and Jamaican black wit - were funny, brittle, cold, and episodically hot. His voice had the clear, high-pitched thrust of a Kingston balladeer; only his eyes remained remote. He was entertaining and amusing, but he was neither entertained nor amused himself, thought Alex.
He was performing.
And finally, after nearly two hours, he wearied of the chore, accepted the cheers of the half-drunken room, and wandered to the table. After receiving individual shakes, claps and hugs from Ferguson, the Jensens, Alison Booth, and Alex, he opted for a chair next to McAuliff. Ferguson had been sitting there - encouraged by Alex - but the young botanist was only too happy to move. Unsteadily.
'That was remarkable!' said Alison, leaning across McAuliff, reaching for Whitehall's hand. Alex watched as the Jamaican responded; the dark Caribbean hand - fingernails manicured, gold ring glistening - curled delicately over Alison's as another woman's might. And then, in contradiction, Whitehall raised the girl's wrist and kissed her fingers.
A waiter brought over a bottle of white wine for Whitehall's inspection. He read the label in the nightclub light, looked up at the smiling attendant, and nodded. He turned back to McAuliff; Alison was now chatting with Ruth Jensen across the table. 'I should like to speak with you privately,' said the Jamaican casually. 'Meet me in my room, say, twenty minutes after I leave.'
'Alone?'
'Alone.'
'Can't it wait until morning?'
Whitehall levelled his black eyes at McAuliff and spoke softly but sharply. 'No, it cannot.'
James Ferguson suddenly lurched up from his chair at the end of the table and raised his glass to Whitehall. He weaved and gripped the edge with his free hand; he was the picture of a very drunk young man. 'Here's to Charles the First of Kingston! The bloody black Sir Noel! You're simply fantastic, Charles!'
There was an embarrassing instant of silence as the word 'black' was absorbed. The waiter hurriedly poured Whitehall's wine; it was no moment for sampling.
'Thank you,' said Whitehall politely. 'I take that as a high compliment, indeed... Jimbo-mon.'
'Jimbo-mon!' shouted Ferguson with delight. 'I love it! You shall call me Jimbo-mon! And now, I should like - ' Ferguson's words were cut short, replaced by an agonizing grimace on his pale young face. It was suddenly abundantly clear that his alcoholic capacity had been reached. He set his glass down with wavering precision, staggered backward and, in a slow motion of his own, collapsed to the floor.
The table rose en masse; surrounding couples turned. The waiter put the bottle down quickly and started towards Ferguson; he was joined by Peter Jensen, who was nearest.
'Oh, Lord,' said Jensen, kneeling down. 'I think the poor fellow's going to be sick. Ruth, come help... You there, waiter. Give me a hand, chap!'
The Jensens, aided by two waiters now, gently lifted the young botanist into a sitting position, unloosened his tie, and generally tried to reinstate some form of consciousness. And Charles Whitehall, standing beside McAuliff, smiled, picked up two napkins, and lobbed them across the table onto the floor near those administering aid. Alex watched the Jamaican's action; it was not pleasant. Ferguson's head was nodding back and forth; moans of impending illness came from his lips.
'I think this is as good a time as any for me to leave,' said Whitehall. 'Twenty minutes?'
McAuliff nodded. 'Or thereabouts.'
The Jamaican turned to Alison, delicately took her hand, kissed it, and smiled. 'Good night, my dear.'
With minor annoyance, Alex sidestepped the two of them and walked over to the Jensens, who, with the waiters' help, were getting Ferguson to his feet.
'We'll bring him to his room,' said Ruth. 'I warned him about the rum; it doesn't go with whiskey. I don't think he listened.' She smiled and shook her head.
McAuliff kept his eyes on Ferguson's face. He wondered if he would see what he saw before. What he had been watching for for over an hour.
And then he did. Or thought he did.
As Ferguson's arms went limp around the shoulders of a waiter and Peter Jensen, he opened his eyes. Eyes that seemingly swum in their sockets. But for the briefest of moments, they were steady, focused, devoid of glaze. Ferguson was doing a perfectly natural thing any person would do in a dimly lit room. He was checking his path to avoid obstacles.
And he was - for that instant - quite sober.
Why was James Ferguson putting on such a splendidly embarrassing performance? McAuliff would have a talk with the young man in the morning. About several things including