Lavander was an easy fellow to make fun of. He was almost a visual joke: a wizened, dour little man, thin and unkempt, with bulging eyes, a gray, unhealthy pallor, pouty cheeks and straw-coloured hair, which seemed to sprout, helter-skelter, like alfalfa, from his oversized head. His white suit seemed permanently un-pressed, one of his coat pockets was hanging half out, his bow tie was on crooked, and his shoes had never seen a bootblack’s brush.
Lavander never walked, he scurried, constantly looking around, like a rodent foraging the dark corners of a warehouse. His eccentricity was compounded by a wildly neurotic paranoia. He imagined reporters lurking everywhere, waiting to pounce and demand interviews. That not one newsman had approached him for several years was inconsequential. He frequently switched airline reservations at the last moment, sometimes to a totally different country, then doubled back, taking laboriously involved routes to places where there were direct flights, and changing hotels two or three times. It was his only recreation, this madness for privacy, as if his almost religious overview of the oil business had crowded rationality out of his mind. Since the horror of his kidnapping, Lavander had become even more suspicious, more paranoid.
And so he scampered around the city, sitting in parks, reading several American and European newspapers, killing time, unwittingly waiting for destiny to catch up with him.
The plane was twenty minutes late arriving, but Hinge still had over an hour until the meeting between Frazer and Lavander, Plenty of time to check out Trelawney Square and the pastry shop where they were to meet. He had memorized Frazer’s picture and then burned it in the plane’s lavatory.
Hinge felt comfortable moving through customs. They checked his bag with a piece of white chalk and moved him on through.
He immediately noticed the girl sitting on a bench in the waiting room, studying an airline timetable. There was no mistaking her reaction when she saw him. Recognition? Interest? Perhaps she had mistaken hint for someone else.
Was she following him? But why? Why would a woman be waiting for him in the Montego Bay air terminal?
He went to a phone booth and searched his pockets for a coin. She had moved to another bench closer to the door. He could see her reflected in the glass panel behind the telephone.
He stood in front of the dial when he made the call, then casually turned sideways in the booth. She was in a phone booth on the opposite side of the terminal.
It could be paranoia. She seemed t be laughing while she was talking. It didn’t hurt to be overly cautious. He would keep an eye on her.
He asked the restaurant operator for Mr David Jackson. Derek Frazer answered very quickly.
Hinge said, ‘Is this Mr Jackson?’
Frazer said, ‘Which Mr Jackson do you want?’
Avery Jackson.’
‘Is this Mr Garrett from Texas?’ Frazer asked.
‘Yes.’
‘When did you move?’
‘Fourteen months ago.’
‘Very good. Any problems?’
‘Smooth as velvet.’
‘The car is taken care of. They’re holding the keys for you at the rental counter. The package is in the trunk.’
‘Thanks. It’s the Nelson Pastry Shoppe on Trelawney Square. Eight o’clock, right?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘What time do you leave?’
‘I’ll be going straight to the airport from the square.’
‘I’ll call the drop when I’ve delivered the package.’
‘Thank you.’
The girl was gone when he finished. He looked around the terminal, then entered the rental office and got the keys. The car was a red two-door Datsun coupe. He opened the trunk. There was a small canvas bag in back of the spare. He closed the trunk, got in the car and drove off.
A blue Datsun pulled out and started following him. He watched for the lights after turning on the main road to town. It was still behind him. He slowed down and the blue car drew closer. When it was less than half a block behind him, he turned off the main road, coursing around a park. The blue car stayed with him.
It had to be the girl.
But why?
Hinge did not have time to get involved. He needed to do something fast. He floored the accelerator and turned into the next street on his right. The Datsun surged under him as he took the next turn, then another. Then he flicked off his lights and whipped into a palm-lined driveway.
He killed the engine and waited for her.
O’Hara had been looking at the Gulf Star for several minutes without speaking. It was almost seven o’clock and Lavander had yet to show his face.
‘I better check the hotel again, see if Hinge was on that last plane,’ the Magician said.
