She looked up at me. “All right,” she said quietly.
“Let’s start with how your husband got here.”
“Well, I guess the thing was that nothing quite worked out. Peter-well, it’s not that Peter isn’t smart, he’s very clever, really-he just hadn’t found the right spot.” The words had a pat, formula sound, as if she had repeated them to herself until memorized. “When we finished college, Peter wanted to go to Europe. I couldn’t have children-” Her voice caught; perhaps children would have made her husband a grown-up. “Anyhow, Peter is a manufacturer’s representative for international companies. We’ve been everywhere the last twelve years. I’ve got beautiful memories. And Peter speaks three languages.” The tumble of words stopped abruptly. I thought of a cheerleader again, turned older. She was still leading cheers, but the team was behind and would never catch up. The knowledge showed in her eyes. They moved between innocence and hurt. “I’m not helping, am I?” she asked.
I tried to look encouraging. “Just keep on talking. Where did Peter work last?”
“Japan.”
“For Yokama Electric?”
“That’s right. How did you know that?”
“I’m beginning to put some things together. About when did you come to St. Maarten?”
“July.” She stopped. “Just last month.” It seemed to surprise her, as if it felt longer now.
The Frenchman arrived to take our order. She looked distracted. I asked some questions and ordered for her. It felt strange. Perhaps her husband did that too.
“Why St. Maarten?” I asked when we had ordered.
“Peter was asked. He did a lot of his business in Japan with Lasko Devices. They liked him. Peter told me that. William Lasko asked him to come here personally.”
“What was your husband supposed to do?”
“Mr. Lasko wanted Peter to run his new company for him. Carib Imports.”
“Does your husband own any part of Carib Imports?”
She shook her head. “No. Peter is just running it for him.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“We didn’t have the money to own a company. This was really a break for Peter.” The sentence started in pride and trailed off in embarrassment.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what is he paid?”
“Well, it seemed fantastic. He got a $100,000 bonus and $75,000 a year for two years. We’re renting a beautiful home in the hills.”
“I can imagine.” I could-but not the way she thought.
She read it. “Mr. Paget, what’s going to happen to Peter?”
“Nothing. But I need to find him. Have you any idea where he is?”
Her voice shrunk. “He wasn’t to tell me,” she hesitated.
“Damn it, Mrs. Martinson, help me out.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not the same, but I’m involved in this thing too.” Lehman’s unspoken presence thickened my speech. “You’ll help your husband best by telling me everything. Especially that.”
She gave me a candid gaze. I decided that her eyes were very nice. “Mr. Paget, I love Peter very much.”
“I won’t forget that,” I said quietly.
She touched my hand. “All I know is that Peter said he would be somewhere safe. Near Boston.”
It figured.
The Frenchman brought us dinner. She picked at it. I encouraged her, pointing out things that looked good. I asked a few more questions and turned up nothing. She was not a stupid woman, not at all. But she had abdicated responsibility for the world of men. Or, more accurately, had never presumed to have any. She was all victim, hurt and hopeful at once. And I liked her.
We finished dinner. “Do you have a picture of your husband?” I asked.
She fumbled in her purse and produced a wallet-size snapshot. “This is Peter,” she said. The warmth in her voice was crossed with fear, as if Peter might be only the picture.
The picture showed a lean man with sharp features and dark curly hair. He had all the elements of good looks. What stopped me was a sort of spurious winner’s smile. Somehow he reminded me of a guy who would show up for tennis with a graphite racket and a $100 outfit, and flash all the strokes you wish you had. And then leave you wondering why he lost.
“Can I keep it?” I asked. She nodded. I placed it carefully in an inside pocket.
The Frenchman returned, casting a doleful eye on the woman’s picked-over plate. It had a messy, abandoned look, as if someone had begun surgery and then decided to quit. It affronted his sensibilities. I cheered him up by saying that duck l’orange this fine was tough to come by. She watched the byplay with empty eyes, as if it were no more or less significant than the rest of her day. I flashed on Valerie Lehman, staring in pretty bewilderment at her nice furniture. We passed on dessert. I took her arm and steered her out the door.
The night was a dark cocoon of privacy. We walked across the street to her car. There were no buildings or people near us.
We stood by the car. “You know,” I told her, “I don’t know your name.”
It took her a second to understand. “Oh,” she answered, “it’s Tracy.”
I smiled. “I’m a believer in the importance of names. Tracy Martinson is a fine name.”
She put her hands on my lapels, half-leaning. “Please find Peter for me.”
“I’ll try not to let you down,” I said quietly. She looked up at me as if she knew what I meant. Someone else had let her down. A soft breeze blew her hair against my shoulder. I brushed it away, across her cheek. She shivered and clung to me. But this wasn’t my kind of occasion. Or hers. I waited. She pulled back.
I asked her to wait. I scribbled my hotel, office, and home numbers on a scrap of paper. I pressed it in her hand. “Will you be all right alone?”
She answered slowly. “Yes.” But she wouldn’t, at all.
I was looking at her, thinking that, when the headlights cut across her face. I turned toward the harsh glare and sudden roar of an accelerating car, racing toward us from the once-quiet street, maybe fifty feet away. In the dark it looked like a huge malevolent bug. Tracy screamed in my ear. I froze. The crazy thought bolted through my brain: “Just like Lehman.” Twenty feet. I wrenched out of it, grabbed Tracy, and hurtled sideways onto the hood of her car, feet trailing. The car squealed past as we kept rolling, off the hood and onto the grass on the other side. I held her there, face down in the grass. We heard the growl of the motor as it sped down the choppy road.
I pulled her up, and dragged her by the hand across the road. We got to the restaurant and then she leaned on my shoulder, crying softly. The Frenchman scurried up, alarmed and sympathetic. There had been an accident, I said. He sat Tracy down and steered me to the phone. I reached Duval at the Government House. I was glad of that.
He arrived in two minutes, wondering what he could do. I glanced at Tracy, sitting at the table.
“Can you watch her house?”
He nodded. “Surely. But what of you?”
“I’ll be all right. This was a warning, I think. If they had wanted to kill us, there are better ways, like two bullets in the head. But I’m not quite dangerous enough for killing. I think what they want is for her to shut up, and for me to lay off.”
“This is to do with her husband then.”
“Yes. He’s missing.”
“And you saw nothing?”
“Nothing except the car.”
We talked another moment, while I explained as much as I could. Then we retrieved Tracy. She was still white and dazed.
“It’s all right,” I told her. “The Inspector will guard your house.”
She nodded distractedly and started with Duval through the door. She stopped and turned suddenly, as if she had forgotten something.
“Thank you, Mr. Paget.”
It was a thanks I didn’t rate. I could have left her safe at home. “I’ll try to find your husband,” I promised. But
