A Matter of Time (22 page)

“Something I picked up in Burma that leaves no trace. I kept it for years, on the remote possibility I might one day need
it. I didn’t think that day would be Saturday, but,” he shrugged, “there you have it.”

The western horizon was a fiery crimson, already darkening and shading towards purple as they watched.

“A shame the way things turned out,” said the owner wistfully. “Monsieur Vincennes could have been of great service to us.”

The guest nodded. “When I went over to Marseilles after his release, I told him: I hoped ours could be a long and profitable
arrangement.”

The owner sighed. “We might have even made him a partner eventually.” He shuddered. “Getting him into the tub, even duct-taped,
must have been—difficult. He must have weighed fifteen stone. And then?”

“He did have remarkable strength of will. He reminded me of my grandfather, during the war.”

“Your grandfather was in the Resistance?”

The guest nodded. “When he was captured, he refused to eat or drink. The Gestapo finally broke him by forcing a tube down
his throat and pumping liquid nourishment into him. His body betrayed him; it wanted to live.”

“And that’s where you got the idea.”

“Yes.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well. By the way, thank you for sending my driver home before—”

The guest nodded. “I would have gone to collect Vincennes myself, except that would have entailed my being away too long from
Sandys House.” He looked at the owner. “You know I would go to any length to preserve your anonymity.”

“I do know that, René, and I deeply appreciate it. Which is why I—never mind; there’s no need to say what does not need to
be said.” He shivered. “Let’s go in.”

The interior of the house was cool white, with a blue
tiled floor and translucent, blue-tinted glass-block walls. They went through to the solarium which, cantilevered over the
hillside, afforded another breathtaking view of the harbor. Taking chairs, they watched the continuing light show on the western
horizon, muted now, in deepening shades of purple. Below, lights had come on like distant fireflies.

“Where is our property?” the owner asked.

“In St. Peter’s Church, in a life vest, taped under the fourth pew from the back, on the left, as you face the altar.”

“We’ll leave it there for now. Tell me the rest.”

“There’s not much. I’ve sent my associate in New York a letter that I’ve written to the rental agency here. It’s on my New
York office’s letterhead and is dated Monday, as if I’d sent it as soon as I was back in the office.”

He smiled, pleased at his handiwork. “I informed them that although the lease runs to the end of next month, urgent business
required me to return to New York immediately. The letter will have the key to the house and the car in it. I made copies
of the keys and will continue to use house and car until the letter arrives, Thursday or Friday. Meanwhile, I have become
Monsieur Laurent Devereux, who arrived Saturday and is staying at Sandys House for a week of rest prior to his business conference
at the Princess.”

The owner nodded. “Impressive, René.”

“
Ce n’est rien
. I picked Sandys House because it was next door. I could slip out for the rendezvous with Vincennes and return as if nothing
had happened.”

“But something did happen.”

“Yes. It was nearly one before I got back to Sandys
House. I made a call on the pay phone outside the lobby. As there are no phones in the rooms, it is not unusual for guests
to use that phone. I even made a point of showing the night manager my cell phone, deploring its inability to hold a charge.”

“
Très impressif
.”

“I thought so,” he said with a smile that soon faded. “By the way, how did you know I used duct tape?”

“From the police report.”

“You saw the police report?”

“When it’s necessary, I see—what I need to. It was necessary.”

The guest stared at the owner with new appreciation. “What did it say, exactly?”

“That it was an execution, probably drug-related. That the perpetrator must have assumed the body would not be discovered
for years—if ever. That the victim was presumed to have had his run-ins with the law, though the FBI and Scotland Yard have
no record of him.”

The Frenchman gave a low whistle. “Now it is I who am impressed.”

The owner lifted a hand in a gesture of caution. “The inspector running the investigation is Harry Cochrane. I know his family;
he comes from quality. It would be a mistake to underestimate him.”

“What else does he know?”

“This morning he wired Vincennes’ prints to Interpol. So we can assume that by now he knows his identity. We must also assume
he may have surmised why he was here.”

The guest’s expression grew grave.

“In a few days,” the owner went on, “when
Laventura
makes ready to leave and her newest crew member fails
to show up, they’ll report him missing. That’s when Cochrane will know how he got here. And when he sees the ports of call
on
Laventura’s
winter itinerary, he may deduce what Vincennes—
we
—had in mind.”

The guest smiled. “It will be too late.”

“Tell me,” asked the owner.

“I will take the shipment myself.”

“You?”

“Why not? In fact, it will actually be better if I go. Our people know me and trust me.”

“How will you get there?”

“I’m working on that.” He frowned. “How long do I have before they discover Vincennes came on the
Laventura
?”

The owner pursed his lips. “That will depend on what happens to Anson Phelps. Neil and Marcia Carrington,
Laventura’s
owners, have come to watch him race. If he gets eliminated early, he could be gone by the day after tomorrow. If he makes
it to the finals, he won’t leave—and
Laventura
won’t leave—until Monday.”

The guest pondered that. “Either way, that doesn’t give me much time.”

“No.”

