think the kitchen could whip up a little cake? Nothing elaborate, you understand.'
'Of course! We'd be delighted, sir.' The clerk was effusive. 'Our pleasure, Mr Tucker.'
'Fine. That's very kind of you. Just put it on Mr McAuliff's bill - '
'There'll be no charge,' interrupted the clerk, fluidly subservient.
'Very kind indeed. We'll be dining around 8.30, I guess. Our usual table.'
'We'll take care of everything...'
'That is, it'll be 8.30,' continued Sam, 'if Mr McAuliff finds his way back in time...' Tucker paused again, listening for the clerk's appropriate response.
'Oh? Is there a problem, Mr Tucker?'
'Well, the damn fool drove south of Ocho Rios, around Fern Gully, I think, to locate some stalactite sculpture. He told me there were natives who did that sort of thing down there.'
'That's true, Mr Tucker. There are a number of stalactite craftsmen in the Gully. However, there are government restrictions - '
'Oh Lord, son!' interrupted Sam defensively. 'He's just going to find Mrs Booth a little present, that's all.'
The clerk laughed, softly and obsequiously. 'Please don't mistake me, Mr Tucker. Government interference is often most unwarranted. I only meant that I hope Mr McAuliff is successful. When he asked for the petrol map, he should have mentioned where he was going. I might have helped him.'
'Well...' drawled Sam conspiratorially, 'he was probably embarrassed, if you know what I mean. I wouldn't mention it; he'd be mad as hell at me.'
'Of course.'
'And thanks for the cake tonight. That's really very nice of you, son.'
'Not at all, sir.'
The good-byes were rapid, more so on the clerk's part. Sam replaced the telephone and walked back out onto the terrace. Lawrence turned from peering over the wall and sat on the flagstone deck, his back against the sea wall, his body hidden from the beach.
'Mrs Booth and Jimbo-mon are out of water,' said the black revolutionary. 'They are in chairs again.'
'Latham called. The runners will be here this afternoon... And I talked with the front desk. Let's see if our information gets transmitted properly.' Tucker lowered himself on the chair slowly and reached for the binoculars on the table. He picked up the newspaper and held it next to the binoculars as he focused on the swimming-pool patio fronting the central beach .of Bengal Court.
Within ten seconds he saw the figure of a man dressed in a coat and tie come out of the rear entrance of the motel. It was the front-desk clerk. He walked around the edge of the pool, past a group of wooden, padded sun chairs, nodding to guests, chatting with several. He reached the stone steps leading to the sand and stood there several moments, surveying the beach. Then he started down the steps and across the white, soft sand. He walked diagonally to the right, to the row of sunfish sail-boats.
Sam watched as the clerk approached the digger-policeman in the sloppy baseball cap and the cocorum peddler. The cocoruru man saw him coming, picked up the handles of his wheelbarrow, and rolled it on the hard sand near the water to get away. The digger-policeman stayed where he was and acknowledged the clerk.
The magnified features in the glass conveyed all that was necessary to Sam Tucker. The policeman's features contorted with irritation. The man was apparently lamenting his waste of time and effort, commodities not easily expended on such a hot day.
The clerk turned and started back across the sand towards the patio. The digger-policeman began walking west, near the water's edge. His gait was swifter now; gone was the stooped posture indigenous to a scavenger of the beach.
He wasn't much of an undercover man, thought Sam Tucker as he watched the man's progress towards the woods of Bengal Court's west property. On his way to his shoes and the egress to the shore road, he never once looked down at the sand for tourist leave-behinds.
McAuliff stood looking over Charles Whitehall's left shoulder as the black scholar ridged the flame of the acetylene torch across the seamed edge of the archive case. The hot point of flame bordered no more than an eighth of an inch behind the seam, at the end of the case.
The top edge of the archive case cracked. Charles extinguished the flame quickly and thrust the end of the case under the faucet in the sink. The thin stream of water sizzled into vapour as it touched the hot steel. Whitehall removed his tinted goggles, picked up a miniature hammer, and tapped the steaming end.