“Somebody dipped my purse!”
He turned, scanning the arena of his combat, then bent to peer under the benches, but he had not dropped his wallet during the scuffle and he knew it. Some ugly bostard had swiped it, and if he ever got his hands on the bostard, there’d be an end to one purse-snatcher, my word! But who? He frowned, trying to remember anyone touching him, but he couldn’t. Oh, yes; there had been one chap jostled his shoulder getting away from the bar, but he was positive that one hadn’t brushed against the pocket. He ceased his fruitless search of the floor and came back to the bar, his face screwed up in anger, to find the girl had brought the rum bottle back from the shelf and was carefully pouring his drink back into it.
“Hey!” McNeil’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “What’s the idea, sweet?”
Diana calmly finished her task, corked the bottle and returned it to the shelf beneath the mirror. She turned, wiping her hands on a towel, looking at him evenly.
“The idea, Bill, my lad,” she said quietly, “is that you’ve been having me on with your tall tales long enough. Somebody dipped your purse! And if he did, I pity the lad for the little he’ll find in it! And if he did, who would it be? One of the lads who was in here tonight? Don’t make me laugh!”
“I tell you somebody dipped my purse! As for that damned drink of rum—”
“As for that drink of rum, my lad, I’m not paying for it out of my money, and don’t you even dream it.”
“But, damn it, Diana, sweet—”
“And forget that ‘sweet’ business, too. You’ve been telling me lots of things ever since you got back, about how you were going to pick up that fortune someplace and then the two of us would be off and away and all. But anytime a girl asks you ‘when?’ then it’s always ‘in a little while.’ And now this bit about somebody stealing your purse! Well, if they did they probably hurried up the day you’ll have to come down off your high horse and get yourself a job on the fishing boats like the other lads, the ones you call trash. And you can forget about me when you do. Because I’m not aiming to do the cooking and cleaning and washing and raising a dozen brats for some Bajan comes home smelling of fish every night!”
He tried to reach across the bar to grasp her arm, but she stepped back, continuing in an even, expressionless voice.
“And another thing: I’m not waiting forever for something I’m beginning to seriously doubt, and I mean it, my lad. I took this job temporary, and I mean it to be temporary. You and your ‘in a little while’ nonsense! Well, a little while is a long time with you, Bill McNeil. Too long a time for me.”
“You saying I lied to you, honey?” The big man’s voice had dropped; its very quietness made it sound more dangerous. “You saying Bill McNeil’s just some big-mouth telling tales to impress a pretty girl? Like I need to lie to get a pretty girl?”
She remained silent, watching him.
“You saying I didn’t get my purse snatched? That I said so for a bloody drink of rum? And that I didn’t have more money in it than all the fishermen in this hole all put together? You saying that?”
The door of the pub opened; several sugar-plantation workers came in, their straw hats pushed to the back of their heads. They came to the bar, leaning on it. Diana moved over to them. McNeil stared at her a moment and then wheeled from the bar, striding fiercely to the door, flinging it open abruptly and disappearing into the night. There was the sound of a car being started as the constable openly began to follow.
Diana stared at the closed door a moment, a faint smile on her face, then turned to the new customers, repeating the standard litany of the Badger Inn.
“Well, boys, what’ll it be? Beer or rum?”
5
Captain Da Silva pulled his old rented camper into Ainsley Street in upper Bridgetown, straining to see the house numbers painted in white on the pink walls in the weak reflection of the automobile’s headlights. On the other side of the car, Wilson performed a similar service, wishing they had thought to come equipped with a flashlight, at the very least. Suddenly he caught a glimpse.
“There,” he said, and pointed.
Da Silva nodded, braked, and swung the wheel, turning into the crushed stone driveway. He followed it to the rear of the sprawling house, pulling into a semicircle to end up under a rear porte-cochere where a small light burned. The two men climbed down, Da Silva stretching to relieve the strain of night driving from his tired muscles. Wilson glanced about appreciatively, taking in the long, low house and the carefully cultivated grounds.
“Very nice,” he said. There was a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “One of the disadvantages of Rio, of course, is that the only place one can live is in an apartment. The house is getting to be like the horse — practically extinct.” He considered his statement a moment. “Actually, you know, counting the Jockey Club, the Hípica, and the polo ponies at Gavea and Itanhangá, there are almost certainly more horses than houses in Rio. Not counting the ones pulling wagons, even.”
Da Silva reached for the old-fashioned pull-bell set beneath the ornately carved door beneath the entrance way.
“Don’t knock apartment living,” he said with a smile. “Try to look at the bright side. Think of having to cut the grass and trim the bushes; think of mortgages. Think of termites.”
“One of the things I assiduously avoid thinking about,” Wilson said coldly, “is termites. Mortgages, rarely. Exotic dancers, occasionally. Raquel Welch constantly. But termites?”
He paused as the door swung back. A tall handsome black man dressed comfortably in sharply pressed slacks, a pullover and sandals was smiling at them. He was thin, gaunt, aristocratic-looking; there was more than a touch of gray at his temples. He came forward, crunching on the coral gravel to meet them, holding out one hand to Wilson, putting his other hand on Da Silva’s shoulder.
“Hello, Captain. Mr. Wilson, it’s good to see you again. I’m glad you finally had a chance to visit my home.” He led them inside, closing the door behind him, mounting several steps to a large living room. “Frankly, I didn’t want to meet in my office for several reasons — McNeil might just have friends who might see you. And, of course, I’d had enough of a police station for one day, anyway. Sometimes I wish I’d chosen crime as a profession. It must lead to much simpler decisions.” He smiled. “And, too, we ban liquor at headquarters. A reasonable rule, I suppose, but a bit hard to bear after five o’clock.”
He led them through the living room onto an open screened porch. From the vantage point of the house’s height above the city, they could see the twinkling lights of downtown Bridgetown flickering through the leaves of the stand of trees protecting the house from the onslaught of tropical storms. Crickets chirped in the tall bushes that formed a friendly barrier between the house and its neighbor. The rich sensual fragrance of frangipani filled the warm night air. Chief Inspector Storrs waved a hand toward the bamboo bar in one corner of the porch.
“Can I offer you gentlemen anything?”
“Let me,” Wilson said, and walked over to the bar, assuming a stance behind it. “I’m getting to be an expert in Bajan pubs.” He leaned on his palms professionally, bending forward, a solicitous look on his face. “Well, gents? Beer or rum?”
“The beer’s in the kitchen—” the inspector began.
“I was only joking,” Wilson said hastily, and bent to inspect the stock. He rose, beaming, looking at Da Silva. “Would you stand still for some brandy? Say — Remy Martin?”
“If I have to be deprived,” Da Silva said philosophically, “let it be with Remy Martin.”
Wilson poured a glass expertly and turned to their host, an inquiring look on his face. The inspector shook his head, pointing to a tall glass on the coffee table beside him. He waited until Wilson had served Da Silva, poured himself a drink, and had come around the bar to settle himself on one of the tall bar stools.