THE LITTLE PIPER Aztec aircraft rose smoothly from the runway at St. Mark’s, and headed out over the Caribbean, whose waters gleamed in the bright sunlight like a carpet of jewels—sapphire, aquamarine, emerald and amethyst. Small islands of brown rock and green scrub rose here and there to break the shimmering surface, ringed with curved sandy beaches and creamy white breakers. Sometimes, a protective coral reef was clearly visible beneath the water a little off-shore, taking the buffeting of the waves upon itself, and creating a calm lagoon whose shallow waters were pale and transparent as green tourmaline.
The good-looking young black pilot turned in his seat every so often to point out a particular island or strait to his passengers, who occupied the four seats in the tiny cabin behind him. Two of the passengers were Henry and Emmy Tibbett. The others were a handsome and obviously wealthy couple in their thirties, who—unlike the rubber-necking Tibbetts—seemed to know the area well and to find it unremarkable.
The man’s face was vaguely familiar, and Henry felt reasonably sure of his identity. His hunch was soon confirmed. After a few minutes in the air, the man said, “You folks headed for Tampica?”—a rhetorical question, since Tampica was the aircraft’s sole destination.
Henry and Emmy agreed that they were.
“Going to stay at Pirate’s Cave?”
“Yes.”
The man beamed. Henry and Emmy had passed the wealth test, and were now members of the club. “Well, since we’re about to be fellow-guests, I reckon we should introduce ourselves. I’m Otis Schipmaker, and this is my wife, Ginny.”
“Glad to know you,” said Henry, who picked up local idiom as a magnet picks up iron filings. “We’re Henry and Emmy Tibbett. I believe I met your brother Homer at the Barringtons’ house back in Washington, D.C.”
“And you’re friends of Margaret Colville’s,” Emmy chimed in. “We’ve been staying with her.”
“Well, well, well. It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Otis Schipmaker was now thoroughly relaxed, having well and truly established the Tibbetts’ credentials. “You from England?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, you’ll be quite a rarity in Tampica—certainly at Pirate’s Cave. Apart from a few government officials, you don’t get to hear many British voices on the island. What with the naval base and tourists, it’s just about all American—and of course the currency is in dollars.”
“You know Tampica well, do you, Mr. Schipmaker?” Emmy asked, quite innocently. Henry had not repeated to her the conversation at the Barrington home.
There was a little pause. Then Otis cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been there before, yes. Some years ago. This is Ginny’s first visit. We usually go to St. John’s, but we thought we’d like a change of scenery this time.”
“And of course, the naval base conference this week makes it a particularly interesting place to visit just now,” said Henry, rather less innocently.
Ginny Schipmaker laughed. “You’ve hit it right on the head, Mr. Tibbett,” she said. “Otis is running in the primary this spring.”
“What’s that?” Emmy was mystified. “Some sort of race?”
“Race for nomination to fight for a senate seat,” Ginny explained. “He’s about to make the issue of the naval base a plank in his platform, so of course he has to be here. The U.S. delegates are all staying at Pirate’s Cave. But would you believe it, I had to talk him into it? He wanted to go and sit on his fanny in Caneel Bay, just like every other year.”
Schipmaker looked uncomfortable. “I’m supposed to be on vacation,” he muttered.
“Honey,” said his wife, “politicians are never on vacation, and well you know it. Besides, I want to see Tampica.”
“There it is now.” The pilot’s voice broke into the conversation. “See? Ahead and slightly to the right. That’s Tampica.”
Henry and Emmy craned to look out of the window. Tampica was a comparatively large island, some fifteen miles long by five miles wide. In the center, it rose to a swelling scrub-covered mountain, devoid of human habitation, over which they could see a narrow dirt track winding its precipitous way. A couple of Jeeps were making their way over the mountain, from one end of the island to the other. Immediately below the plane, Henry and Emmy saw a sizable township clustered round a harbor crammed with yachts and fishing boats, looking like toys in a child’s bathtub.
“Tampica Harbour, capital of Tampica,” explained the pilot. “That big building up on the hill is The Lodge, the Prime Minister’s official residence. And just around the point there, you can see the naval base at Barracuda Bay.”
The naval base was impressive. It was situated on a beautiful bay whose twin curving headlands promised excellent protection and whose sapphire-dark water was clearly deep to within a few yards of the shore. Several big, gray naval vessels rode at anchor, while others were tied up at the dockside. A complex of large buildings clustered around the docks, while others—less official-looking—climbed the green hillside behind the waterfront. Henry saw at once what Michael Holder-Watts had meant. It was easy to imagine the somber warships replaced by white-painted, flag-fluttering cruise liners, and the barracks converted from military austerity to luxury hotels.
