“Yessir, that’s just great,” said Charles Wentworth Payton in a rich voice that resonated with irony. “The Wests are dead, the paratroopers will be out of jail before nightfall, this Hitler character will be charged with second-degree theft, and that guy in the bar is still the Unknown Soldier. Just who does that leave as suspects?”
“You’ve been reading too many detective stories,” I said harshly, in no mood to be used as a punching bag. “The chances in real life of kidnappers turning out to be someone you know are one in a million. Even in Tahiti it’s a longshot. It looked like it was going to pay off with the Wests, but it didn’t.”
“First you put those Frenchmen in jail and then you get them out. What’s that supposed to mean?” he said peevishly.
“Nothing,” I said. “LaRoche giveth and LaRoche taketh.” Payton scowled. “Look,” I said, trying to be reasonable. “As long as those three guys stay in jail the cops have got nothing but them on the brain, convinced that they’ve got at least three of the kidnappers on ice. And they’re not out looking for the real ones.”
“They might have accomplices.…”
I snorted in disgust. “Sure.” I ticked off the points on my fingers. “First these accomplices were sending the ransom notes. Then they were arranging for French soldiers and Tahitians named Hitler to pick up the payoff. Next they were shooting down bystanders and tossing them into their own pool. And now, in order to justify the accomplice theory, we’ve got the accomplices doing the actual kidnapping. If that’s the case, what the hell does that leave for the three paratroopers to do?”
“Well, if you put it like that.…” he said reluctantly.
“Of course I put it like that, and so is their lawyer, right now. As soon as the cops get a formal statement from Hiro and a copy of that hotel register they’ll have absolute proof that their case is shot to hell.”
“You’ve been so smart about the rest of this,” said Payton bitingly, “first with the paratroopers and then with the Wests, how do you know these thugs Hiro and Billy aren’t the kidnappers? Hiro’s the last one to have seen my wife, and you just leave him off in town, walking around free.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “If you could see these two hash-heads in their floating outhouse.… Anyway, this guy Bailey at the hotel in Moorea remembered your wife when we looked through the register. She and Hiro were over for the weekend and there weren’t enough seats left on the Sunday afternoon planes, so they went on back to the hotel. She left in the morning, but Hiro stayed on for the rest of the day drinking beer and didn’t leave until that afternoon, when he came back on one of the boats.”
Payton shook his head, unconvinced. “A couple of hopheads like that, they’re exactly the kind of crazies who kidnap people.”
* * * *
Schneider and Tama must have shared his opinion. That evening, about the same time Payton and I were nattering, Hiro and Billy were picked up for questioning, and the following morning the three paratroopers were released.
“Now we’ll see some action,” said Payton with satisfaction after Tama had telephoned him with the news. “The cops have taken their kid gloves off.”
But whatever private action Hiro and Billy might have seen in the confines of the interrogation room, it didn’t translate into anything public, such as discovering a bound and gagged Danielle Payton tucked away in a rustic hideout. By noontime Payton was restless and fuming. “Jesus H. Christ!” he shouted, “there’s nothing but Keystone Kops in this country! What the hell am I doing here anyway? Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee Tanner!”
His campaign manager rushed into the living room, his face lined with worry. “Round up those television sons of bitches and get the plane cranked up,” said Payton implacably. “We’re leaving. And don’t forget to bill the networks for the travel costs.”
“But—”
“No buts. We’re running for the U.S. Senate, remember? We’ll put out the word I’ve gotta get back to find the money in case the ransom has to be paid. What the hell, does everyone around here think I carry five million U.S. around in my pockets, for chrissake? Now get your ass in gear.”
He turned to me. “Speaking of ransom reminds me, LaRoche. Frankly, I think you’ve done a crappy job so far, but maybe it’s not all your fault. In any case, you’re the only one around here with even half a brain in his head. I ought to fire your ass, but instead I’ll give you another chance. Save me paying that ransom, LaRoche, and I’ll give you a hundred thousand bucks.”
“One hundred thousand dollars?” I echoed. “To a guy with half a brain in his head?” I knew now that he’d finally accepted the fact that his wife had been genuinely kidnapped.
“Don’t waste my time, LaRoche. Yes or no?” His eyes bored into mine. I held them without any trouble. Kid stuff.
“You’re a prick, Payton,” I said judiciously, “but I guess you know that already. But your daughter isn’t, and your wife probably isn’t either. If I do it, it’ll be for them.”
“Bully for you,” he jeered. “You can do it for the Ayatollah Khomeini for all I care, but just do it.”
He stalked from the room, leaving me staring after him thoughtfully. A lusty weekend with Danielle Payton in Moorea wasn’t the only thing that Hiro had told me about yesterday afternoon high in the Mahina mountains. Danielle Payton, it seemed, had unburdened herself to the simple-minded Hiro in a way she hadn’t to her more sophisticated playmates. Charles Wentworth Payton, Hiro told me, was as queer as a crateful of coots, with a couple of three-dollar bills thrown in for good measure. His particular fondness was for togging himself up in frilly black lace and high heels, and cutting baroque capers with a bevy of transvestites such as the crowd that hung out at the Clarinet Club. That, in fact, had been the original attraction of Tahiti for Payton—he could let himself go here in a way he couldn’t in the States, at least in the days before the sexual revolution had made poor old trannies seem as racy and shocking as a 1935 Esquire pinup girl.