The owner got to his feet, and so did the guest. It was completely dark outside. Both men looked down on the lights that wreathed
the harbor like a diamond necklace. The owner looked at the guest. “You are absolutely certain there is no way that you can
be tied to Vincennes?”

The guest thought a moment. “No.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“Well,” he mused, “it is possible that there is a loose end that may need attending to.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a boy, a Somerset boy, who is one of my dealers for Ecstasy and now heroin. The weekly pick-up time for my East
End couriers is Saturday night at eleven. If the post light is on, they may come to the door. If it isn’t, they don’t. That
night it wasn’t.”

“Then what makes you—”

“Sunday afternoon I was in the bar at Sandys House, as were many of the guests. The boy came in. He saw me and ran.”

The owner stroked his chin. “You think he might have seen something the night before?”

“I don’t know how. The house was completely shuttered.” He sighed. “But even if he did, he won’t talk.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Two weeks ago, he told me that he sensed his parents were beginning to suspect something, and he wanted to quit before they
found out about his—extracurricular activity. I explained that our association was like the Irish Republican Army: ‘Once in,
never out.’ He knew too much for us to ever allow him to retire. Besides, he was my access to Hamilton Academy. It would take
too long to recruit another.”

“How did he react?”

“Once he understood that he would have far more to fear from me than from his parents, there was no problem.”

“What’s the boy’s name?”

“Eric Bennett.”

“Ian Bennett’s boy?”

“Yes,” said the guest, mildly surprised. “You know that family, too?”

“I used to go fishing with his grandfather.” The owner
frowned. “I would rather you not attend to that loose end, unless it is absolutely necessary.”

His guest nodded, and the owner walked him to the door. Their meeting was ended.

“One more thing,” he said, opening the door. “I will keep you apprised of the investigation’s progress. But should things
ever start to look bad for you, you must not expect me to do anything on your behalf. As far as the police are concerned,
the possibility of there being a ‘Mr. Big’ behind the drug situation on this island is the product of some journalist’s overheated
imagination. A myth. Nothing—
nothing
—must disabuse them of that notion. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

27
  
  
fathers and sons, ii

After dinner at the Frog & Onion that evening, Ron and Dan went over to the Bennetts’ to see how Nan was doing. When she invited
them in, Ron told her that he’d planned to call Ian first thing in the morning but had decided to do it right now.

“Oh, Ron, I’m so grateful! Something’s terribly wrong—and I don’t know what it is. Ian should be here.”

Ron made the call and convinced his friend to come home on the next plane.

Nan was just bringing out some decaf when Eric blew in the front door. Before he could escape back out, or up to his room,
Dan asked if he might have a word with him. A private word. They went into his father’s study.

“I wanted to thank you for your help on the boat Sunday,” Dan said. “I might have hooked that marlin without you, but I never
would have kept it on, let alone gotten it in the boat.”

“You did all the work,” replied Eric, undeniably pleased.

“And you did all the coaching, telling me what to do next, and never losing patience or making me feel like a
klutz, which I was.” He looked the boy in the eye. “You’re good with people, Eric. You make a person want to come back and
fish with you again. And in your father’s business that’s the most important knack of all, even more than finding your client
fish.”

“Thanks, Mr. Burke.” Eric murmured, looking at his shoes, at the Chelsea ship’s clock on the wall, at the door. When Dan said
nothing more, he asked, “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Because if it is, I’ve really got to—”

“No,” said Dan quietly, “it’s about something else—the thing you don’t want to talk about.”

If Eric had been anxious before, he was practically out of his skin now. But he could not very well leave.

“You know your mother’s worried about you.”

The boy nodded.

“Did you know your father is, too? He’s cutting short his trip and coming home tomorrow.”

“He is?” The boy looked both happy and apprehensive at the news.

“Yup. Mr. Wallace just called him and told him he thought he ought to come home.”

“Because of me?” Mixed emotions crossed the boy’s face like clouds scudding across the sky.

“I’m afraid so. And you know the first thing he’s going to want to do, is talk to you.”

The boy closed his eyes.

“Look,” said Dan gently, “My son was your age once, and I know how hard it was for him to talk to his father. In fact, getting
him to talk at all was like pulling a ten-penny nail out of an oak tree.”

The boy smiled, and Dan suspected Ian Bennett had tried to pull a ten-penny nail or two in his day.

“I can remember the time my son ‘borrowed’ my four-wheel-drive patrol vehicle—the
town’s
patrol vehicle—and tried to move a tree with it. The hardest thing he ever had to do was tell me. Sometimes,” he mused, “it’s
almost too much.”

Eric nodded vehemently.

“That’s why I asked your mother if I could talk to you tonight, before your dad came home.”

The boy waited.

“Son, I’m going to ask you one question. If you answer no, that’ll be the end of this conversation. But if you answer yes,
then we’re going to have to talk some more.” The latter braced himself. “Are you involved with drugs?”

For a long time the boy sat still as a statue. When he opened his mouth, no sound came out, but his lips formed the word—yes.

Late that evening, as Dan motored home, he did not turn his scooter into the drive at Sandys House. He had one more stop to
make before he could call it a night.