Once again, Westmore Tallon reached for his cane, but not with the aggressiveness he had displayed previously. He was suddenly a rather thoughtful, even gentle, man. 'If your friend was taken against his will, it would be kidnapping. A very serious crime, and insofar as he's American, the sort of headline attraction that would be an anathema. It doesn't make sense, Mr McAuliff... You say he's due today, which could be extended to this evening, I presume?'
'Yes.'
'Then I suggest we wait... I cannot believe the parties involved could - or would - commit such a gargantuan mistake. If Mr Tucker is not heard from by... say ten o'clock, call me.' Tallon wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Alex. 'Commit this to memory, please; leave the paper here.'
'What are you going to do if Tucker doesn't show?'
'I will use perfectly legitimate connections and have the matter directed to the most authoritative officials in the Jamaican police. I will alert highly placed people in the government: the governor-general, if necessary. St Croix has had its murders; tourism is now practically nonexistent. Jamaica could not tolerate an American kidnapping... Does that satisfy you?'
'I'm satisfied.' Alex crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and as he did so, he remembered Tallon's reaction to Chatellerault's appearance in Savanna-la-Mar. 'You were surprised that Chatellerault was on the island. Why?'
'As of two days ago, he was registered at the George V in Paris. There's been no word of his leaving, which means he flew here clandestinely, probably by way of Mexico. It is disturbing. You must keep a close watch on Mrs Booth... you have a weapon, I assume?'
'Two rifles in the equipment. An .030 Remington telescopic and a long-power .22 automatic. Nothing else.'
Tallon seemed to debate with himself, then made a decision. He took a key ring from his pocket, selected a key, and opened a lower drawer of his desk. He removed a bulky manila envelope, opened the flap, and shook a pistol onto his blotter. A number of cartridges fell out with the gun. 'This is a .38 Smith and Wesson, short barrel. All markings have been destroyed. It's untraceable. Take it, please; it's wiped clean. The only fingerprints will be yours. Be careful.'
McAuliff looked at the weapon for several seconds before reaching out and slowly picking it up. He did not want it; there was a finality of commitment somehow attached to his having it. But again, there was the question of alternatives: Not having it might possibly be foolish, though he did not expect to use it for anything more than a show of force.
'Your dossier includes experience in small-arms fire. But it could be a long time. Would you care to refresh yourself at a pistol range? We have several, within minutes by plane.'
'No, thank you,' replied Alex. 'Not too long ago, in Australia, it was the only diversion we had.'
The telephone rang with a muted bell. Tallon picked it up and acknowledged with a simple 'Yes?'
He listened without speaking to the party on the other end of the line. When he terminated the call, he looked at McAuliff .
'The green Chevrolet sedan is registered to a dead man. The vehicle's license is in the name of Walter Piersall. Residence: High Hill, Carnck Foyle, parish of Trelawny.'
Chapter Thirteen
THIRTEEN
McAuliff spent another hour with Westmore Tallon, as the old Jamaican aristocrat activated his informational network. He had sources all over the island.
Before the hour was up, one important fact had been uncovered: The deceased, Walter Piersall of Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny, had in his employ two black assistants with whom he invariably travelled. The coincidence of the two men who had removed Sam Tucker's belongings from the hotel in Montego Bay and the two men who followed Alex in the green Chevrolet was no longer far-fetched. And since Piersall had brought up Sam's name with Alison Booth, the conclusion was now to be assumed.
Tallon ordered his own people to pick up Piersall's men. He would telephone McAuliff when they had done so.
Alex returned to Courtleigh Manor. He stopped at the desk for messages. Alison was at dinner; she hoped he would join her. There was nothing else.
No word from Sam Tucker.
'If there are any calls for me, I'll be in the dining room,' he said to the clerk.
Alison sat alone in the middle of the crowded room, which was profuse with tropical plants and open-grilled windows. In