‘Joli, we’ve only got two leads to Chameleon. One of them is Lavander, the other is Danilov. Danilov’s on the dodge, and if he knows Haiti as well as it appears he does, he could be hiding there.’
‘That’s a long shot there, Francis,’ said the Magician.
‘I wouldn’t know where else to begin looking. He’s running. It would seem logical he might go over to Haiti. If he is the Russians’ key man there, it seems likely that he knows the place better than any of them. He also has friends there. Joli, do you think you could hide a cabbage-faced Bulgarian assassin in Haiti?’
‘Monsieur, I could hide a bright-yellow elephant with green polka dots in Haiti.’
‘Good, see what you can dig up on him. Anything at all.’
‘Ah, it has always been one of my fantasies, to play the role of Inspector Maigret. If this Danilov has ever put a foot in Haiti, I will know about it,
By nine o’clock the King Line pier in Montego Bay was a madhouse. Local merchants had arrived at dawn to set up their stalls and makeshift shops, turning the pier into a noisy but colorful flea market. The big cruise ship was tied down, its anchor was dropped and its gangplank was swung into place. The passengers, in their white suits and cotton dresses, trudged eagerly down to the marketplace, to haggle over straw baskets and hats, postcards, coffee beans, wooden sculpture and toys. The din was heightened by a calypso band beating on steel drums in the middle of the square.
O’Hara and the Magician were waiting at the bottom of the gangplank when the first passengers came down, looking for the man they knew only by the meagerest description. He was small, thin and eccentric, that was about all they knew. Several times they had approached men who vaguely fit the description.
‘Are you Mr Teach?’
The answer was always a shake of the head or a hurried ‘No.’
In ten minutes the first rush of passengers had left the boat, and the gangplank was empty. The steward drifted away from the top of the landing bridge to attend to other duties. O’Hara and the Magician boarded the boat. With the rush of activity, nobody paid any attention to them. They were both dressed in sports clothes and could easily have been mistaken for passengers. The purser was standing nearby with a check off list in hand. O’Hara decided to take a chance.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, feigning anxiety, ‘I seem to have missed Mr Teach. We were going ashore together and now I’ve forgotten his cabin number.’
The purser looked at him with a frown but before he could ask any questions, O’Hara looked at his watch. ‘I’m sure he said to meet him here. Is there any other way to leave the ship?’
‘No, sir,’ the purser said, checking over the passenger list. ‘Mr Teach is on A deck. Cabin One-one-six.’
‘Of course! Thanks,’ O’Hara said and rushed away before the purser could ask any more questions.
The Mag waited at the foot of the gangplank while O’Hara went in search of Cabin 116. He found it with little trouble, but Lavander did not answer his knock.
‘Mr Teach,’ O’Hara called, ‘it’s the steward. I have a message for you.’
Still no answer.
Several passengers nodded ‘Good morning’ as they drifted by on their way into town. When the corridor was empty, O’Hara took out a penknife, slipped the blade through the crack in the door and pressed the latch back as he turned the handle. The latch popped. O’Hara swung it open very slowly until he could see the entire cabin.
Empty.
He checked the head. Empty too. He closed the door, bolted it and began to search the room.
The cabin was small but tastefully decorated, the bed a mess and the porthole open. The sounds of pandemonium from the dock drifted into the room as O’Hara quickly searched it.
Lavander obviously travelled light and paid little attention to clothes. There were two suits and a pair of slacks hanging in the closet. His fingers traced pockets and lining. Nothing there. One of the Suits looked as if it had never been pressed, the other had a coffee stain on the lapel. There was one tie, hanging lopsided on a wire hanger, an atrocious, multicoloured flowered tie that still had the knot in it. The suitcase was empty. A few undergarments and shirts were in the dresser drawers, nothing else. There was one book on the night table beside the bed, a scholarly-looking volume entitled The Kingdom of Oil. O’Hara flipped through it casually. Small type and a lot of it.
He checked the cabinet in the head, Lavander’s travel kit, the pockets of a bathrobe hanging behind the door. Nothing.
The entire search didn’t take five minutes.
He looked around again, checked under the mattress, and was finally satisfied that there was nothing else in the cabin.
As he reached for the doorknob, there was a knock on the door. O’Hara froze. He moved back a few steps. Knuckles tapped on the oak door again.
‘Senor, it is the maid.’
‘Un momento.’
‘SI. I weel be back,’ she said and moved on down the corridor.