I remembered the old Quaker wheeze: Everyone is queer save thee and me, dear; and now I’m wondering about thee.
I sighed, and decided to soldier on.
* * * *
Saturday afternoons are slow days in Tahiti, even for kidnappers and policemen. I went by the Commissariat and learned nothing except that Billy and Hiro were still being interrogated and were showing painful signs of withdrawal from various unknown substances. I shook my head and moved on.
I was getting out of my car in the hospital parking lot when I heard a muted roar far above me. I looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of The Quest for Truth, and presumably Charles Wentworth Payton, climbing sharply through the sky and into the clouds.
I spent an hour with Mareta, most of it watching her do limbering-up exercises for her leg, and finally drove back to town. In spite of the bright afternoon sun I was as gloomy and depressed as I had ever been on a wet, foggy morning in San Francisco. I had nothing else to do, so on impulse I parked the Fiat and walked over to the Aventurier.
The warmth of the ex-paras’ greeting was clearly restrained, but I didn’t let their lack of cordiality bother me. “What’s the matter with you guys?” I asked brassily. “Instead of getting ready to throw me off the boat, you should be breaking out the Champagne for me. Who the hell do you think got you out of this mess?”
Jérôme squinted at me in wonder. “Who got us into it?”
“Your love life, as far as I can see. I didn’t go around leaving purses and lighters all over the place. You guys don’t know a good hotel where you can take a girl like a gentleman?”
Their faces clouded over, and for a moment I wondered if they were about to mob me. But suddenly Yves-Louis, the white-haired one, began to laugh and in a moment Jean-Paul and Jérôme joined in, sheepishly at first and then uninhibitedly. Watching them break up eventually brought a sour smile to my own lips, and even a modest chuckle or two.
“You’re right,” shouted Jérôme, still guffawing, “Champagne it shall be! Champagne for our Chicago gangster! Champagne for the liberator!”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant blur of icy Champagne, tart and bubbly on my tongue, and the sounds of hearty male camaraderie. They’d just returned from a triumphal tour of the Hotel Taaone and were as thirsty as camels after their sojourn in the Commissariat cells. After we’d finished the sixth and last bottle to be found on board, we tripped lightly across the street to Acajou’s, where I summoned up the most ostentatious dinner that Payton’s $10,000 could command. Over the third bottle of Dom Perignon I dimly recalled my purpose in going by their boat, and tried to pump them with all my usual suaveness. By the time the fourth bottle was popped I’d forgotten whatever lies they’d told me about sleeping with Danielle Payton, or not, and asked them again.
“Yes,” said Jérôme ponderously. “No,” said Jean-Paul gravely. “Maybe,” said Yves-Louis owlishly.
We broke into drunken laughter and staggered back to their ship, where we lurched around the galley in search of brandy and suitable glasses. We decided to make do with burgundy glasses, and Yves-Louis slopped nearly as much fine old cognac into them as he did on the counter top. We raised the glasses to our lips. “To the liberator,” cried Jean-Paul.
We drank. I spluttered and choked. “Too warm,” I said, opening the freezer. “Gotta put in some ice cubes, like a real California conny…conna…connoisseur.”
“Ice?” said Jérôme incredulously, slamming the door shut on my fingers. “Never.” I pulled it open again in spite of his efforts. “Icesh, my friend, icesh,” I said, peering blearily into the freezer. But I was fresh out of luck: the ice trays were empty. There was concentrated orange juice, a bottle of vodka covered with frost, plastic bags of croissants and breakfast sausages, a bottle of aquavit embedded in a block of ice, and half a dozen little plastic bottles of Grand Marnier ice cream. It was a real drinking man’s freezer, but there was still no ice. I let Jérôme pull me away and lead me to a divan. “No ice,” I told them sadly, “no ice for my little drinkie.”
“Only Eskimos drink cognac with ice,” intoned Jean-Paul with enormous solemnity, and I nodded and let the liquid fire slide down my throat.
* * * *
I had managed to fumble off the light switch before dropping into unconsciousness, and my head had just settled into the pillow, when I heard the noise of the guesthouse door opening. A moment later I felt warm flesh and a nylon nightie against my naked body.
“Tamara?” I tried to mumble, but my lips were too thick. Arms circled my neck, and soft breasts molded themselves to my chest. A face nuzzled against my neck and warm breath blew in irregular gasps against my skin. My fingers found a cheek. It was wet. I pulled whoever it was closer to me and felt myself begin to fall endlessly into a swirling, spinning void of total blackness.
When I awoke in the morning she was gone.