out. He looked solemn. “I am sorry, Mr. Paget, that we did not do more.”
I realized that the silence had been embarrassment. I tried a smile which almost took. “Then do me a favor sometime. Beat on Kendrick for me.”
Duval grinned back. “I have that one marked.” He pointed to his skull.
I laughed. “I noticed that.” We shook hands. “Good luck,” I said.
“Thank you, sir.” The jeep rumbled off, and I walked into the hotel.
The lobby was bright, modern, and deathly quiet. A heavy Dutchman checked me in with grave courtesy, tips on restaurants, and a few ponderous quips. I wasn’t in the mood. Did he have an envelope and a safe, I asked. He nodded. I threw the chips in the envelope and watched while he put them away. I got a key and went to my room.
I had a top floor room with an ocean view, and a sliding door which opened onto a cement deck. The beach stretched for miles to my right, below green hills. It was bleach-white and sheltered by low palms. We were on a bay; the far hills curled back out to reach for the sea. A tame surf crept in, lulling and regular, with a deep satisfied sound. Out beyond, the sun caught jets of white in the dark azure, glistening like mica. I watched it for a while. Then I shook myself, showered, and put on a fresh suit.
The phone was next to my bed. I lay down, leaning on my elbows, and thought for a long time. I started to reach for the phone, then stopped, thinking of Lehman. Then I stretched for the phone and had the switchboard place the call. I could hear the phone ring, a shocking metallic rattle that made me start.
Then it stopped. “Hello.” It was a woman’s voice, American I thought.
“Mrs. Martinson?”
“Yes. Who is this?” Her voice sounded timorous, as if she feared bad news.
“I’m Christopher Paget. I’m an American, a government lawyer. I’m trying to locate your husband.”
“What do you want from Peter?” The question was both edgy and hopeful.
“Just to talk with him. I think he could help me.” I tried to make my voice suggest that helping me conferred honor on the helper. Lehman knew better, but he wasn’t talking.
“What do you want to talk about? I mean, why can Peter help you?”
“I’m doing a government investigation of an American company. Lasko Devices.”
Her voice went flat. “Then Peter can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“He can’t help you,” she insisted.
There was trouble in the words. I decided to push. “Mrs. Martinson, is your husband home?”
Silence. “No.”
“Is he in some sort of difficulty?”
“What do you mean?”
I forced myself to speak with cold precision. “I’ll put it another way. Do you even know where he is?”
“I-don’t-know.” The crying broke then, as if my question had pulled the plug on her self-control.
My hand squeezed the phone, trying to hold her on. “Mrs. Martinson?” I tried.
“Yes.”
“Can I see you?”
She caught her voice. “Yes.”
“Let me think.” I hesitated. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“No.” The answer was delayed, as if she had shaken her head, then remembered I couldn’t see her. I understood. Her voice on the phone was more real than the room around me.
“I don’t want to be seen going into your place. Do you know La Porte?”
“Yes.”
“Can you meet me there in an hour?” There was a long silence. “Mrs. Martinson, please come. It could be very important.”
She sounded drained. “All right, Mr. Paget. I’ll meet you.”
“Thank you,” I said. She hung up abruptly.
I rented a car and got to La Porte a little early, about 7:15. A slight Frenchman led me in with elaborate politeness. He seated me by the window at the end of the small room. I told him that I was expecting a lady. He scurried away, looking pleased. Through the window, the sea looked rich blue in the waning sun. The decor around me was dark and simple-French rustic, graced with white linen and pewter. I liked it. And I hoped Martinson was alive.
The Frenchman reappeared, leading a tall blonde girl dressed in white slacks and turquoise silk blouse. I stood, surprised.
“Mrs. Martinson?” She nodded, eyes resting on me. “I’m Chris Paget. Please sit down.” The Frenchman whisked out a chair and deftly steered her to it. I took a second look. The girl was a woman, maybe thirty-five, though age had only touched her eyes. The rest of her was girl-pretty cheerleader face and slim body that moved with the carelessness young girls have before life becomes a harness. She looked back across the table. The sad puff around her eyes rebuked me. Being glad she was pretty was more than pointless. I wondered where Martinson was while I dined with his wife.
“You’re very young,” she said.
I smiled. “Old enough. Can I get you a drink?” She hesitated. “You could probably do with one.”
“All right. Thank you. Whatever you’re having.” Her natural tone was high, a girl’s voice.
I ordered two rum and tonics and turned back to her troubled gaze.
“Let me explain why I’m here.” I spoke carefully, trying to feed some confidence into her eyes. “I’m a lawyer with an agency in Washington, the ECC.” I took out my ID card and laid it in front of her. “One of our jobs is to investigate fraud in companies that sell stock in the United States. I’m working on a case involving Lasko Devices. I flew here this morning to talk with your husband. I visited the company and saw a man named Kendrick. He said that your husband had gone on vacation because of some sort of mental strain. He wouldn’t tell me when he had left, where he had gone, or when he would come back. My guess is that he disappeared within the last twenty-four hours, and that he’s not on the island.”
She shook her head, the blonde shag grazing her shoulders. “No.”
“No what?”
Her voice quavered as if someone was shaking her. “No, he’s not crazy. He went away because they told him.”
“Who told him?”
“I don’t know. Someone from the company. He called me this morning. He said he had to go away for a while, right away, that someone was looking for him.” The two thoughts collided in her eyes. “It was you.” Her voice accused me. It made as much sense as anything else.
“Probably. Why did he go?”
“They told him to. He was afraid. He’s never been afraid before, of anything. I asked him please not to go. He kept telling me that he had to. Then he hung up. It was so frightening. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” Her shoulders drew in. It gave her a breakable look.
“What else did he tell you?”
“That I shouldn’t tell anyone-but I’m afraid for him.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“Because Peter’s afraid.” The words had strange echoes, as if she had lived for years on her husband’s reactions. But I was afraid too.
“Did he tell you why?”
“No.”
I could feel her trust slipping from me in the sterile inquisition. I sensed that she hadn’t decided who to be afraid of. Our drinks arrived. She sipped listlessly, watching me over the rim.
I tried something else. “Mrs. Martinson, this case seems to be very important to someone. I want your husband safe. Anything that you can tell me about his business here would help.”
Her eyes clouded with doubt, then tears. She stared at her lap. I waited. “Can you help protect Peter?” she asked after a time.
“I hope so.”