The pilot went on, “And now you can see Pirate’s Cave Bay, and the hotel.”
It did not look like a hotel. It looked like a crescent of firm golden beach, edged with palm trees and dotted with small cottages. Then, as the little airplane lost height, it became plain that the palm trees on the beach were in fact artificial structures, like giant umbrellas, and that beneath them on canvas beach-beds lay probably the most expensive expanse of near-naked flesh in the world, tanning itself to perfection in preparation for an evening of dancing under the tropical stars. The beautiful people were making sure that they remained just that.
The aircraft swung left in a tight circle, and Emmy exclaimed, “What’s that bit of dirt road going nowhere?”
The pilot grinned. “That’s the airport, ma’am.”
“It can’t be!”
“It certainly is. That’s why we use these little airplanes.”
“But you couldn’t land a helicopter on that!”
“Want to bet, lady?” The pilot flashed a huge smile at Emmy, and put the Piper’s nose down. The airstrip was no wider than a country road, unpaved and extremely short, and the farther end of it terminated in a nasty-looking wall of rock. Nevertheless, the plane came gently down to a smooth landing, and had lost all but minimal speed long before the rock wall loomed. The pilot taxied around to the left and there was the Terminal Building—a small concrete shed, over which the green and purple flag of Tampica fluttered in the trade wind blowing in from the purple sea.
Inside, along with Tampican customs and immigration officers, were several personable young white Americans, dressed in spotless white shorts and wearing tee shirts embroidered with the Pirate’s Cave emblem—a pirate with skull and crossbones on his hat, dancing a hornpipe. The same device was painted on the small fleet of Jeeps and the minibus which stood in the parking lot, waiting to transport guests to the hotel. It seemed that a slightly larger plane from St. Thomas had recently landed, as well as another Aztec from Tortola, so that a group of ten brightly dressed tourists were waiting for the arrival of the Antigua plane to complete the party for the drive to Pirate’s Cave.
One of the young men hurried up to greet the Schipmakers and the Tibbetts, his apparently informal and relaxed manner cleverly disguising the fact that he was very much on duty, and was coping with official forms and passenger lists and immigration regulations in such a way as to make the whole procedure absolutely painless for the new arrivals. This done, he turned to Otis Schipmaker and said, “Mr. Tibbett? The official car is waiting outside. If you and Mrs. Tibbett...”
“You’ve got the wrong guy.” Henry could not decide whether Schipmaker was merely amused, or whether there was a hint of annoyance. In any case, there was a new respect in his voice as he said to Henry, “You must forgive me, Mr. Tibbett. I didn’t realize you were here officially for the conference.”
“I’m not,” said Henry quickly. “This car business is quite unnecessary, but Sir Edward Ironmonger insisted. We’ll see you at the hotel later on, I hope.”
He shepherded Emmy out to the parking lot, where a sleek black limousine waited with the Tampican pennant fluttering from its hood and a uniformed black chauffeur holding the door open. Meanwhile, with a lot of speculative and some envious looks, the mere millionaires were ushered into the minibus for the short drive to Pirate’s Cave.
It was the same story at the hotel. The manager himself, a dapper New Englander, hurried to greet Henry and Emmy, and to escort them to their cottage, where a big bowl of purple and yellow hibiscus and sweet-scented frangipani stood on the table, flanked by a bottle of excellent champagne in an ice bucket. Feeling a little overwhelmed, Henry and Emmy set about unpacking and exploring.
Each cottage consisted of two adjoining apartments, surrounded by lawns and shaded by exotically flowering tropical trees. Both large bedrooms gave on to adjoining verandahs, whence paths meandered down to a bank of scrublike trees. Between them, the Tibbetts caught tantalizing glimpses of sand and sea. Quickly, they changed into their newly bought swimsuits and ran down to the beach.
They emerged from the shade of the trees into a brilliant world of sun, sand and water. The sea was fresh and sparkling, cool but by no means cold, and crystal clear as a tropical fish tank. Little Swordfish sailing dinghies with blue-and-white striped sails scudded over the reef-protected water, responding to the steady, refreshing breeze. Near the reef, many bright orange breathing tubes showed the presence of a school of snorkelers, as they cruised above the coral, entranced in their submarine world of brilliantly colored fish. Occasionally, their black rubber flippers and variously-garbed posteriors would break the surface as they swam, giving the impression of a bizarre herd of porpoises. Henry and Emmy watched them enviously, and decided to borrow masks and flippers and try the sport for themselves the next day.
For the moment, they enjoyed a swim and a lazy bask in the sun, until suddenly it was five o’clock; the sun sank with tropical swiftness, and they joined the general exodus from the beach and made their way back toward their cottage.
