STIFLING A YAWN, Harold Dobbs hunched over his cluttered desk, staring with intense concentration at the morning newspaper. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, as he ran an ink-smudged finger down a column of small print, smiling inwardly when he found the scores of the English football matches faithfully reported in the Nassau Daily Tribune.
‘Mr Dobbs …’
He glanced up at his secretary. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘A call, Mr Dobbs. From an overseas operator,’ she added in a breathless tone.
‘Blimey, an overseas call,’ grumbled Dobbs, as he swivelled around in his creaking chair and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. ‘This is Dobbs.’
‘Hold the line for Mr Thomas Hamilton,’ said Marnie, delighted at the ease with which she’d passed herself off to Dobbs’s dim-witted secretary as a mainland operator. After a brief delay, Hamilton came on the line:
‘Dobbs? Is that you, Harold?’
‘Why, hello, Mr Hamilton. Where are you calling from?’
‘Where? Oh, here in my office. In Texas.’
‘Why, the connection’s so clear I could swear you were in Nassau. What can I do for you?’
‘Listen, Harold, I’ve been mulling over that land deal, and while I don’t like getting hi-jacked, I don’t like losing, either.’
‘Why, certainly not.’
‘I’ve got another deal on the front burner, and I’ve got to choose. Either I do the Nassau deal, or I forget it.’
‘Right-o,’ said Dobbs, desperately searching for his pencil and pad amid the clutter.
‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ instructed Hamilton. He paused for a moment and gave Marnie a wink. ‘Draft a simple contract whereby this syndicate, the New Providence Land Company, sells the forty-two-acre parcel for a thousand dollars, subject to the unrecorded mortgage.’
‘Price a thousand dollars,’ said Dobbs as he scribbled notes, ‘forty-two-acre parcel, subject to the mortgage … I take it you’re the purchaser?’
‘Correct. Thomas R. Hamilton.’
‘R,’ repeated Dobbs.
‘You can sign as my attorney-in-fact. Closing within thirty days. Then I want you to drop by the branch bank on Bay Street and see the manager.’
‘The Royal Bank of Canada?’
‘Right. I’ll have a cashier’s cheque waiting at the manager’s office for the equivalent of a thousand dollars in pounds sterling.’
‘The full purchase price?’
‘Yes. When the contract’s ready, swing by the bank and pick up the cheque. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘Then I want you to pay another call on your friend Jennings, the haberdasher. Present him with the contract and the cashier’s cheque. And tell him he’s got twelve hours.’
‘Twelve hours?’
‘That’s right. Either they sign and take the money, or the deal’s off. Take it or leave it.’
Dobbs paused. ‘It’s customary to afford the seller the opportunity to make a counter—’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Hamilton. ‘These men offered to sell me the property for five hundred bucks, subject to the mortgage, and now I’m offering to pay a thousand. I don’t have time to dicker. I’ve got other fish to fry. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Dobbs quietly. ‘Entirely clear.’
‘When will you have something?’ asked Hamilton.
‘Well, if I start straight-away, perhaps by tomorrow—’
‘I’m paying you, Harold. Do it today, and plan to pick up the cheque and call on your man Jennings first thing in the morning.’
‘I’ll get right on to it.’
‘After you see Jennings, I want a report. Call me at the office. Taylor-4, 1-4-9-6.’
‘Got it,’ said Dobbs, jotting down the number.
‘All right, Harold, let’s see if we can bull the game,’ said Hamilton. ‘Make it clear there’s no room to negotiate, no stalling for time.’
‘Yes, well, Mr Hamilton, I’d best get started.’ Hanging up, Dobbs spun around and called out, ‘Miss Brooks! Come here, please, and bring your pad.’
Approximately ten miles away, Hamilton placed the receiver on the cradle in the panelled den at Eves with a satisfied smile. ‘Now that that’s done, I’m back to waiting. I wonder why she hasn’t called?’ he asked himself as much as Marnie.
