He shook his head. “What’s gone is gone, but there are more years to come.”
“And what if I see Rolf and he says, ‘Here’s some stuff, baby, in case you want to get straight?’”
“We’ll have to make sure you don’t meet him.” Burt held up the finished paddle. “Ready to go?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Thirteen
Tracy bailed with half of a coconut shell while Burt rowed. He was heading north, but the current pulled him inexorably south into the open sea. The handmade oars twisted in his palms; they were blistered and bleeding when Tracy looked up and shouted:
“Look!”
Burt turned to see a schooner bearing down on them. A moment later O’Ryan leaned out of the wheelhouse and beamed down. “Man, they tell me on Mayero you crazy. I sail over to get the body.”
In the wheelhouse five minutes later, O’Ryan produced a quart of black rum. He looked at Tracy shivering beside Burt and trying not to choke on her rum. “She look nothing like when I see her first.”
“She’s been through a hurricane out in the open.”
“Eh... eh. That was a bad one. Many people die.” He told about a fishing village on St. Vincent which had been destroyed by the storm. Flooding rivers had cascaded down out of the mountains, swept the shingle huts into the sea and buried the site in twelve feet of silt. A hundred bodies had been recovered and the digging continued. O’Ryan then passed from the tragic to the commonplace without changing his tone; Joss’s island seemed to have suffered little damage, he said; a few palms had blown over and half the roof of the beach club was gone. He was sure nobody was hurt, otherwise Joss would have signaled him in.
“You saw her?”
“Yes. She come out on the beach and waved me off.”
Burt frowned, then he understood. No doubt Ace had watched from hiding while he held a gun on Coco or Godfrey or one of the others. Rolf’s men knew how to get the most out of hostages.
“Was there a launch in the lagoon?”
“No.”
Ah, thought Burt, then Rolf’s return had been delayed. There might be a chance to bag the whole crew.
People stared as they walked down the cobbled waterfront street of Kingstown, St. Vincent. O’Ryan had loaned Burt a shirt which was far too big for him, and had produced a gaudy dress with red polka dots which hung from Tracy’s shoulders like a laundry bag. She stumbled beside him, and Burt saw the gleam of perspiration on her pale face.
“Is it coming again?”
“A... little.”
He watched her carefully as he said: “The doctor isn’t too far from here—”
“Don’t say it.” She seized his hand in a painful grip. “I’m too near the edge. Stay with me, don’t let me out of your sight. Please. You’re my backbone.”
The sergeant raised his brows as they stepped into the police station. He was a tall, thin blue-black Negro, dressed in a white jacket, black shorts, and white knee socks. Burt read in his eyes the temptation to eject such a disreputable looking pair, then the second thought that these people were white tourists, and that nothing could be lost in giving them quiet and respectful attention. He offered them chairs, introduced himself as Sergeant George, and fingered the buckle of his leather crossbelt while Burt talked. When Burt finished, he said:
“You’re a detective sergeant?”
“Yes. I don’t have my badge—”
Sergeant George waved his hand. “It wouldn’t have any standing here anyway.” He nudged some papers on his desk. “I recall reading about the ambassador’s death. The papers said nothing about missing diamonds, nor about any international art dealer and his wife. Thieves broke in, shot the ambassador, presumably kidnapped his mistress, girl friend or what have you.” He turned abruptly to Tracy. “He says your husband engineered the robbery. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“You would sign a deposition to that effect?”
“Of course.”
“Not that it would hold up in our court, but it would give me something to take to my superiors.” He turned to Burt. “You understand that nearly everybody is attending the disaster at Layou. The governor as well. All communications are out, so it will be necessary for me to drive up and get the necessary warrants. The roads are washed out, but I should probably be back late tomorrow.”
Burt felt a cold fury pass through him, but he kept his voice level. “Do you know Joss, Sergeant?”
“Of course. Quite a fascinating person—”
“She’s on the island with two gunmen. They’ve already killed one of her boys. While we’re sitting here talking politely, making depositions, and going through channels to make sure we don’t get any demerits against our next promotion, she could be dying.”
The sergeant’s face froze for an instant, his nostrils flaring in anger. Abruptly he stood up, opened a drawer, and took out a pistol in a button-down holster. He clipped it to his belt, reached in another drawer and took out a .32 automatic. He put it on the desk. “Take it. Officially I didn’t give it to you.” He looked at Tracy. “We’ll take you by the hotel,”
“I’m going.”
Burt read in her eyes the fear of being alone. “Yes, she goes with us.”
Sergeant George sighed. “Life was simpler before I became a sergeant anyway. Come on, you two. I’ll requisition a launch at the jetty.”
“What if Rolf comes in at Grenada?” asked Burt.
Sergeant George clenched his jaw muscles, then bowed to Burt in exaggerated politeness. “Thank you, Sergeant, for your assistance. I shall radio the authoritties their descriptions.”
They started across the wide sweep of Kingstown harbor in a battered cabin cruiser which looked as though it had barely survived the Normandy landing. Burt, standing behind Sergeant George at the wheel, looked up through the port and saw a seaplane dropping down for a landing. “Where does it come from?”
“Trinidad, via Grenada.” He looked at Burt.“You suppose they’re on it?”
“Let’s find out.”
Their old cruiser made less than fifteen knots per hour. The floatplane had landed and a customs boat had pulled up alongside by the time they drew near. Burt peered through the window and saw Bunny step onto the customs boat. She looked chic and lovely in her smoke-blue suit.
“That’s her,” said Burt. “She’s alone.”
“I’ll get her.”
“She could be armed.”
“Stay out of sight. I’ll show you what official courtesy can do.”
Burt watched through the porthole as Sergeant George stepped across to the customs boat, spoke a word to the officer, then bent his long body into a bow toward Bunny. She smiled and gave him her arm. He helped her onto the cruiser and opened the bulkhead door for her. Her eyes flew wide as she saw Burt and Tracy. She started to back out of the cabin and bumped into Sergeant George who blocked the door. She clawed open her purse, but Burt leaped forward and jerked it out of her hand. He lifted out a pearl-handled .32 and dropped it into his pocket.