Approaching from the seaward side, they were able to get a good view of the neighboring verandah, and to see that the next-door suite was a mirror image of their own. A light glowed outside the cottage, and in the rapidly deepening twilight they could see that a woman was sitting on the other verandah. She wore some sort of white flowing caftan, and had her feet up on a chaise-longue, and a drink at her elbow. As the Tibbetts approached, she stood up and switched on the outside light of the cottage, illuminating both her verandah and the path. She said, “Hi. Y’all must be our new neighbors. Come on over and have a drink.” Her voice had an attractive southern drawl.
A few minutes later, Henry and Emmy were sitting on canvas chairs on the next-door patio, watching the golden Chinese lanterns in the gardens come on one by one, transforming Pirate’s Cave into a pantomime fairyland (and also enabling the cottage dwellers to find their way to the dining room with some degree of certainty). Their hostess busied herself with the mixing of drinks, chattering away the while.
“I’m Magnolia Belmont. No sense in being neighbors if you can’t be friends. So you’re Henry and Emmy—that’s what I call good, old-fashioned, no-nonsense names. And from England... well, y’all have certainly come a long ways. Y’all on vacation?”
“Yes, we are,” said Henry.
“Sure are fortunate,” remarked Magnolia. “Here, taste that for size.” She handed out brimming tumblers of rum punch.
“Delicious, thank you,” said Emmy. “Does that mean that you’re not on holi—on vacation?”
“Well, George isn’t. That’s my husband. He’s here for the naval base conference. Senator George Belmont, y’all surely have heard of him. My, but they’re sitting late this evening. I just hope it means my poor Georgie will be able to have an easy ole time of it in the morning. He sure needs a little sun and sea while he’s here.” Magnolia rejoined the Tibbetts, carrying her drink. “Y’all come here every year, I guess.”
“I wish we did,” said Henry. “I’m afraid this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip for us.”
“Well, fancy that, now,” said Magnolia. “I didn’t think it was that difficult to reach from England.”
“It’s not so much the difficulty as the expense,” Henry explained.
Magnolia looked at him with wide-open eyes, as if she had never heard the word “expense” before. She was, Henry decided, still a very beautiful woman, for all her half-century of birthdays. Slim and huge-eyed, with fine long-fingered hands and a drift of blonde ringlets. Certainly, she was spoilt: always had been, and always would be, because that was the tradition in which she had been born and bred. But stupid? Henry doubted it. Under the “little me” exterior, he suspected, lay a shrewd businesswoman, and also one who had old-fashioned ideas about the duties of beautiful women and the rights of the men who provided for them and pampered them. In Magnolia’s Dixieland, the lives of the beautiful people were really an exquisitely staged and dressed performance of a strictly audited balance sheet.
“Why, there’s George now, I do declare!” Magnolia jumped up as a tall, shambling figure approached the cottage through the trees, his white linen suit glimmering in the twilight. Magnolia ran to her husband and took his arm, chattering busily as she led him to the verandah.
“Honeybee, you must be worn out, they’ve no business working you so hard...come on in and sit down and I’ll fix you a drink... Meet our new neighbors, Henry and Emmy, they’re from England, just imagine... I’ve been telling them how much we love this little ole island of theirs...”
“Glad to know you,” said Senator Belmont, in the overstatement of the year. He sat down heavily on a canvas chair and bent forward to remove his shoes. When that operation had been successfully concluded, with a certain amount of grunting, he accepted a drink from Magnolia and said, “Well, I sure am glad we’re through for today. That was quite a session.”
“I just hope they’re letting you off a bit tomorrow,” said Magnolia, with a charming pout. “It’s Saturday, after all, and it’s no fun on the beach all by myself.”
“We’re not meeting again till three, officially,” said Belmont. “I dare say I’ll be able to fix it to take a swim, but I’ve a get-together with the guys from the Pentagon at eleven. That’s the idea of the schedule, you see. Preliminary, exploratory meeting today. Time tomorrow to let the delegations consult among themselves. Short get-together tomorrow afternoon. Then come Monday—wham!” He took a long pull at his drink. “Boy, these Tampicans sure know how to talk tough!”
“Well, I just don’t follow it at all,” said Magnolia. “What ever would they do without our naval base? They’re just playing possum, trying to bluff poor old Uncle Sam into paying up, as usual. Y’all call their bluff, honey. Y’all talk tough right back. That’s the only thing these...these people understand.”
“It’s not that simple, honey,” said her husband. “Fact is, they’re bargaining from strength, and they know it. Come right down to it, we need that base more than they need us here, and they reckon to name their own price.”