Stroking her chin, Marnie said, ‘She didn’t look well. I was sure something was wrong but couldn’t tell what. When I told her I had a note from you, she looked like she’d seen a ghost.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Hamilton. He absently glanced at a framed photograph of Hard Ridden, one of Sir Philip’s four Epsom derby winners. The phone rang and he said, ‘I’ll get it’, moving quickly toward the desk.
‘No,’ said Marnie. ‘You’re not thinking.’ She picked up the phone and said, ‘Sassoon residence.’
‘It’s Evelyn, Marnie. May I speak to Tom?’
‘Just a moment.’ Cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, Marnie said quietly, ‘It’s her. I’ll leave you alone.’
Hamilton walked over and picked up the phone. ‘Evelyn?’ he said, as Marnie disappeared down the hall.
‘Hello, Tom,’ she said, trying her best to sound cheerful. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I was worried about you. From what Marnie said—’
‘I need to explain. In fact there’s quite a lot I need to tell you. When can I see you?’
Seated at the desk in her living room, Evelyn massaged her forehead as she stared vacantly at the worn Persian rug. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly, her attempt to sound cheerful having failed utterly. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘Evelyn? Are you all right?’
‘Tom, this is probably a terrible mistake. You’re in some kind of trouble. You shouldn’t have come back.’
‘I need to explain. I should have explained it before, but well … I didn’t. Is there some place we can talk privately?’
‘You should leave, Tom,’ she said wearily. Leave, she thought, closing her eyes. Before it’s too late.
‘I’m not leaving.’ What had come over her? He had assumed, perhaps naively, that she would be anxious to see him. ‘Listen, Evelyn,’ he said, ‘you made me promise to come back, and now that I’m here—’
‘All right,’ she said with a sigh. ‘We can talk by the pool. No one will know.’
‘But how…?’
‘There’s a gate at the back. Take a taxi to the street behind the house. A tall green gate.’
‘When?’
Evelyn thought about her tattered robe and unwashed hair. ‘Give me an hour,’ she said. ‘Take a taxi. You don’t want to be recognized. Wear a hat or something.’
‘Bye, Evelyn. I can’t wait to see you.’
She hung up gently.
After rattling the ice in his glass and taking a sip of his drink, Sir Harry Oakes smiled and said, ‘Your move.’
Seated across from Oakes at an elaborately inlaid card table, Sherwood ‘Woody’ Bascomb, his florid face in his hands, stared at the glass balls on the Chinese checkers board. ‘Dammit, Harry,’ he said at last. ‘You got me.’
‘Concede?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bascomb, interlocking his thick fingers and cracking his knuckles. ‘I concede.’ One of Bascomb’s obligations as a house-guest was to humour his host’s penchant for gin rummy, backgammon, and Chinese checkers, the latter being Oakes’s favourite.
‘OK,’ said Oakes, ‘rack ’em up and we’ll play another game.’
‘Ah-hem.’ Jenkins, the English butler, coughed deferentially as he stood in the doorway. ‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘Yes?’ said Oakes, looking up. ‘What is it?’
‘Mr Katz, sir.’
‘Want me to clear out, Harry?’ asked Bascomb.
‘No, you can stay. Send him in,’ Oakes instructed the butler. ‘And while you’re at it, I’ll have another drink. Woody?’
‘Sure,’ said Bascomb.
Within minutes Jenkins returned to the study with Charley Katz. Wearing a shiny green double-breasted suit and a loud tie, Katz sauntered across the polished parquet, holding his fedora in one hand. ‘Afternoon, Harry,’ he said brightly, reaching out to shake his boss’s hand, as Jenkins lowered a tray to the card table with the drinks.
‘Charley,’ said Oakes, ‘you remember Mr Bascomb?’
‘Sure, I remember. How ya doin’, Woody?’ He gave his hand a quick shake.
‘Pull up a chair,’ said Sir Harry. ‘Need a drink?’
