. Mustn’t be too curious about how he came by them, of course,” said Fleming, nodding his approval for Cesar to pour. “If the prices on the French weren’t so ruinous, I suppose I should scorn German wines.”

  “The grapes did not wage war, sah,” Cesar pointed out. “And I will use the balance of the bottle in tonight’s soup.”

  “Very good. It won’t keep in this heat,” said Fleming. He ate, enjoying the meal in spite of the various disquieting thoughts that vied for his attention. The whole of the puzzle began at Los Alamos, that much was certain, and although it wasn’t war-time, atomic research continued there. He had never been to New Mexico. If it weren’t for the Manhattan Project, he doubted he would know exactly where it was; the arrangement of the United States was so confusing. But the War had taught him a great many things about America and Americans. He pondered his options as he finished the crab omelette and the second glass of Mosel wine: he could go to Florida or New Orleans and then fly to somewhere in Texas, and from there he should be able to reach Los Alamos. He would have to talk to his editor to have a proper cover for his activities—to say nothing of a story to file, justifying his travel—but something could be arranged. He would need an assignment that was appropriate, not too innocuous, but not too controversial, so that he would be able to gain the support of those who worked there. Satisfied that he had the beginning of a plan, he rose from the table, determined to go to Dominique’s to receive whatever message she had for him.

  Cesar heard him leave and called out, “How long will you be gone, sah?”

  “I have no idea,” Fleming answered. “An hour or two, I should guess. If I’m not back by sundown, send out the hounds.”

  “Very good, sah,” said Cesar, going back to the kitchen and his freshly plucked chicken.

  Fleming walked down the road in an easy stride, his long legs eating up the distance with ease. It was not too hot to enjoy the early afternoon, but he could feel sweat on his face and neck, not an unpleasant sensation. He rolled up his sleeves as he walked, noticing how tan his arms were—no boiled-lobster Englishman he! Beginning to whistle, he covered the last half mile in good time, arriving at Dominique’s pink-and-white house shortly before two.

  The doorman was a hulking fellow with a cast in one eye and shoulders of imposing mass. He admitted Fleming and indicated the side-parlor. “Dominique is waiting for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Fleming, and went through the hanging beads into a room that was hung with painted velvet curtains and decorated with small statues of voodoo saints.

  Dominique herself sat on an enormous hassock of wine-red velvet, her dress of layers of gauzy shades of red silk spread out around her, almost as fantastical as the other ornaments of the parlor. Her dark-chestnut hair was twined with gold ribbons and dressed elaborately on top of her head in a style more in keeping with the seventeenth century than 1949. She was a fine figure of a woman, all luxurious curves and rich, milk-chocolate skin, with long, shapely legs; her features were a magnificent mix of European and African, with the special manner that went with her Haitian upbringing, and a smile that was incendiary to the point of being dangerous. Fleming doubted he had ever heard her last name; Dominique needed only her Christian name to be recognized from one end of Jamaica to the other. She extended her beautiful hand to him. “It’s been too long, Ian,” she purred.

  “No doubt it has, Dominique.” He took her hand, bowed over it, and kissed it, noticing she had changed her perfume from sandalwood to Chanel. “I wanted to thank you for the loan of your dogs.”

  “Ajax and Hector are fine animals,” she said, using their public names and smiling her approval; her mouth was generous and painted an intense dark red that made Fleming think of ripe fruit. “I am glad they were of use to you.” She paused. “Would you like a drink? I can offer you all manner of rum. Bonsard is a wizard with his concoctions.”

  “If you are drinking, I will join you. If not, there is no reason to go to such trouble on my account.” Fleming remained standing, as if he didn’t intend to remain long.

  “Such a well-bred answer,” Dominique approved. “I am going to have one of Bonsard’s creations. I shall ask him to make one for you, as well.”

  “Thank you,” said Fleming, and finally sank into the maharajah’s chair across from Dominique’s hassock.

  She rang a small bell and called out her orders to Bonsard in Haitian French, then gave her full attention to Fleming. “I understand you had a visitor yesterday. One straight from England.”

  “Briefly,” said Fleming, letting her set the pace of their conversation.

  “He departed most inauspiciously,” she went on, still favoring him with her spectacular smile. “Everyone in the village is talking about it.”

  “I was alarmed,” Fleming allowed.

  “Oh, Ian,” she cajoled. “So proper and cool, and with the fires of hell seething inside you.” She held up her long, lovely hands. “Do not dispute this. I know men very well, and I know what I see. I know also to trust what I see more than what I am told.” Leaning back on her hassock she looked up at him through her long, black eyelashes. “So. You tell me you are a self-disciplined fellow, that you have your passions well in hand, while, in truth, I can see you are a volcano with snow on its crest.”

  Fleming took out a cigarette from the case in his trousers pocket, tamped the cigarette, then lit it with his gold lighter. “If you say so, Dominique. I would be churl to disagree with a woman in her own house.”

  She laughed. “I have offended you. I apologize.” She looked up as the lumpish Bonsard brought their drinks on a wide lacquer tray. “How very good of you.” She was about to take one of the two tall glasses when she changed her mind and motioned to Fleming. “You are my guest. You choose whichever suits you, Ian.”

