blazer and Guards tie, the Panama at a suitable angle, the Brigadier looked extremely impressive. Dillon wore a navy blue silk suit, a white cotton shirt buttoned at the neck. When they entered Jenny’s Place the bar was already half-full with the early evening trade. Bob Carney leaned on the bar wearing white linen slacks and a blue shirt, a blazer on the stool beside him.
He turned and whistled. “A regular fashion parade. Thank God I dressed.”
“Well, we are meeting the Devil face to face, in a manner of speaking.” Ferguson laid his Malacca cane on the bar. “Under the circumstances I think one should make an effort. Champagne, innkeeper,” he said to Billy.
“I thought that might be what you’d want. I got a bottle of Pol Roget on ice right here.” Billy produced it from beneath the bar and thumbed out the cork. “Now the surprise I’ve been saving.”
“And what’s that?” Carney asked.
“Miss Jenny was on the phone from Paris, France. She’s coming home. Should be here right about this time tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful,” Carney said.
Billy filled three glasses. “And she gave me a special message for you, Mr. Dillon.”
“Oh, and what would that be?” Dillon inquired.
“She said it was important. She said to tell you she’s coming back because she thinks she might know where it is. Does that make any kind of sense to you, because it sure as hell doesn’t to me?”
“All the sense in the world.” Ferguson raised his glass and toasted the others. “To women in general, gentlemen, and Jenny Grant in particular. Bloody marvelous.” He emptied his glass. “Good, into battle,” and he turned and led the way out.
Behind them, the bearded fisherman who had been sitting at the end of the bar listening, got up and left. He walked to a public phone just along the waterfront, took out the piece of paper Serra had given him and rang the
“What on earth is it?” Santiago demanded.
“My informant in St. John. He just heard Dillon and his friends talking to Jones, the bartender at Jenny’s Place. Apparently she was on the phone from Paris, will be in St. John tomorrow evening.”
“Interesting,” Santiago said.
“That’s not all, Senor, she sent a message to Dillon to say she was coming back because she thinks she might know where it is.”
Santiago’s face was very pale and he snatched the phone. “Santiago here. Now repeat your story to me.” He listened and finally said, “You’ve done well, my friend, you’ll be taken care of. Continue to keep your eyes open.”
He handed the portable phone to Serra. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” and he turned back to the mirror.
Ferguson, Dillon and Carney crossed from Mongoose and followed the trail to Lind Point toward the seaplane ramp. Ferguson said, “Rather convenient having a ramp here and so on.”
“Actually we do have a regular seaplane service some of the time,” Carney said. “When it’s operating, you can fly to St. Thomas or St. Croix, even direct to San Juan on Puerto Rico.”
They reached the Cessna and Dillon walked round checking it generally, then pulled the blocks away from the wheels. He opened the rear door. “Okay, my friends, in you go.”
Ferguson went first, followed by Carney. Dillon opened the other door, climbed into the pilot’s seat, slammed and locked the door behind him, strapping himself in. He released the brakes and the plane rolled down the ramp into the water and drifted outwards on the current.
Ferguson looked across the bay in the fading light. “Beautiful evening, but I’ve been thinking. We’ll be flying back in darkness.”
“No, it’s a full moon tonight, Brigadier,” Carney told him.
“I checked the weather forecast,” Dillon added. “Clear, crisp night, perfect conditions. The flight shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Seat belts fastened, life jackets under the seat.”
He switched on, the engine coughed into life, the propeller turned. He taxied out of harbor, checked to make sure there was no boat traffic and turned into the wind. They drifted up into the air and started to climb, leveling out at a thousand feet. They passed over part of the southern edge of St. John, then Reef Bay and finally Ram Head before striking out to sea toward Norman Island, Samson Cay perhaps four miles south of it. It was a flight totally without incident, and exactly fifteen minutes after leaving Cruz Bay he was making his first pass over the island. The
“A real rich folks’ hideaway,” Bob Carney said.
“Is that so?” Ferguson said, unimpressed. “Well I hope they do a decent meal, that’s all I’m interested in.”
Carlos Prieto came out of the entrance to reception and looked up as the Cessna passed overhead. There was an ancient Ford station wagon parked at the bottom of the steps, an ageing black man leaning against it.
Prieto said, “There they are, Joseph, get up to the airstrip and bring them in.”
“Right away, sir.” Joseph got behind the wheel and drove off.
As Prieto turned to go inside, Algaro emerged. “Ah, there you are, I’ve been looking for you. Do we have an old black somewhere around called Jackson, Joseph Jackson?”
“We certainly do. He was the driver of that station wagon that just drove off. He’s gone to the airstrip to pick up Brigadier Ferguson and the others. Do you need him for anything important?”
“It can wait,” Algaro told him and went back inside.
Dillon put the Cessna down for a perfect landing, taxied toward the other end of the airstrip, turning into the wind, and switched off. “Not bad, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “You can fly a plane, I’ll grant you that.”
“You’ve no idea how good that makes me feel,” Dillon said.
They all got out and Joseph Jackson came to meet them. “Car waiting right over here, gents. I’ll take you down to the restaurant. Joseph’s the name, Joseph Jackson. Anything you want, just let me know. I’ve been around this island longer than anybody.”
“Indeed?” Ferguson said. “I don’t suppose you were here in the War? I understand it was unoccupied?”
“That ain’t so,” Jackson said. “There was an old hotel here, belonged to an American family, the Herberts. The hotel was unoccupied during the War, but me and my wife, May, we came over from Tortola to look after things.”
They had reached the station wagon and Ferguson said, “Herbert, you say, they were the owners?”
“Miss Herbert’s father, he gave it to her as a wedding present, then she married a Mr. Vail.” Jackson opened the rear door for Ferguson to get in. “Then she had a daughter.”
Dillon sat beside Ferguson and Carney took the front seat beside Jackson. The old boy was obviously enjoying himself.
“So, Miss Herbert became Mrs. Vail, who had a daughter called Miss Vail?” Dillon said.
Jackson started the engine and cackled out loud. “Only Miss Vail then became Lady Pamer, what do you think of that? A real English lady, just like the movies.”
“Switch off that engine!” Ferguson ordered.
Jackson looked bewildered. “Did I say something?”
Bob Carney reached over and turned the key. Ferguson said, “Miss Vail became Lady Pamer, you’re sure?”
“I knew her, didn’t I? She came here at the end of the War with her baby, little Francis. That must have been in April forty-five.”
There was a heavy silence. Dillon said, “Was anyone else here at the time?”
“German gent named Strasser. He just turned up one night. I think he got a fishing boat to drop him off from Tortola, but Lady Pamer, she was expecting him…”
“And Sir Joseph?”
“He came over from England in June. Mr. Strasser, he moved on. The Pamers left and went back to England
