The first possibility turned out to be the fact. Before a change of direction became necessary, there appeared on the right an augmentation of the somewhat barren aspect of the island which obviously had been achieved and maintained at considerable effort and expense. Coconut palms, twisted pines, and coarse-leaved sea-grape bushes formed the basic ingredients of the plantation, which stretched about three hundred yards along the water and was about half that in depth.
Beside a shell-rock road which turned off toward the landscaped oasis was a white sign, its red lettering clearly legible to the occupants of any passing car:
Above the letters was the black silhouette of a porpoise.
“Quite a little garden spot,” Simon commented as the limousine slowed to walking speed and crept along the narrow rutted drive into the shade of the trees and high shrubs.
“So it’s a resort that hasn’t opened yet,” Jenny said. “I wondered what kind of a place they were bringing us to.”
“I’m still wondering,” Simon said. “That’s one of the secrets of a long and happy life, my children: never stop wondering.”
They glimpsed a number of pastel-toned cottages scattered among the vegetation, and then they passed through a final dense grove of banana trees and emerged into a wide clearing directly on the water.
There was what seemed to be the central building of the complex, something like a plush American country club, with many windows, the typical low-pitched roof of hurricane resistant concrete slabs, with a little square, slatted tower in the center. Above the tower, moving with nervous response to the slightest changes in the direction of a gentle wind, was a weather vane in the form of the same black porpoise which had appeared on the entrance sign.
#Next to the white building was a large swimming pool, in or around which half a dozen young people were splashing or basking, and not far from that two tennis courts were still under construction. At the other end of the building was a protected marina with a large cruiser moored at its dock.
The driver parked the limousine at the main stairs of the building — which was wisely built high enough to prevent an abnormal tide from someday flooding the ground floor — and came around to open Simon’s side of the car.
“We take care of de bags. Step right inside here an’ de lady tell you all about everything.”
Simon doubted he would hear all about everything he wanted to know without considerably more effort than that, but he cheerfully complied with his guide’s instructions. Wyler and Jenny were beside him when they were met at the heavy glass doors by a gorgeous black-haired personage in shoulderless flowered dress and white sandals who surely could be none other than “the lady” mentioned by the chauffeur.
“I am Maria Corsina,” she said with the slightest trace of an accent, extending her slender hand to each of them in turn. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Her smile and cordiality were a little forced, as if she had been through the same routine so often that her muscles were tired, but nothing could mar the extraordinary beauty of her deeply tanned skin and the long obsidian flow of her hair.
As they returned her greeting, she ushered them into an air-conditioned lobby of red marble and gleaming burnished steel. Opposite the reception desk was the wide entrance to a big reading and game room with a full view of the sea on two sides. Several young people sat over cards or chess at various tables. Pleasantly bar-like sounds came from an unseen quarter.
“What a pretty place,” said Jenny.
“We hope it will be a success,” Maria Corsina replied. “All the villas will not be finished for several weeks.”
“In the meantime,” Simon put in, “I’m glad you found such a good use for it.”
“I am glad someone did,” she said a little mysteriously. “You will enjoy yourselves very much, I hope. Lunch will be served at one o’clock, and in the meantime, you can settle in and make yourselves at home. Dress is informal. I shall have one of the boys show you to your villas. Fortunately, there are only eighteen guests, so most of you will have a cabin to yourself. Now, Mr Bast... Which of you is Mr Bast and which Mr Wyler?”
Wyler out of naturally poor manners, and Simon deliberately, had not identified themselves. But now Wyler responded with more friendliness in his tone than Simon had ever heard him use before; apparently even be was not entirely impervious to such a triple concentrated dose of sexuality as that administered by the olive-tanned exterior of his hostess.
“I’m Grey Wyler,” he said with commendable honesty which Simon regretted he was not in a position to emulate.
“And I am not William Bast,” he said. “My name is Sebastian Tombs, and I’ve come as a substitute for Mr Bast.”
The lady’s disturbed surprise was obvious but quickly controlled.
“Substitute?”
Simon looked quite genuinely concerned and puzzled.
“Didn’t you know? I understood that a cable was sent...”
She shook her head.
“There was no cable... that I know of. Is Mr Bast ill?”
“Mr Bast is dead.”
This time Maria Corsina could afford to let her shock run its natural course.
“How terrible! I’m so sorry.”
Simon’s voice had a gloominess which suited his pseudonym.
“Yes. I think it would be better for everybody’s sake if we didn’t discuss it. Depressing, you know. Be a pity to put a cloud over people’s fun. These things happen — and what can we do now?”
“It’s true,” she sighed.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come in his place, though,” Mr Tombs said modestly. “I was only one point behind him in our contest, actually, so we thought it would be all right if I took his place on the team.”
Maria Corsina’s smile flickered back to life.
“Of course.”
She touched his hand reassuringly, and Jenny’s eyes seethed.
“You’re more than welcome, Mr Tombs. Please don’t think of yourself as a substitute. But since we did not know about you before, I shall look forward to finding out all about you.”
8
Simon had just half an hour before lunch to take a look at his personal villa — which was elegantly and amply designed for the accommodation of at least two people — and to unpack his bag, which had been left off there by the time he walked over from the clubhouse.
An appetite encouraged by excitement and ocean air brought him back to the main building promptly at one o’clock, in time for him to see the majority of his fellow guests emerging by twos and threes after him from the jungle which hid their cottages. On the whole they were a decent looking lot, mostly in their twenties or thirties, and though they spoke a variety of tongues any marked differences in national costume which might have existed when they arrived had disappeared in favor of shorts or slacks and sport shirts.
Jenny joined him as he was proceeding through the central lobby to the dining room’s entrance, which was next to the yet inoperative reception desk. The restaurant was a large rectangular space with windows on the ocean side tinted blue against the glare. The interior decoration and furnishings had not been completed. A half finished mural on the inner wall dealt with Greek heroes and the Trojan horse. In place of the conventional smaller tables which undoubtedly would fill the room when the resort was opened to the public, there were three long ones arranged in a U formation, with the settings arranged for four on either side of each table.