  “I should think there is no difference between them,” said Fleming, his head up, exhaling smoke through his nostrils.

  “How very gallant,” she said, emphasis on the second syllable of gallant. “Very well. I will take the nearer glass, and you may take the farther, if that suits you.” She nodded to Bonsard. “Offer the tray to Mister Fleming. And, Ian, you may change your mind, if it pleases you.”

  Since Fleming had been considering just that, he said, “No, thank you. Your arrangement suits me very well.”

  “Excellent,” Dominique approved, nodding as he claimed his glass. “I know you are a careful man, and who can blame you? Strangers disappearing from your cove. Scorpions in your house.” She tisked as if these were social gaffes. “You had your work cut out for you in the War, hadn’t you?” She took her glass from the tray and lifted it in an ironic toast. “Now, tell me what you have come here seeking.”

  “Anything I can find out about my guest,” he said, and tasted the persimmon-colored drink: Dominique was right—it was delicious.

  “He arrived in a government auto, but you knew that,” she said, one brow arched to show she was curious.

  “So he did,” Fleming murmured.

  “He stayed with you for almost three hours, then went for a walk on the beach at the cove. He reached the western rocks and then he vanished. That is what everyone in town is saying. You and Cesar and Joshua looked for the man for two hours, then gave up the search.” She studied his face. “Is that truly what happened, Ian?”

  “I am asking you, Dominique,” Fleming reminded her. “You are supposed to provide information to me, not the other way around.”

  Her laughter was a lovely ripple of sound. “Of course. You cannot blame me for being curious, can you?”

  “No,” he said. “Women are all curious as cats.”

  “And who can blame us, in such a world as men have made?” She took a second, longer sip of her drink. “Well, I can only tell you what the rumors are, and I will spare you the most far-fetched,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Fleming told her with feeling.

  “Although there are those who say he was a sacrifice to Agwe, the sea loa, but that isn’t very likely,” said Dominique. “He would be a poor selection, for he was not a sailor himself.”

  “I thought you said you would spare me,” Fleming reminded her. “It never crossed my mind that this was about voodoo.”

  “Of course,” she said, and changed her posture subtly so that she was no longer invitingly languid, but businesslike and attentive. “I have spoken with Aunt Charlotte—Charlotte Penniman—you know the widow who makes clothing?”

  “I know her. She has three children, doesn’t she?”

  “Four,” Dominique corrected him. “She brought some material here this morning and told me that her neighbor, Bartholomew, the net-maker, was saying that he saw a very fine cigarette boat of polished teak rushing just offshore yesterday afternoon. He had not seen the boat before. It was new and very fast. He boasted that he had watched it for almost half an hour, as it raced back and forth between Hook Point and the fishermen’s pier in Whitecross. There were three men aboard it, two white, one mixed.” She cocked her head in direction of the next town over. “Ambrose the butcher also said he saw such a boat, but he didn’t watch it for long. It had SS on its bow.”

  “All right,” said Fleming. “Then what do you make of this in regard to my visitor?”

  Dominique shrugged. “I don’t know. But they happened on the same afternoon, and in such a place as this, coincidences are quite rare.”

  Fleming considered her observation carefully. “Coincidences are rarely what they seem.”

  “My point exactly, Ian,” said Dominique. “Now, Samson the barber says that the cigarette boat was some kind of signal, but he cannot say of what or to whom.”

  “Is that one of the theories you mentioned?” Fleming inquired, and had a bit more of his delicious drink.

  “It is one of the more sensible ones, yes,” said Dominique. “I was struck by what Rafael—you know him, the one who repairs boats?—well, he said he thought the people in the boat were looking for something. He also thinks that your guest was absconding with vast amounts of money, so that is a bit beyond the pale.”

  “So it is,” said Fleming, recalling everything he had read in Sir William’s files.

  “But it may be that he is right about the people in the boat,” said Dominique.

  “Any notion of whom it belongs to?” Fleming could not keep from watching her keenly, though he feared she would notice his interest and use it to her advantage.

  “No,” she answered bluntly. “It may be that the owners have only come for a short stay, or they may be new to the island.”

  “Very possible,” said Fleming, thinking this provided some room for further investigation.

  “If you like, I will ask my women to pay attention to what they hear,” Dominique offered. “Women hear all manner of things, Ian.”

  “Pillow talk,” Fleming dismissed.

  “Some of it,” Dominique conceded. “But not all. You should have learned that in the War.”

  Fleming thought, and then allowed, “Occasionally they provided good intelligence.”

  “Then you will not mind if my women do a little sleuthing.” She smiled. “It makes a change for them, you know.”

  “I don’t imagine they lack for variety,” Fleming said lightly.

  “Oh, Ian, so like a man!” Dominique shook her head emphatically. “When one has done this a number of times, there is little novelty left. Some men are kind, some are generous, some are weak, some are cruel, but, when all is done, there are only so many places and so many ways to accomplish the thing, and then all is repetition.” She blinked, an expression of utter innocence on her sensuous face. “I have wounded you,” she exclaimed. “Of course. All men want to be different. And so you are, but still very much the same.”

