“At this point it is an academic discussion, Jonathan.”
“If — it’s as bad as it could be, I am going to try not to let myself hate you, Sam. Because what was true is still true, no matter what happened.”
“Why didn’t the three of us have this kind of a talk seven weeks ago?”
“We tried to. You weren’t listening.”
Sam stared out at the boats, finally turned and said, “That is perfectly accurate. I wasn’t listening. And I might learn to regret that most of all. Now then. What did you find out that makes you think Staniker qualified?”
“He came here with his wife ten years ago with enough money saved up to make a down payment on a big ketch that had been built here in the islands. He and his wife did a lot of the work themselves, fixing it up for charter. He got all the necessary papers and permissions. He was based at Yacht Haven, just down the road from here. They lived aboard. He operated it on charter for five years. They made a living, but they didn’t make much more than that, I guess. Five years ago they were out on charter and heading for Eleuthera and a waterspout took the sticks out of her and opened the seams and smashed the dinghy. The water that came in drowned the auxiliary so he couldn’t transmit. She drifted down to Cat Island and broke up on a reef there. He got everybody ashore, and he was cleared of any blame when they had the investigation. The ketch was a total loss and there wasn’t enough insurance money to start up again. He went back to Florida and got a job as a hired captain. I guess that when Mr. Kayd was looking for somebody to run the Muñeca over here and cruise the Bahamas, he’d be a pretty good choice.”
“If he was such a good choice, why would he be available? Why wasn’t he already employed?”
“I wouldn’t know. I guess it would be easy enough to find out in Miami.”
“Why didn’t he make a better success of the charter business right here?”
“The people I talked to at Yacht Haven, the ones who were there when Captain Staniker was, they gave me the idea he was a good sailor but not a very good businessman. I got the impression that it was his wife, Mary Jane, who sort of held the whole thing together.”
Sam and Jonathan went down and had lunch in the coffee shop. After lunch Sam drove into town, dropping Jonathan off on the way. He had dealt on a prior visit with a Mr. Lowry Malcolm with the law firm of Callender and Higgs on Bay Street. He took a chance on catching Malcolm in, and after a ten minute wait was taken back to Malcolm’s small office. Lowry Malcolm had gotten out the file on the previous business matter.
“This is something else entirely,” Sam said. “I’d like your help in tracking down some information. One of the law firms here represents Mr. Bixby Kayd either under his own name or the name of Sunshine Management, Incorporated, a United States corporation.”
Lowry Malcolm was a languid, remote-acting man, thin, pale and balding. He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, the poor chap who’s been lost at sea?”
“My nineteen-year-old sister, Leila, was aboard.”
“Oh, I say! That is hard lines. Terribly sorry to hear it. Saw the names in the paper, of course, but didn’t make the connection. I do hope the vessel will turn up safe and sound.”
“Thanks. Will it be a lot of trouble to find out exactly who would be representing Mr. Kayd?”
“Shouldn’t be. Shall we give it a try?”
On the fourth call he found that the firm was Kelly and Dawson, only a block away. Before calling there, Malcolm said, “When I get the chap on the wire, what should I say?”
“Tell him that I want to speak to him on a matter of great urgency, as soon as possible. Tell him I am an attorney from Texas and you have had dealings with me and can vouch for my reputation and integrity — and you will appreciate all the cooperation he can give me.”
After he had made the call, Malcolm said, “That firm is the Bahamian headquarters for Sunshine Management. Thought I’d seen that bloody name on a plaque on someone’s building. The chap you want is Kemp Rodgers. Know him well. All my life, actually.”
“Would you call him an honest man?”
Malcolm’s jaw sagged. “What an odd thing to say!”
“Sorry I haven’t got time to work up to it gradually, but it is important that I know.”
“Kemp is a dear fellow. He is absolutely straight. Never fear. Actually he might have done far better at the law had he not considered it — a necessary nuisance to provide him funds for unspeakably savage little motor cars. He lives for Race Week when he can risk his neck in all that snarling, sliding nonsense. But I must say, if one can endure the racing part of it, it does provide one a rather remarkable choice of lively ladies. He will see you as soon as you can get over there, Boylston. He’s shifting his appointments to make space. If you need more help...”
“I’ll be back. And thanks.”
Kemp Rodgers was a trim man with a large, guardsman moustache, bright blue eyes, oversized hands, and two shelves of race trophies.
His first impression was that Sam Boylston was connected in some way with Sunshine Management. When he learned there was no connection, he was reluctant to give out any information.
Sam Boylston called upon that special and directed force he used rarely, in fact could not use except when a great deal was at stake. He could not fake it. He would feel a curious stillness within himself, and he would have a sense of something coiling and gathering. His voice always became softer, with the feeling that he heard it from a distance, and observed the scene from a distance. It was a force he seemed to be able to aim with his eyes, and he had watched varied and strange effects it had upon people.
Usually they seemed startled, and then alarmed. As if some familiar and unremarkable object, such as a paperweight, had suddenly grown a viper’s head, impressive fangs, and had begun waddling across the desktop toward them with every evidence of malignant determination.
Out of the stillness he said in a careful voice, “I do not need to be reminded of the ethics of my profession, Rodgers. I know what privileged information is. My sister was aboard that cruiser. I am not going to beg, and I am not going to be very patient. Have you seen Bixby Kayd recently? Did he have anything to say about buying the land holdings of Ventures, Limited? Was a large sum recently transferred to the local bank account of Sunshine Management?”
The blue eyes tried to look fierce. They became vague. The moustache twitched. The large hands began washing each other. “Really, I couldn’t — ah — it was thirty-one hundred thousand odd pounds. Told Kayd there was no reason to think Venture would settle for that little. He roared with laughter, gave me a great bloody bash on the shoulder and talked about positive thinking. We fixed up a limited power of attorney.”
“For what purpose?”
“His offer was, in your money, eight million seven. He said Sir Willis Willard — he’s the Chairman of the Board of Ventures — would be calling a special meeting to consider the offer. I would be advised to attend and make the offer official, and hand over the cheque if they approved. Not bloody likely, I told him.”
“I’d like to talk to Sir Willis.”
“He’s a very busy chap and...”
“I’m sure you can arrange it.”
“But I don’t see what the connection could be between...”
“If you don’t mind. It can be at his convenience.”
With visible reluctance, Rodgers reached for his desk phone. He arranged an appointment for Sam Boylston with Sir Willis Willard for the following morning, Thursday morning, at ten o’clock in Sir Willis’s offices in the Imperial Bank of Commerce on Parliament Street.
Rodgers said, “Sir Willis is a lovely old boy. He’s done so very well with almost everything he’s touched, this Ventures mess is a thorn in his side. I gather he’s trying to liquidate it in such a way none of his associates in it will get too badly hurt.”