“I’m a journalist,” she said.
“A journalist!” If she had said a hairdresser it would hardly have seemed less likely.
“Well, don’t look so surprised. Is there anything strange in that?”
“Not in itself perhaps. It’s the situation that makes it surprising. Are you telling me that you’re practising journalism right here and now?”
She smiled enigmatically. “You might say that.”
“I don’t understand. What goes on here? What is everyone up to?”
“You would like to know?”
“Of course I’d like to know. When I’m involved in something as deeply as I’m involved in this, I naturally feel an interest in what it’s all about. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose I would.”
“Well, are you going to tell me?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Not yet.”
“It’s political, isn’t it? Mr. Denning is not supposed to touch politics, but I’ll bet he is. He’s got his fingers in something, and if President Rodgers found out about it he’d be in real trouble, wouldn’t he?”
“You’re just speculating,” she said.
“I know I’m speculating, but it’s pretty accurate speculation, isn’t it? What I still can’t figure out is where you fit in.”
She smiled again. “Well, you work on it, John. Just go on working on it, and maybe you’ll finally come up with an answer.”
With those legs and that figure and those lovely dark eyes and that enigmatic smile playing around her lips, she was really something. You could travel a long way and never come across anyone half as attractive as Leonora Dubois, and he toyed with the idea of telling her so, but decided not to. Let it wait awhile.
“Oh,” he said, “I’ll work on it. There’s nothing I can think of I’d rather work on.”
Denning returned late in the afternoon. King and Lawrence also turned up. Fletcher wondered where they had been, but he did not ask; he doubted whether they would have told him if he had. Denning called a conference to discuss plans for the picking up of the camera.
“Can you get into the house without rousing the family?” he asked.
“I’ve still got a key,” Fletcher said. He had had one for quite a while, so that he could come and go as he pleased. “But there’s no need to creep in like a thief. I’m not going to steal anything.”
“All the same,” Denning said, “I think it would be better if Mr. Thomas didn’t see you.”
Fletcher had a feeling that Denning had picked up some information in Jamestown which he was not revealing; but again he asked no questions.
“I suggest you get there at about one o’clock in the morning,” Denning said. “Will they be asleep by then?”
“Unless they’ve changed their habits.”
Denning took a piece of notepaper from a small writing-desk and drew a sketch-map of the Port Morgan peninsula.
“Whereabouts is the house?”
Fletcher marked the approximate position and Denning nodded.
“Good. Then you can approach it from the beach on the seaward side? Is that so?”
“Yes; but the road is on the other side.”
“You will not be going by road,” Denning said. “You will be going by sea.”
NINE:
NIGHT OPERATION
They picked up the boat at a little place on the north coast where an inlet from the sea formed a natural harbour. It was a trifle over half an hour’s journey in the Ford and it had been dark before they started. Leonora again did the driving and she was again dressed in shirt and slacks, but this time she had left the hat behind. King and Lawrence also came along. Fletcher was not sure whether they were armed, but he suspected they might be. He just hoped there would be no call for violence; there had been enough of that the previous evening.
The boat was in amongst a lot of other boats and they had to get to it along a crazy sort of board-walk after parking the car. There were a few lights hanging on posts, but the illumination was not very brilliant and there was little sign of activity around the boats. Fletcher had a guilty feeling and was keeping an eye open for any policemen who might be prowling about, but he could see none, and the girl and the other men seemed completely unworried.
It was not a large boat, but it looked fast. Perhaps Denning enjoyed a bit of water-skiing when he felt like relaxing, or maybe he just liked a speedy boat the way he liked a fast car. It was secured by a rope at the bows to a post on the board-walk, and there was a cabin not much bigger than a fair-sized dog-kennel and a glass windscreen to catch the spray. They went on board and Lawrence got the engine started while King cast off, and a few minutes later they were clear of the harbour and heading towards the eastern curve of the shore.
It was a fine clear night with all the stars shining as brightly as newly-minted coins, and Fletcher might have enjoyed the trip if he had not been worrying about possible snags ahead. Suppose the police were watching Joby’s bungalow, waiting for him to return. It was not unlikely; in fact, when he came to think about it, it seemed the most probable thing in the world and he wondered why it had not occurred to any of them when they were planning the operation.
He suddenly felt Leonora’s hand on his arm. He turned his head and could make out the pale oval of her face under the dark hair.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He told her.
“You worry too much,” she said.
“Don’t you think there’s any cause for worry?”
“It doesn’t help.”
“I know it doesn’t help, but nobody ever stopped worrying because of that.”
“Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I just hope so.” But he doubted it. More likely that everything would be all wrong. He listened to the powerful note of the engine and the swish of water streaming back from the bows, and all the time there was a sick flutter in his stomach and he wished he had been a thousand miles away and had never heard of a boat called Halcón Español. It would have been better if that Spanish Hawk had never flown into his life.
Just over an hour later they turned the headland and were running south along the eastern coast about half a mile out from land. Before long the shoreline curved sharply away to the westward, but Lawrence kept the boat’s head still pointing due south, cutting across the wide bay on the southern side of which was the Port Morgan peninsula.
Lawrence had not been pushing it, but the boat had been going along at a useful rate and the engine had never faltered. Nevertheless, it was getting on for one o’clock when they reached the place where they had planned to go ashore. Lawrence reduced the speed and the engine note dropped to a low mumble, and he made a turn to starboard and ran on under the stars with no light showing. There was a glimmer of white beach ahead with a dark line of palm-trees beyond it, and they came in gently and slid the keel into the sand. Lawrence stopped the engine and King said:
“You know the way from here?”
“I know the way,” Fletcher said.
“I’ll come with you.”
“There’s no need for that,” Fletcher said quickly. He was not keen to have King with him; this was something he preferred to handle on his own. That way there would be no shooting.
But King just said again: “I’ll come with you.”
It was no time to argue. Fletcher clambered up to the bows and jumped down into the shallow water. King followed him as he made his way up the beach, and when he turned he saw that Leonora had come with them.
“Look,” he said, “do we need a crowd?”
“You may need some help,” she said.
“If I need help it’s going to be a shambles.”