  Fleming decided the drink was a great deal stronger than it tasted or Dominique would not say such things to him. He sampled a bit more of it and then set it aside. “I bow to your superior experience.”

  “Now you are huffy. Well, never mind,” she said. “I don’t suppose it is important, but Geoffrey Krandall—the man who owns Swan’s Way, beyond Whitecross?”

  “I know him slightly,” said Fleming.

  “Well, he was found beaten to death two days since. The authorities have done their best to keep the killing under wraps,” said Dominique. “The police have two young men in custody, young men who worked for him, and who had been dissatisfied with their conditions for some time.” Dominique managed another seductive smile. “The police are keeping it quiet, because they have heard rumors that there is a band of young men—young white men—in the region who might become dangerous.”

  “Is that why I have heard nothing about it? You would think there would be rumors floating everywhere, wouldn’t you?” Fleming asked, distressed that a man much like himself could be killed and he not learn of it; Cesar usually told him all the gossip and rumors. Why should he fail to report such a real crime, and one that might give Fleming pause.

  “The whites are ashamed and the others are afraid. The only reason nothing is bruited about is because the Chief Constable is keeping the young men locked up and has ordered that no word of the killing get out; it is very embarrassing, as they are white boys, so it is not likely they will remain in gaol for long. They were employed by Krandall to set up his generator and put the wires in his house for lights and such. Their parents will give a bond, and their sons will be out, and no one the wiser unless there is court action, which there may be, since Krandall was white, too,” said Dominique. “The Chief Constable often comes to see me, and he talks when he has finished his other business.”

  “Good Lord! How lax of him,” Fleming cried out. “And his men obey him? Usually the police are the most determined rumor-mongers on the island.”

  “They are afraid,” said Dominique by way of explanation. “Anything that might cause trouble can be dangerous to them. Two white boys in gaol can mean trouble for all of them.”

  “As well they might be,” said Fleming severely. “What does Kingston have to say about this?”

  “They haven’t been informed yet,” said Dominique. “The Chief Constable wants to contain the matter as best he can.”

  Fleming took a rather larger sip of his drink than he had intended. “Astonishing,” he said. “And you are certain it is true?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Dominique in a tone of voice that banished all doubt from Fleming’s mind. “My source is impeccable. There are things one may be certain of, and this is one of them.”

  “I see,” said Fleming. He mulled the series of coincidences over in his mind. “What do you think—are these three things connected?”

  “I do not know how, but I suppose they must be,” said Dominique quietly. “If you examine each on its own, they are not connected, but their proximity in time and place makes me believe that there must be more than happenstance at work here.”

  “You say Geoffrey Krandall was beaten to death?” Fleming asked to be sure he had heard right.

  “That is what I was told.” She shook her head. “A terrible end for a man who did so much to help win the War.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Fleming, who had forgotten until then that Geoffrey Krandall had been a Cambridge don who had gone to work for the government in ’38, doing something hush-hush. Fleming had always assumed it was translation or code-breaking, one of those academic things, but he reckoned now he had better find out what Krandall had done in the War. That would take a little time, and he suspected he didn’t have much to spare. He would have to find a source of information, and quickly, who could tell him everything about Krandall’s efforts in the War. He realized that Dominique was watching him, a faint smile lingering in the corners of her exquisite mouth. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about, Dominique. I thank you for it.”

  “I can tell by your tone that you are planning on leaving,” she said regretfully. “I suppose I should be grateful you found time for this short visit.”

  “I’m afraid I am leaving, reluctantly, of course,” said Fleming, “unless you have anything more to tell me?”

  “Only this: it is possible that when your guest was set upon, those attacking him supposed they were attacking you,” she said.

  Fleming chuckled. “Sir William was in worsted pin-stripes. How could anyone mistake him for me?”

  “You are English and he was walking on the beach by your house. If those attacking did not know you on sight, they might have been confused. You know that some of your countrymen maintain their English habits here, in the face of all reason.

  “‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’?” Fleming suggested, knowing there was a great deal of truth in Coward’s satiric little ditty.

  She lifted one shoulder, her eyes alight with an emotion he could not identify. “I am not saying I am convinced it is true, only that you may want to consider it.”

  “Very well, I shall,” he said, and put his unfinished drink aside before he rose to his feet, aware as he did that the alcohol had made its presence known. “Thank you for your hospitality, and your information. I appreciate both.” He nodded his head as a sign of acknowledgment.

  “You are welcome at any time, Ian. My door is always welcome to you.” Dominique didn’t rise, but she made a magnificent gesture of farewell.

  Chapter 9

  BY THE time he reached his house, Fleming had a headache burgeoning behind his eyes, and a blister on the side of his foot where a pebble had lodged under the strap of his sandal. He was generally dissatisfied with how the meeting with Dominique had gone, for she had learned as much from him as he had from her; it was one of her skills that he couldn’t help but resent. He knew that she often traded in information as well as flesh—he would have paid her no mind if that hadn’t been the case—but now he wondered if he were the only buyer, and if so, to whom she would peddle what she learned from him. He trod up the steps to his front door and twisted the bell, waiting for Cesar to come to answer the summons.