‘Nah,’ replied Katz. ‘I’m on duty, remember?’ he added with a chuckle.
‘OK, Charley,’ said Oakes in a businesslike tone, with a glance at Jenkins, who retired silently. ‘I understand you’ve got something.’
‘Correct,’ said Katz. ‘On the Shawcross dame.’ He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes and eased one from the pack. ‘She paid a call on her pal Ericsson the other night.’ Taking a box of matches from his jacket, he lit the cigarette and waved the match in the air. ‘Just the two of them.’
‘How can you be sure of that?’ asked Oakes.
‘I followed her to the dock, where she gets on the boat all by herself. Nice boat, by the way. Off they go, and about two hours later, she’s back. All by her lonesome, no other guests.’
‘Then what?’ asked Oakes.
‘I followed her home. That’s it.’ Taking a deep pull and rounding his lips, Katz expelled a perfectly formed smoke ring that drifted up toward the ceiling.
‘Sorry,’ said Bascomb meekly. ‘But I’m not sure I get it.’
‘Ericsson’s up to something on Hog Island,’ explained Sir Harry. ‘Something big. And this Englishwoman, named Shawcross, is mixed up in it. So we’ve been keeping an eye on her.’
‘I see,’ said Bascomb with a sombre expression.
‘Do you have any idea what that Swedish bastard is building?’ Oakes asked.
‘No way to get close enough,’ said Katz, balancing his hat on his knee. ‘The place is crawling with guards and patrol boats. So I’ve been down to shantytown, to see what the locals will tell me.’
‘Go on,’ instructed Oakes.
‘Most of ’em play dumb, too scared to talk. So I sprinkled a little cash around, and some booze, and managed to get a couple of these boys to say what they’re working on. Pouring a lot of concrete for some kind of big building, like an airplane hangar. And digging this canal across the island.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Oakes with a frown. ‘The guy’s supposedly tied in with the Nazis,’ he said to Bascomb. ‘And what about Hamilton?’ he asked, turning back to Katz. ‘Any sign of him?’
‘Nope,’ said Katz. ‘Not a trace.’
‘Hamilton?’ said Bascomb.
‘Remember that fellow from Texas?’ asked Oakes. ‘Showed up last time you were here, with a lot of big talk about building a hotel and a casino?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Bascomb. ‘I remember.’
‘Well, I’ve made up my mind to move ahead with that project myself. When the war’s over, gambling could make this place. Put in a first-class hotel and casino, and Nassau would be swarming with tourists.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Bascomb, ‘but what about the mob? You think Lansky would let anybody horn in on his territory?’
‘This ain’t Miami, Woody,’ said Oakes. ‘There’s room enough for Havana and Nassau. Anyhow, I can deal with Meyer Lansky. Right, Charley?’
‘Right,’ said Katz doubtfully, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘OK,’ said Oakes, lifting his glass. ‘Keep an eye on Mrs Shawcross, Charley. And keep a lookout for Hamilton. Meanwhile, I intend to pull the trigger on that tract of land, Woody. I’ll call the note, and next thing you know, that property’s mine.’
‘Ah-hem.’
Sir Harry glanced up at Jenkins in the doorway. ‘What is it?’
‘The nanny wishes me to advise you that Master Sidney has disappeared.’
‘Sidney? Where to?’
‘She couldn’t swear to it, sir, but believes she observed him leaving with the Count de Marigny.’
‘What!’ said Oakes, slamming his glass on the table and jumping up from his chair. ‘Sorry, boys, but I’ve got to deal with this. Goddamn French sonofabitch,’ he muttered under his breath.
