‘How much?’
‘Depends. Why’re you guys all so defensive and sticking together? Why did Rivages virtually threaten me? Why did Rory McCloud shoot through?’
He screwed up his face in order to think about it and crow’s feet leapt into life around his eyes. His mouth and chin sagged a little, I noticed. He wasn’t quite the boyo he made himself out to be. The old shorts fitted the image but the oil ingrained into the pads of his fingers and the dirt under the nails suggested that he was having trouble with his engine. Eventually he made up his mind.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Hardy. I’d like to get out of here but I’m strapped for cash. The engine’s buggered and the rest of the equipment isn’t too flash for a long sail.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘What d’you reckon? Back to Australia. Beats this place to a frazzle. I need nine or ten grand. Could you run to that?’
‘Have to be good information.’
‘It would be, but I’d have to have the money real quick so I could leave pronto.’
‘What’s quick?’
‘Today. Tomorrow at the latest.’
‘That’s quick all right. Give me a taste.’
He stroked his beaky nose the way some people do when they’re trying to decide. He looked around the cabin at the faded books and the torn curtain only half covering a porthole. It occurred to me that he hadn’t made up his mind about selling the boat and didn’t want to. Maybe I was giving him an out. He stopped stroking and decided.
‘Okay. One, Rory didn’t shoot through of his own accord. He disappeared. Two, Jarrod Montefiore’s the guy you need to see. He’s got a story to tell and he’ll tell it for the right kind of dough. I know where he is or at least I can find out. Gabe and Pascal don’t.’
‘He’s not at the address I’ve got, the lie de France?’
‘Moved out like me. Similar reason.’
I thought about it while he fidgeted, scratching at some sun spots on his hands. ‘That’s why you’d have to p.o.q. Because of Rosito and Pascal?’
He made a zipping motion across his mouth. It was a bit theatrical, but there was something in his faded eyes that spoke of concern, even fear.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll go into town and get the money. I’ll give you five straight off and the rest after I talk to Montefiore. That could be whenever you can arrange it.’
‘Deal. I’ll send someone with you to get the five.’
‘How do I know five isn’t enough to get you on your way?’
‘You don’t, but it isn’t.’
‘I have to tell you I’ve had a feeling that my movements are being watched. Does that worry you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take the chance.’
I drove to the bank with a silent young Kanak whose name I never learned. On presentation of my passport, the card and keying in the PIN, I was told that I could draw on the sum of close to fourteen million Pacific francs. An image of Cagney on top of the electricity supply station flashed into my mind: I made it, Ma. A millionaire! My mother would’ve laughed and ordered a champagne cocktail instead of a Para port.
I gave the youngster the equivalent of five thousand Australian dollars and he walked away without a word as if he was a mute. Maybe he was. I was finding Noumea stranger and more interesting by the hour. I’d told Penny where I was staying and he said he’d send a message when he had the information.
I walked around until I found somewhere to have a drink and a think in that order. By chance it was the Saint Hubert, one of the places mentioned in Master’s letters. I went to the bar and bought a Heineken. The glass had a plimsoll line on it so that you could tell you were getting the right amount of beer with the froth as extra. Not something I could see catching on at home. There was a bowl of nuts on the bar, a touch long departed from the places I usually drink at, and I took a modest handful over to a seat where I could look out at the city square and the passing parade. It also gave me a chance to spot interested parties.
The place had a lot going for it-a very good-looking barmaid, reasonable lighting, cooling fans and a good semi-outdoors feel. I could see why the Aussies would choose it as their watering hole. The fact that a standard beer cost the equivalent of seven Australian dollars would keep the riffraff away but would make a round pretty expensive. I hadn’t seen any drunks about, perhaps because a good skinful would cost more than it was worth. I sipped the beer and studied everything around me, still and moving, and decided that if I was being watched, the watcher was so good I’d never spot him anyway.
I had a positive feeling about Penny. There was an edge of desperation about him that just might make his contribution valuable. But then again, I’d thought Rosito was a straight shooter and that had turned out to be wrong. I told myself you can’t expect to read all the signals correctly in a foreign place. That was worth a few nuts and a good pull on the Heineken. But you can’t afford to get them consistently wrong either. The bar overlooked the city square, which had a neat, sculptured French look like the town itself. It was something like Nice, something like Marseilles, places I’d visited briefly a long time ago. If the job panned out right maybe I could go again.
I finished the beer and drove to the lie de France to check the tenant list. No sign of Penny or Montefiore. Also no sign of my tail of the day before. Maybe Rivages thought that his warning would do the trick. Or maybe he just didn’t care. I felt that I’d made reasonable progress for the time and money expended, and decided to take it easy until I heard from Penny. I went back to the hotel, swam and lunched and slept.
Later in the afternoon I did the tourist bit. I caught a ferry to the lie aux Canards, a coral atoll a kilometre or so offshore. No jetty, you waded a couple of metres to get on the boat. The crowd was thinning out from what had evidently been a busy day, but there were still people lying on thick blankets over the spiky coral and some swimming and snorkelling in the crystal water. I had a dip, had a drink at the bar and caught the ferry back. Pricey at every point, but innocent.
I had another swim in the pool and ate dinner at the Japanese restaurant in the hotel, encouraged by the fact that several groups of Japanese tourists were there already. Nothing adventurous-miso soup and teriyaki fish and a half bottle of the good dry French plonk. Signed for it, went back to my room, watched some cable news on TV and was in bed with the Maugham stories well before midnight. Nothing had been disturbed in the room and there were no messages for me. Not a bad day, I thought as I settled down. Thanks, Lorraine. Tough luck, Stewie.
10
I had an undisturbed breakfast and I hung around the room for a while hoping for a call. Then I had a swim and took a couple of looks at the message board at the reception desk. Nothing. The morning was wearing on and I was getting impatient, certainly not settling into holiday mode, something I’ve never been that good at anyway. ‘Driven,’ Cyn used to say, ‘and it’s driving me crazy.’
I showered and drank some more instant coffee with creamer. I was thinking of going to see Penny when a light tap came at the door. It was the non-speaking Kanak youth again. He handed me a piece of paper and slipped away before I could thank or tip him.
I unfolded the paper and examined the block-capitalled address and then pulled out my tourist map. Nothing wrong with playing the visitor. The address was in the heart of Noumea’s Chinatown. Just to be sure I took the most indirect route I could so that anyone consistently behind me had to be following. Nobody. The address turned out to be a shabby-looking block of flats on a street corner above a cluster of trade stores selling, as far as I could tell, exactly the same things at exactly the same prices.
No security here-just a set of dilapidated steps going up from the street beside one of the stores. My information was that Montefiore was in flat five. Turned out to be on the top level where the smell of neglect was strongest and the light was the least good. It was hot and I was sweating when I found the door. The only light was from a landing window that hadn’t been washed this century and a good bit of the last. Still cautious, I paused at the top of the stairs, looked and listened. Nothing. I stepped over a broken carton spilling beer cans and knocked at the door of flat five.