bare cement half-filled with boxes and half-lit by hanging fluorescent tubes. A couple of workmen in sleeveless T- shirts were restacking boxes in a corner, clearing space. On the far wall of the warehouse a half-opened door admitted a crack of sunlight and some wet air. In one corner a wooden stall stood open, a dirty toilet visible. I craned my neck, searching for someone who looked like a Peter Martinson.
I settled for the only white face I saw, a stocky, blunt-featured man with thinning red hair. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt and leaned in a far corner idly watching the workmen. We stood at the end of the partition until he spotted us. His gaze across the warehouse seemed to flick past the two police, then settle on me, as if I were expected. He gave the workmen a last careless inspection and sauntered over with a kind of calculated aggression.
“Yes?” he asked. His tone was as expressionless as his face.
I let De Jonge do the talking. He gave the man an even stare, neither impressed nor unimpressed. “I’m Inspector De Jonge,” he began, “and this”-he nodded at me-“is Mr. Paget, who is here representing the United States government. We wish to speak to Mr. Martinson.”
The man spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. “Mr. Martinson is not here.”
“When may he be expected?”
“I don’t know.” His voice seemed to push us toward the door.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Kendrick.” Kendrick was definitely not interested in talk. Each word had a grudging quality.
“What is your position here?”
“Working. Not talking.”
De Jonge’s voice was patient. “Nonetheless, we would like to talk for a moment.”
Kendrick shrugged and led us silently to a partitioned office nearest the door. He moved behind a bare metal desk and sat. De Jonge and I took two chairs across from him. Duval stood apart, marking Kendrick with sharp eyes as if filing him away.
De Jonge was talking to Kendrick. “I think,” he said, “that Mr. Paget wishes to make some inquiries.”
I nodded. “My agency is curious as to the business of this company.” Kendrick looked back at me in silence. He didn’t ask what my agency was or why we were curious. I didn’t like that, any more than I liked Martinson’s vague absence.
“What exactly is the business of Carib Imports?” I asked.
He folded his arms. “I am not authorized to speak for the company. You’ll have to ask Mr. Martinson when he returns.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you?”
The sarcasm stirred him a little. He flushed. “It should be obvious. We import electronic chips.”
“From Yokama Electric?”
His eyes flickered. “That is not a familiar name.”
“Perhaps if I spelled it.”
His voice turned emphatic. “We do not deal with Yokama Electric.”
“With whom do you deal?”
“Various companies. You’ll have to ask Mr. Martinson. I just run the warehouse.”
“For how long have you done that?”
“Just a month.”
“How long has the company been in business?”
His eyes were sudden pinpoints of hate. “I told you that I’d just been here a month.”
I felt a cold returning anger, at him and at the situation. They had known I was coming. I wanted Kendrick on my ground, under oath, where I could pick him apart. But I couldn’t do that on St. Maarten and he knew it. I looked at De Jonge. He was leaning back in silent disassociation. This wasn’t his case.
I turned back to Kendrick. “Where is Mr. Martinson?”
“I don’t know.”
I felt a sudden sharp fear that I had killed Martinson, as surely as I had killed Lehman, without knowing the reason.
“Why not?” I snapped.
“He left me in charge. He said he was worn out. Mental strain. He was taking a rest. He wouldn’t tell anyone where.”
“What if you need to ask him who you do business with?”
He flushed again. “I told you I didn’t know.”
“When did he leave?”
“A few days ago,” he said vaguely.
“You mean yesterday?”
He blinked. “I don’t remember. Ask him.”
I paused. This wasn’t going anywhere. I smiled apologetically, in feigned embarrassment. “I know this is off the subject,” I said to Kendrick, “but do you have a toilet here? I’ve had a very long trip.”
He hooked a disdainful thumb at the warehouse. “Thank you,” I said. “Excuse me.”
Kendrick half-rose, as if debating whether to stick with me or the police. He chose the police and sat down.
I strode to the warehouse area, looking back to make sure I wasn’t watched. The workmen were still stacking boxes in the far corner to my left. The toilet was in the opposite corner to the right of me. Next to it lay two boxes. I walked to the stall, and glanced around. The workmen had their backs to me.
I grabbed one of the boxes and dragged it into the stall, closing the door. Then I stopped and ripped open the top. Inside were about two dozen brown paper sacks. I opened one. Black metallic fragments scattered into my cupped hand. Electronic chips. I lifted the flap of my left outside coat pocket and sprinkled the chips inside. Then I tore up the empty sack and flushed it down the toilet.
I looked out. The workmen were nowhere in sight. I hauled the box back and stacked the other box on top. Then I rejoined the others. They were still where I had left them, silent, as if frozen by my departure.
De Jonge looked up blandly from his pipe. “Do you have anything further for this man?”
“No. I think we’ve exhausted Mr. Kendrick’s usefulness.”
Kendrick stared at me in sullen relief. De Jonge stood to go. “Thank you, Mr. Kendrick.” Kendrick said nothing. We walked out of the office, opened the warehouse door, and got in the jeep. The chips rubbed silently in my pocket.
Nineteen
We went back to the Government House and waited while Duval checked on Martinson. He came back with a number and the address of a rented house in the hills above Little Bay. Did I intend a visit? De Jonge asked warily. No, I said, but if I changed my mind I would let him know. De Jonge detailed Duval to take me to my hotel. We drove off in silence.
The ride was hot and dusty under the glaring afternoon sun. I couldn’t stop worrying about Martinson. Woods hadn’t listened about McGuire, and I’d asked for St. Maarten anyway. Now Lehman might get Martinson for company. All compliments of my own vanity and stupidity.
I was an albatross, hunting men so Lasko could find them. And Lasko had always been one step ahead and out of sight, from that first day when McGuire met with Catlow, dispenser of plum appointments. When I met Lehman to see him killed. When my search for the cryptic memo turned into quiet threats and Lasko came to pick my brain. When Sam Green sprouted an expensive lawyer, who gave me next to nothing. And now Martinson had disappeared. It was a grim way to confirm his importance. I wondered what he was like, whether he had a family, what things had put him in my path.
We drove up a small hill and the view suddenly opened into salt-white beach and water bluer than azure, rich and clean looking and glinting in the sun. The hotel squatted behind the beach, three long two-story units of white stucco. Summer was well off-season and the hotel looked deserted. When we reached it, I thanked Duval and got
