The inspector coughed and said heavily: 'You're looking after Miss… ah… Jiminez, I gather.'
'That's right.'
'I was just asking what she could tell us about her brother's… ah… activities. It might give us a lead.'
'I understand, Coronel,'she said sadly, 'that he was murdered by gangsters from the República. Have you caught them yet?'
He coughed awkwardly. 'Well… no, not yet, quite. Trouble is, Mr Carr didn't find your brother's… ah… your brother until twenty-four hours later.' He gave me a look which made the whole thing my fault.
She looked at me soulfully. 'And you were teaching him to fly, Capitán?'
'That's right.' I looked back at the inspector. 'Although I didn't know what it was for.'
She said: 'He was very devoted to his father's cause.'
Well, maybe – after women and his Jaguar E-type. But I stayed shut up. After a time, the inspector said gallantly: 'Well, a man should be-' then caught the sergeant's eye, and added: 'Depends on what cause, of course.'
Nobody said anything and we had a bit of rich dark Spanish gloom. Then the inspector said: 'So you can't think of anybody your brother knew particularly in Kingston?'
'Only Capitán Carr, Coronel.'
He grunted. I noticed he wasn't objecting to the'Coronel'title. After a little more gloom, he said: 'If you want to make arrangements for your… ah… brother, I see no objections. I've already spoken to the coroner and since there's obviously no possible dispute over the… ah… cause of death, he's been released for – well, you can make any arrangements you like. The inquest may. be delayed.'
And I could guess why. After three days of international politics and American journalists over a murder he'd probably decided was unsolvable, the last thing he'd want would be to remind everybody about it by staging an inquest in a hurry. This one was an inquest that would take up five minutes of a wet Monday morning in the middle of the next banana-loading strike.
'Please call on me at any time,' he finished – a little hopefully, I thought. She gave him a vast sad smile and he rocked, lifted his hand to salute, remembered he was in plain clothes, and tottered away with the sergeant loping after him.
She said contemptuously:'They will never catch them.'
I didn't think so myself, but all I did was make soothing noises and start humping her cases towards the exit.
Around the Palisadoes road and through Kingston itself I, kept talking and pointing out the sights – mostly to give my hands something to do apart from grab. The back seat there, with her tight skirt riding up a little beyond loud-hailing distance of her knees, was definitely a one-thought situation.
She listened, nodded, and smiled politely until Tom Pringle's Cotton Tree on the Spanish Town road finally exhausted my local knowledge. Then she said calmly: 'Now you will fly the bomber instead of Diego?'
I jumped and looked quickly at the driver. But I'd forgotten that it was one of those old-fashioned long Cadillacs some Jamaican car-hire firms use – with a glass partition behind the driver. Closed.
Still, our security didn't sound too good if the news had already spread as far as Caracas.
I asked cautiously: 'Why d'you think that?'
Her eyes got wide, and maybe a little disappointed. 'But of course, Capitán- I assumed it. You will want to revenge Diego.'
Well – that or get my Dove back or something. I nodded.
She smiled, then said thoughtfully: 'It is very good. It is the classic use of air power, as your Lord Trenchard said. To destroy die enemy air force on the ground.'
I said: 'Huh?'
'Indeed, it is the most pure of all tactics. Captain Liddell Hart wrote it: "fixing combined with die decisive manoeuvre". You are fixing the enemy's attention with your frontal attack, my father is manoeuvring on the flanks, one might say, to bring about Clausewitz's "decisive battle".'
This time I didn't say anydiing. I just let my jaw dangle against my chest. After a time she noticed my expression had changed from the hungry leer which I'd been wearing ever since we met, and asked: 'You know Clausewitz, of course, Capitán?'
'He was die German general who… well, it was in Napoleon's time, wasn't it?'
'He wrote On War,' she said, a little austerely.
'Yes, I expect he did.' Not quite my brightest and best remark, but I was still going through die disorientated feeling you might get if die aeroplane had suddenly decided to fly backwards.
'But you must have read his books in your Air Force. He has been much misunderstood, but he is still the basis of all strategy.'
I nodded helpfully. 'I'm sure diey read him at dietop of the RAF but I was pretty close to die bottom. They didn't consult me much on strategy.'
She frowned. 'Was that why you left your Air Force?'
I waved a helpless hand. 'Look -1 was just a pilot. A bullet. The air marshals pulled the trigger and I went where I was pointed. That's all.'
But that wasn't quite the impression I'd planned to give. I'd been diinking more along die lines of The Dashing Debonair Aviator Flying Fearless Into The Eye Of The Hurricane.
The hell with you, Clausewitz. I hope your tent leaked oncampaigns and your publishers cheated you on royalties.
'Now that,' I said, pointing, 'is the original church of Spanish Town. You should see some of the inscriptions on the gravestones from the plague days-'
'Your Lord Nelson was here before he became a Lord, I think,' she said.
'Yes, that's down at Port Royal-'
'He was not a strategist, of course, but a very good tactician.'
I thought of asking whether she meant Trafalgar or Lady Hamilton, but decided not to. I said: 'At one time, Spanish Town was the capital of-'
She said: 'Only the Nile and Copenhagen were his important battles of course. In each he used the factor of surprise in the most interesting way…'
In the next hour I learnt a lot about Nelson. I also picked up some good stuff about Marlborough, the Schließen Plan, the two Moltkes, Foch, and Hannibal.
Somehow, it still wasn't the car drive I'd planned.
NINETEEN
It was twilight when we pulled into Shaw Park. J.B.'s Avantiand Whitmore's white station wagon were parked there, so I leant on the bell of Apartment C.
Luiz opened the door. He started to smile at me, then caught the view over my shoulder and went into shock. It was nice to see it happen to a professional.
He recovered quickly and made an elegant gesture that just happened to shove me out of the Uneof sight.'Señorita Jiminez? I am called Luiz Monterrey. I knew your father. May I express my sorrow at the death of your brother? I should wear mourning' – he was still in film clothes; he plucked distastefully at the torn, smudged frilly shirt – 'but an actor must wear mourning in his heart. That, I do. But youmust be tired, please-' I was suddenly alone on the doorstep.
He was a pro, all right.
I hauled the luggage out of the car to release the driver for other company business, and walked into Apartment Cmyself. And straight into the muzzle of a gun.
I recognised it as one of the lever-action rifles they'd used in the river-crossing scene; the face behind it seemed vaguely familiar from the film-set, too.
'Blanks, I trust?' I said.
'You could find out – the hard way.' The face was grim and steady. 'Now say somep'n about who you are and why.'
J.B. came around the corner of the passage. 'All right, Doug – he's one of ours.'
The rifle drooped towards the floor – a little disappointed, I thought.
'After Diego,' J.B. explained, 'the Boss Man started taking a few precautions. He's licenced to have real ammunition for that thing in case he wants to go hunting alligators down on the Black River. Come on through.'