Oakes’s black Rolls Royce Phantom cruised slowly through an older section of Nassau inhabited by the more prosperous local merchants and transplanted Englishmen. Tapping a knuckle on the glass partition, he called to the chauffeur, ‘See that yellow house, on the right?’ The driver slowed and pulled over. ‘I’ll be right back,’ said Oakes, as he climbed out. He adjusted his Homburg, straightened his jacket and strode up the walk to the modest two-storey house. As he lifted his hand to knock, he heard the sound of music. He gave the door a sharp rap, hoping that his daughter and not the despised de Marigny would answer. There was no response. Dammit, he thought, turn off that phonograph. He knocked again, even louder. After a few moments, he knocked a third time, and finally heard the thump of feet on the stairs followed by a man’s irritated cry: ‘All right, I’m coming!’
Throwing open the door, Alfred de Marigny gaped at Oakes. ‘What?’ exclaimed de Marigny, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist. ‘Sir Harry?’
Glaring past de Marigny into the hall, Oakes could hear the music, a popular dance tune, much louder now. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded.
De Marigny took a step backward, gesturing to Oakes to come in. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Where is who?’
‘You know who,’ said Oakes. ‘Sidney!’ he bellowed.
‘Oh, little Sidney,’ said de Marigny, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
Glancing at de Marigny’s bare feet, Oakes seemed to notice his appearance for the first time. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Do you always run around without any clothes on? Sid-ney!’ he called out again.
Oakes looked up and saw Nancy on the stairs, clinging fearfully to the banister, wearing only a thin cotton shift. With her uncombed hair, she looked like a child on Christmas morning. ‘Where’s Sidney?’ he demanded.
‘Sidney?’ said Nancy, her voice trembling. ‘Why, he’s—’
‘You don’t have any right to come barging in,’ fumed de Marigny, ‘banging on the door – boom, boom, boom!’
‘You …’ said Oakes, his voice quivering. ‘I told you I didn’t want Sidney around here.’
‘The boy’s lonely,’ said de Marigny dismissively. ‘What’s a lad of fourteen to do all by himself on that estate of yours? Besides, he misses his sister.’
‘He does, Daddy,’ said Nancy as she crept timidly down the stairs. ‘With Mommy away, we’ve only got each other.’
‘Look at you,’ said Oakes, his eyes darting from de Marigny, on whose aquiline face a smirk had settled, to his young daughter, who was wearing little more than a nightgown. ‘I get it,’ he growled. ‘You sonofabitch,’ he added, glaring at de Marigny.
‘Stop it, Daddy,’ pleaded Nancy, running down the last few steps and tugging on her father’s arm. ‘Freddie’s my husband.’
‘Good God, child,’ said Oakes, brushing her hands from his arm. ‘You’ll just wind up pregnant again.’ There was a sudden halt in the music. As the three turned to look, a gangling youth appeared from the next room, hanging his head and dragging his feet.
‘Come here, Sidney,’ said Oakes. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to come to this house?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ said the boy, looking up mournfully.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said de Marigny, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘You should come here whenever you please. It is your sister’s home.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Sir Harry wrathfully. He reached over and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his thin neck. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘I’m taking you home.’ With Sidney in tow, he turned toward the door, only to find the tall figure of de Marigny blocking his path. ‘Out of my way,’ said Oakes in a voice loud enough to be heard by a woman strolling along the sidewalk.
‘I should teach you a lesson,’ said de Marigny, clenching his fists.
‘Go to the car,’ said Oakes, half shoving Sidney out the door as Nancy began wailing. The woman on the sidewalk was joined by another curious neighbour.
‘Get out of my house,’ yelled de Marigny, ‘before I smash your ugly face!’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Oakes, raising his fist. De Marigny grabbed Oakes by both shoulders and shoved him onto the path, where he just avoided falling, his Homburg dropping to the grass.
‘Don’t ever come back!’ cried de Marigny. ‘Do you hear me? Or I’ll kill you!’
‘You!’ said Oakes, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. ‘You’re nothing but a sex maniac!’
‘Get out!’ said de Marigny as Nancy cowered in the doorway.
Looking older than his sixty-seven years, Oakes stooped down to retrieve his hat and then staggered toward the waiting automobile, where Sidney, with an expression of intense shame, stood beside the horrified onlookers.