The Deceiver

Lady Coltrane wheeled herself to the open window and stared out for a while.

“Mr. Hannah, you are right. I do know these people. I have lived here for forty-five years. I love these islands, and I love their people. I hope I may think that they love me.”

She turned around and gazed at him. “In the world scheme of things, these islands matter for nothing. Yet these people seem to have discovered something that has eluded the world outside. They have found out how to be happy. Just that—not rich, not powerful, but happy.

“Now London wants us to have independence. And two candidates have appeared to compete for the power: Mr. Johnson, who is very wealthy and has given large sums to the islands, for whatever motive; and Mr. Livingstone, a socialist, who wants to nationalize everything and divide it up among the poor. Very noble, of course. Mr. Johnson, with his plans for development and prosperity, and Mr. Livingstone, with his plans for equality—I know them both. Knew them when they were boys. Knew them when they left in their teens to pursue careers elsewhere. And now they are back.”

“You suspect either of them?” asked Hannah.

“Mr. Hannah, it is the men they have brought with them. Look at the men who surround them. These are violent men, Mr. Hannah. The islanders know it. There have been threats, beatings. Perhaps you should look at the entourages of these two men, Mr. Hannah.”

On the drive back down the mountain, Desmond Hannah thought it over. A contract hit? The killing of Sir Marston had all the earmarks of one. After lunch he thought he would have a talk with the two candidates and take a look at their entourages.

As Hannah returned to the sitting room at Government House, a plump Englishman with several chins above his clerical collar jumped up from a chair. Parker was with him.

“Ah, Chief, this is the Reverend Simon Prince, the local Anglican vicar. He has some interesting information for us.”

Hannah wondered where Parker had got the word Chief from. He hated it. Sir would do nicely. Desmond, later—much later. Maybe.

“Any luck with that second bullet?”

“Er, no—not yet.”

“Better get on with it,” said Hannah. Parker disappeared through the French windows. Hannah closed them.

“Well now, Mr. Prince. What would you like to tell me?”

“It’s Quince,” said the vicar. “Quince. This is all very distressing.”

“It is indeed. Especially for the Governor.”

“Oh, ah, yes. I meant really—well ... my coming to you with information about a fellow of the cloth. I don’t know whether I should, but I felt it might be germane.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” suggested Hannah mildly.

The reverend calmed down and sat.

“It all happened last Friday,” he said. He told the story of the delegation from the Committee for Concerned Citizens and their rebuff by the Governor. When he had finished, Hannah frowned.

“What exactly did Reverend Drake say?” he asked.

“He said,” repeated Quince, “ ‘We have to get rid of that Governor and get ourselves a new one.’ ”

Hannah rose. “Thank you very much, Mr. Quince. May I suggest you say no more about this, but leave it with me?”

After the grateful vicar scuttled out, Hannah thought it over. He did not particularly like stool pigeons, but he would now have to check out the fire-breathing Baptist, Walter Drake, as well.

At that point Jefferson appeared with a tray of cold lobster tails in mayonnaise. Hannah sighed. There were some com­pensations to being sent four thousand miles from home. And if the Foreign Office was paying ... He poured himself a glass of chilled Chablis and started.

During Hannah’s lunch, Chief Inspector Jones came back from the airport. “No one has left the island,” he told Hannah, “not in the last forty hours.”

“Not legally, at any rate,” said Hannah. “Now, another chore, Mr. Jones. Do you keep a firearms register?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. Would you check it through for me and visit every­one who has a listed firearm on the islands? We are looking for a large-caliber handgun. Particularly a handgun that can­not be produced, or one that has been recently cleaned and gleams with fresh oil.”

“Fresh oil?”

“After being fired,” said Hannah.

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“One last thing, Chief Inspector. Does Reverend Drake have a registered firearm?”

“No. Of that I am certain.”

When he had gone Hannah asked to see Lieutenant Haverstock. “Do you by any chance own a service revolver or automatic?” he asked.

“Oh, I say, look here. You don’t really think ...” expos­tulated the young subaltern.

“It occurred to me it might have been stolen, or misappro­priated and replaced.”

“Ah, yes. See your point, old boy. Actually, no. No gun. Never brought one to the island. Got a ceremonial sword, though.”

“If Sir Marston had been stabbed, I might think of arresting you,” Hannah said mildly. “Any guns in Government House at all?”

“No, not to my knowledge. Anyway, the killer came from outside, surely? Through the garden wall?”

Hannah had examined the wrenched-off lock on the steel gate in the garden wall at first light. From the angles of the two broken hasps and the torn-apart bar of the great padlock, there was a little question that someone had used a long and very strong crowbar to force the old steel to snap like that. But it also occurred to Hannah that the snapping of the lock might have been a ruse. It could have been done hours or even a couple of days earlier. No one had ever tested the gate; it was deemed to be rusted solid.

The killer could have torn off the lock and left the gate in the closed position in advance, then come through the house to kill the Governor and retreat back into the house afterward. What Hannah needed was that second bullet, hopefully intact, and the gun that had fired it. He looked out at the glittering blue sea. If it was down there, he’d never find it.

He rose, wiped his lips, and went out to find Oscar and the Jaguar. It was time he had a word with Reverend Drake.

Sam McCready also sat at lunch. When he entered the open-sided verandah dining room of the Quarter Deck, every table was full. Out on the square, men in bright beach shirts and wraparound dark glasses were positioning a flatbed truck decorated with bunting and daubed with posters from Marcus Johnson. The great man was due to speak at three.

Sam looked around the terrace and saw a single vacant chair. It was at a table that was occupied by one other luncher.

“We’re a bit crowded today. Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Eddie Favaro waved at the chair. “No problem.”

“You here for the fishing?” asked McCready as he studied the brief menu.

“Yep.”

“Odd,” said McCready after ordering Seviche, a dish of raw fish marinated in fresh lime juice. “If I didn’t know better, I’d have said you were a cop.”

He did not mention the long-shot inquiry he had made the previous evening after studying Favaro at the bar —the call to a friend in the Miami office of the FBI—or the answer he had received that morning.

Favaro put down his beer and stared at him. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “A British bobby?”

McCready waved his hand deprecatingly. “Oh no, nothing so glamorous. Just a civil servant trying to get a