I wondered if I would.
She turned and walked with Duval to his jeep. She got in and gave me a last quiet look. Then they drove away. I watched until I couldn’t see her any more. Then I drove back to the hotel.
Twenty
I parked in front of the hotel and got out. The night was still and a tropic breeze blew in from the ocean. Some other time I’d have put on cut-offs and walked along the water at the edge of the beach, listening to the surf. But not tonight. I headed for the room, feeling stiff and bruised.
I was still shaken and feeling the vague disquiet that goes with being somewhere you hadn’t expected to be. I stopped for a moment at the hotel steps, looking up at the stars.
I heard the rustle of clothes the last second before he hit me. A thick arm flashed. Then the pain tore through my head and buckled my legs. I fell into a sudden dark hole.
I fought through fog to a vicious ache that pounded my head. My stomach churned and my legs were numb, as if disconnected from my nervous system. I lay there regaining consciousness in gauzy chunks.
I was sprawled on my back looking at the stars, and I suddenly knew that I would have been dead if someone had cared. Christopher Paget, the last act on the Amateur Hour. My pockets were turned inside out.
I staggered up and dragged myself up the stairs, falling, then half-crawling, then righting myself to walk the last few steps.
My key was in the door and the room was open and torn up. I edged to the doorway and leaned there. The whole thing was like television, I thought. But it wasn’t, not at all.
I stepped in. No one home. I locked and latched the door and inched woozily around the room. Nothing seemed to be gone. I lay down on the bed.
I fished inside my coat pocket. My wallet was still there. I opened it. No money missing. I slid the words of Lehman’s memo out of its crevice. It hadn’t been touched. They weren’t hunting for a scrap of paper, I thought. It was the chips. They were looking for the goddamned chips.
I had just enough strength left to call Tracy. She answered in a hopeful voice. She was OK, she said. Duval was there. Was there anything new? Nothing at all, I said. Just checking. I wished her good night and hung up.
Something made me think of the words on the scrap of paper. But they kept swimming out of sight. I fell asleep, still clutching the scrap.
I was jolted awake by the savage tropic sun streaming through the windows. My head throbbed. I cleaned up and packed in a fever of delayed anger. I checked out and picked up the parcel of chips. Then I went to town and called on De Jonge.
He looked up from his neat desk with a phlegmatic gaze. “Good morning, Mr. Paget. Are you all right?”
I wanted to dump over his desk, mess up his office and chuck Bernhard and Juliana out the window. But I didn’t do any of those things. I didn’t sit either.
“Good morning, Inspector. I’ve come to report a case of white flight. One of your businessmen is missing. Your economy is threatened. And I’ve got a headache.”
He sat up in his chair. “What is this all about?”
I started with the attack and break-in, while I gathered my thoughts on how to cover Tracy. I assured him I wasn’t hurt any more than anyone who’d been beaned with a brick. No, I didn’t know who did it, although I wondered what Kendrick did for fun. No money lost to speak of, and no valuables. I left out the chips I had stolen.
De Jonge was apologizing and looking embarrassed. There was nothing in that for me, so I moved on to Tracy, leaving out what she had told me.
“Mrs. Martinson couldn’t help,” I summarized. “But I think he’s disappeared-because I was visiting.”
He flushed. “I told no one.”
“I believe you, Inspector.” I did, provisionally. “I’m asking you to take this seriously. The woman needs some police protection.”
De Jonge’s face was strained. “Please sit down for a moment.”
I cooled off and sat. De Jonge’s voice became sympathetic. “Whatever you may think, Mr. Paget, we are concerned when someone disappears. The police will ensure that nothing happens to Mrs. Martinson.”
I rose. “All right. Thanks.”
He held up his hand. “Mr. Paget, you are not a patient man. You asked me yesterday to check some records. Would you like to know what I found?”
He was right about me. “Peter Martinson hiding in a filing cabinet?”
He gave his pipe an offended look. “No. But I did learn when Carib Imports was founded. Just this July. Peter Martinson signed the papers.” He eyed me. “I hope that is useful.”
I retracted the irony. “It is, Inspector.”
He stood and stuck out his hand. “I’ll contact you if we discover anything.” He paused. “I’m sorry that we were not more helpful.”
He probably was. I shrugged and took his hand. His eyes turned back to Juliana. I said good-bye and drove to the airstrip.
The airstrip had one building, the naked cinderblock shelter that housed customs and baggage. There was a telephone inside. I used it to call Robinson. His long-distance voice was fuzzy. “How is it down there?”
“Lousy. I got beat up last night. And I can’t find Martinson.”
“Christ. What happened?”
I made my decision. “I struck out. No information. No nothing. Listen, did you find out anything about Green?”
“One thing. Lasko controls a substantial interest in the First Seminole Bank.”
I thought. “We’d better get Green back in, quick.”
“I’ll do that. You all right?”
“I think so.”
“Well, that’s something.”
I thanked him and hung up. It was a long wait and a long trip to Washington. It was night when I got there. The Capitol dome was spotlit against a black sky. St. Maarten seemed very far away.
Twenty-One
I sat alone in my office early next morning, trying to make sense of it all. The thing was: I couldn’t trust anyone. If I showed them Lehman’s memo, Lasko would find out. If they knew I’d stolen the computer chips, Lasko could see where I was headed. And if I said I was tracking Martinson, he might end up dead. If he weren’t already. The one way to be sure was not to talk much-even to Robinson. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. But I couldn’t ask him to hide the ball. If he went along, it could be trouble for him. If he let it slip, it could be trouble for me. I fingered my skull gently. It still hurt.
The isolation was oppressive. I was the only one who held the pieces-the sham company, Lehman’s memo, Martinson’s disappearance-even if I couldn’t fit them together. And I couldn’t let the pieces go. It would have helped to level with someone. Preferably someone who nodded when I mentioned murder and leaks in the agency, and cheered when I lied and hid things in my desk. But that wasn’t going to happen. I was wondering about Martinson when Robinson opened the door.
He blinked at the sunlight which came through my window. “How are you, Chris? Hurt any?”
I reached for the blinds. “My head, some.”
“You’re a little white. Seen a doctor?”
