They turned down Parliament Street, and shortly the shops gave way to small business buildings and private homes. Even business was housed in ancient structures. The private homes were largely built of island limestone with upper porches that hung over the streets. To protect them from the sun, wide verandas had been built in graceful wooden construction with louvers to admit cooling breezes.
The Wobbly organizer stared at something coming down the street. He said, "I don't think I've ever seen a horse-drawn carriage before."
"That's a surrey," the other told him. "They hate cars out here. You seldom see one, except those used by government." The newsman looked at a card he drew from his jacket pocket. "This seems to be the address."
It was a prosperous-looking business establishment, in the Victorian tradition. There was a small bronze plaque which Roy couldn't make out above the entry, and a uniformed black standing before it. The man touched his cap at their approach and held open the door. They seemed to use more manpower here than in the automated States.
The interior continued the Victorian motif, with a few concessions to the tropics. There was a pervasive Britishness about it all. Roy had expected the company would be American, with some affiliation to a sinister background such as the Mafia.
Forry Brown seemed to sense what his companion was thinking and said, "This outfit is a subsidiary of one of the big insurance companies in Hartford. It's multinational, of course, specializing in Deathwish Policies, though it has some other far-out bits of business going.''
There was a sterile reception office presided over by a live receptionist, plain of face, her dull hair done up in an unfashionable bun. She wore a washed out, shapeless light dress.
Forry said, "Good morning. Mr. Roy Cos on appointment to see Mr. Oliver Brett-James."
"Very good, sir," she clipped, checking a notepad. "You are expected. Mr. Brett-James will see you immediately." She did the things receptionists do, speaking into a comm set, saying, "Yes, sir," a couple of times, and then pressing a button.
She came to her feet saying, "This way, please," and led them down a short hallway.
She held open a door and bestowed on them what she probably thought was a smile.
Roy and Forry entered a moderately large office, once again with a Londonish feel—stolid, spotless, cold. Mr. Oliver Brett-James was standing behind an old-fashioned wooden desk. He was tubby, almost naked of scalp, red rather than tanned, his complexion more from bottles man the Bahamian sun. His smile was conservatively polite, though he seemed surprised to see two of them. "Mr. Cos?" he said.
"That's right," Roy told him. Neither of them made a motion toward shaking hands. Under the circumstances, it didn't seem exactly called for.
"And you, sir?" the Englishman said to Forry.
"Forrest Brown," Forry said. "I'm Mr. Cos's business agent."
"Business agent? Well, no reason why not, I daresay. Be seated, gentlemen. Shall we get immediately to business? Here is the contract. It goes into effect tomorrow. And here is your International Credit Card, drawn on our Swiss bank in Beme. Each day, as you undoubtedly know, you will have one million pseudo-dollars at your disposal. It doesn't accumulate, of course, but each day you have that amount available."
Roy and Forry had taken chairs in front of the desk. Forry said sourly, scratching a thumbnail over his meager mustache, "Suppose we read the contract before signing."
"Certainly, old chap," the Briton said. "I merely thought that you were already cognizant of its contents, in which case there'd be no point in mucking around." He handed a three-page sheaf of paper to each of them and then leaned back patiently in his swivel chair.
His two callers read what he had given them carefully.
Forry had already dug up copies of the standard Deathwish Policy and this didn't deviate from it.
After a few minutes, while they were still reading, Brett-James cleared his throat and said, "Please take note of Clause Three. You must understand that we will not tolerate frivolous expenditures. That is, suppose you decide to purchase a diamond or a painting. If the price is over 10,000 pseudo-dollars, we will have an expert evaluate the item. We do not expect to have you spending, say, 50,000 pseudo-dollars on something which is really worth but 15,000. We expect our specialists to check out the true value, within reason. Of course the gem or painting, as the case might be, reverts to us upon your, ah, unfortunate demise."
Forry looked up finally and said, "Just how much does the policy pay off in benefits to you when Mr. Cos, ah, passes on?"
Oliver Brett-James stiffened. "I say, that isn't really a concern of yours now, is it?"
Forry took him in. "Yes," he said. "The details of this transaction will help me in supervising his interests."
The other didn't like it, but he said finally, "Our corporation will receive ten million pseudo-dollars in the way of benefits."
Forry said gently, "And how much are the daily premiums that you must pay?"
"See here, Mr., uh, Brown. This is of no interest to…"
"We think it is," the ex-newsman said. He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook forth a smoke. "We either find out, or Mr. Cos doesn't sign." He put the cigarette in his colorless lips and brought forth his lighter.
Brett-James stared at him for a long moment, but finally said, "The daily premiums are one million pseudo-dollars."
The gray-faced Forry nodded as he lit up, blowing smoke through his pinched nostrils. "Clear enough. You have to do Roy in within ten days or you start losing money."
The signing of the contract was witnessed by the receptionist and another nonentity she brought in, a young man who avoided Roy's eyes as he signed.
When the two witnesses were gone, Brett-James rubbed his hands together and said, "Jolly well. I daresay you'll be returning immediately to the mainland. Where will you be staying?"
Forry looked at him flatly. "Get serious," he said. "Do you think we'd give you that much of a head start?" He put Roy's copy of the contract into his attache case.
When they had left, the other pressed a button on his desk and four men entered, one of them the young witness. Brett-James said, "You've got the photos, the tapes and all?"
The oldest of the four nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Very well, get to work on both of them. Check out this Forrest Brown chap. We'll want to know just where he fits in." Brett-James made a motion with his hand. "All right, Maurice, tail them. Follow the instructions I gave you earlier."
As they walked back toward Bay Street, Forry looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got over an hour before the next shuttle to Miami. We might as well eat. Blackbeard's Tavern is a good place."
"Right," Roy said, immersed deeply in bleak thoughts.
They reached the shopping center and turned left.
The little ex-newsman stopped at a shop and said, "Just a minute. I might as well stock up here."
The sign said, 'Solomon's Mines,' and they entered to find the store devoted almost exclusively to tobacco products. Roy muttered, "Jesus Christ. In the States this shop would've been raided before it opened."