There were three or four people being dealt with at the desk before him so he dropped his bags and went back outside. There was a very large bar area, open at the sides, but under a huge barnlike roof, a vital necessity in a climate where instant heavy rain showers were common.
Beyond was Caneel Bay, he knew that from the brochure, boats of various kinds at anchor, a pleasant, palm- fringed beach beside another restaurant, people still taking their ease in the early evening sun, one or two windsurfers still out there. Dillon glanced at his watch. It was almost five-thirty and he started to turn away to go back to the front desk when he saw a boat coming in.
It was a 35-foot Sport Fisherman with a flying bridge, sleek and white, but what intrigued Dillon were the dozen or so airtanks stacked in their holders in the stern, and there were four people moving around on deck packing their gear into dive bags. Carney was on the flying bridge, handling the wheel, in jeans and bare feet, stripped to the waist, very tanned, the blond hair bleached by the sun. Dillon recognized him from the photo in the brochure.
The name of the boat was
Dillon lit a cigarette, his Zippo flashing, and Carney killed the engines and came down the ladder. “Thanks,” he called.
Dillon said, “My pleasure, Captain Carney,” and he turned and walked away along the dock.
One of the receptionists from the front desk took him out to his cottage in a small courtesy bus. The grounds were an absolute delight, not only sweeping grassland and palm trees, but every kind of tropical plant imaginable.
“The entire peninsula is private,” she said as they followed a narrow road. “We have seven beaches and, as you’ll notice, most of the cottages are grouped around them.”
“I’ve only seen two restaurants so far,” he commented.
“Yes, Sugar Mill and Beach Terrace. There’s a third at the end of the peninsula, Turtle Bay, that’s more formal. You know, collar and tie and so on. It’s wonderful for an evening drink. You look out over the Windward Passage to dozens of little islands, Carval Rock, Whistling Cay. Of course a lot further away you’ll see Jost Van Dyke and Tortola, but they’re in the British Virgins.”
“It sounds idyllic,” he said.
She braked in a turned circle beside a two-storied, flat-roofed building surrounded by trees and bushes of every description. “Here we are, Cottage Seven.”
There were steps up to the upper level. “It isn’t all one then?” Dillon asked.
She opened the door into a little vestibule. “People do sometimes take it all, but up here it’s divided into two units. Seven D and Seven E.”
The doors faced each other, she unlocked 7D and led the way in. There was a superb shower room, a bar area with a spare icebox. The bedroom-cum-sitting room was enormous and very pleasantly furnished with tiled floor and comfortable chairs and a sofa, and there were venetian blinds at the windows, two enormous fans turning in the ceiling.
“Is this all right?” she asked.
“I should say so.” Dillon nodded at the enormous bed. “Jesus, but a man would have to be a sprinter to catch his wife in that thing.”
She laughed and opened the double doors to the terrace and led the way out. There was a large seating area and a narrow part round the corner that fronted the other windows. There was a grassy slope, trees and a small beach below, three or four large yachts of the ocean-going type at anchor some distance from shore.
“Paradise Beach,” she said.
There was another beach way over to the right with a line of cottages behind it. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Scott Beach and Turtle Bay is a little further on. You could walk there in fifteen minutes, although there
There was a knock at the door, she went back inside and supervised the bellboy leaving the luggage. Dillon followed her. She turned. “I think that’s everything.”
“There was the question of a telephone,” Dillon said. “You don’t have them in the cottages, I understand.”
“My, but I was forgetting that.” She opened her carrying bag and took out a cellular telephone plus a spare battery and charger. She put it on the coffee table with a card. “Your number and instructions are there.” She laughed. “Now I hope that really is everything.”
Dillon opened the door for her. “You’ve been very kind.”
“Oh, one more thing, our General Manager, Mr. Nicholson, asked me to apologize for not being here to greet you. He had business on St. Thomas.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure we’ll catch up with each other later.”
“I believe he’s Irish too,” she said and left.
Dillon opened the icebox under the bar unit, discovering every kind of drink one could imagine including two half-bottles of champagne. He opened one of them, poured a glass, then went out and stood on the terrace looking out over the water.
“Well, old son, this will do to take along,” he said softly and drank the champagne with conscious pleasure.
In the end, of course, the sparkle on the water was too seductive and he went inside, unpacked, hanging his clothes in the ample wardrobe space, then undressed and found some swimming trunks. A moment later he was hurrying down the grass bank to the little beach, which for the moment he had entirely to himself. The water was incredibly warm and very clear. He waded forward and started to swim, there was a sudden swirl over on his right, an enormous turtle surfaced, looked at him curiously, then moved sedately away.
Dillon laughed aloud for pure pleasure, then swam lazily out to sea in the direction of the moored yachts, turning after some fifty yards to swim back. Behind him, the
Santiago had changed his mind about Samson Cay only after Captain Serra had brought him a message from the radio room. An enquiry by ship-to-shore telephone had confirmed that Dillon had arrived at Caneel Bay.
“He’s booked into Cottage Seven,” Serra said.
“Interesting,” Santiago told him. “That’s the best accommodation in the resort.” He thought about it, tapping his fingers on the table, and made his decision. “I know it well, it overlooks Paradise Beach. We’ll anchor there, Serra, for tonight at least.”
“As you say, Senor.”
Serra went back to the bridge and Algaro, who had been standing by the stern rail, poured Santiago another cup of coffee.
Santiago said, “I want you to go ashore tonight. Take someone with you. There’s the Land-Rover Serra leaves permanently in the car park at Mongoose Junction. He’ll give you the keys.”
“What do you require me to do, Senor?”
“Call in at Caneel, see what Dillon is up to. If he goes out, follow him.”
“Do I give him a problem?” Algaro asked hopefully.
“A small one, Algaro,” Santiago smiled. “Nothing too strenuous.”
“My pleasure, Senor,” Algaro said and poured him another cup of coffee.
Dillon didn’t feel like anything too formal, wore only a soft white cotton shirt and cream linen slacks, both by Armani, as he walked through the evening darkness toward Caneel Beach. He carried a small torch in one pocket provided by the management for help with the dark spots. It was such a glorious night that he didn’t need it. The Terrace Restaurant was already doing a fair amount of business, but then Americans liked to dine early, he knew that. He went to the front desk, cashed a traveler’s check for five hundred dollars, then tried the bar.
He had never cared for the usual Caribbean liking for rum punches and fruit drinks, settled for an old fashioned vodka martini cocktail, which the genial black waitress brought for him quite rapidly. A group of musicians were