“Why, that’s blackmail!” Magnolia exclaimed indignantly.
Belmont grinned ruefully. “Blackmail’s not a polite word around international conferences, honey,” he said. “In any case, we’re here to see it doesn’t work. Sure, we need the base and we’re prepared to pay a good price for it. But we’re sure as hell not about to be held over a barrel for it.”
“Oh, it’s all so silly,” said Magnolia. “What would they do with the base if we went away? They don’t even have a navy.”
“And very fortunate they are, too,” remarked George. “Ours costs us billions a year, whereas Tampica would make a very nice tidy profit out of Barracuda Bay if it were turned over to tourism. Why, I’ve heard rumors there’s a company been formed already, and people are buying up stock as fast as they can, on the off-chance.” He chuckled. “If the negotiations look as though they’re heading the wrong way, I’d be tempted to buy some myself.”
“Why, George, how can you say such a thing? That would not be ethical.”
“I was only fooling, honey.” Belmont sighed. “That guy Ironmonger—the Ambassador—he’s the tough nut to crack. Brain as quick as a knife, and boy, does he know what he wants, and is he going to get it! I reckon we could make a deal with Drake-Frobisher and the others, but Ironmonger keeps whipping them along and pouring concrete into their backbones. That’ll be just how he’ll spend tomorrow morning—undoing any progress toward a deal that we made today.”
“But what does he want?” Magnolia demanded.
“He wants out of the contract,” said Belmont bluntly. “That’s obvious, although of course he’s not saying so. So what does he do? I’ll tell you. He persuades Drake-Frobisher to make the price so steep that whichever way things go, Tampica will be the winner.” He shook his gray head, then looked up and grinned at Henry. “Gee, folks, I’m sorry to talk shop like this. You’re here on vacation, and you want to relax, not talk politics.”
“It’s fascinating,” said Henry. “I’ll follow the news reports with much more interest now that I know something about the issues. By the way, you don’t know the name of that real estate development company, do you?”
George and Magnolia exchanged a quick, wary glance. Then Belmont said, “No, sir, I don’t. Don’t even know for sure it exists. It’s just a rumor, and I guess I was indiscreet to mention it. You weren’t thinking of buying stock yourself, were you?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
“Good heavens, no,” said Henry. “In any case, as an Englishman I very much doubt if I’d be allowed to. No—I just wondered.”
“Sorry I can’t help you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go change out of this city suit and into something more comfortable. See y’all in the bar before dinner.” He stood up, indicating that the party was over. Henry and Emmy took the hint.
“We have to change too,” said Emmy. “Thanks for the drink. Be seeing you.”
The bar at Pirate’s Cave was literally on the beach, open to the sea and sand, with a steeply raked roof of wooden tiles and a floor of natural stone. Chinese lanterns hung from the roofbeams, echoing the bobbing lights of yachts anchored in the bay. From the dance floor above came the throbbing, foot-tapping rhythm of a steel band miraculously beating the melody of “Yellow Bird” out of a battery of tuned oil drums. The night was warm and soft, and the stars looked polished and larger than life against the blue-black sky, like diamonds on display in Tiffany’s.
Competing with the remote, insistent beat of the drums, the nearby palm trees rubbed their dry leaves together in the gentle wind, making a sound like the claws of a small animal on stony ground. And in the bar itself, ice tinkled merrily in tall glasses of rum punch and piña colada, and smooth, suntanned men and women sipped and chatted and made plans to take a cruise in a sailing boat or go scuba diving or horseback riding in the morning.
The first people that Henry and Emmy noticed in the bar stood out because of their incongruity. A middle-aged couple, red-faced rather than tanned, the man wearing a sober blue suit with a collar and tie, and the woman in an overelaborate cocktail dress made of white lace and satin. She was still very lovely, Henry thought—but why, oh why, did her blonde hair glitter so unconvincingly, why had it been elaborately dressed and sprayed until it resembled a plastic crash helmet? And why was her face so familiar? The two of them sat stiffly on stools at the bar, grasping their rum punches—a bizarre contrast to the informal, relaxed, loose-limbed elegance of the other drinkers, who looked like the world’s most expensive collection of castaways.
The only two unoccupied bar stools were next to the over-formal couple—a fact which Henry did not find surprising. He pulled one of them out for Emmy, climbed onto the other himself, and said, “What will you have, darling? A rum punch?”
The man in the blue suit swung round with an exaggerated gesture, held out his hand, and boomed, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Henry.
“What Hubert means,” said the woman, “is that you don’t often hear an English accent round here. Makes quite a nice change.”
“You’re English, then?”
“Oh, yes. May we introduce ourselves. I’m Pauline Watkins, and this is my husband, Hubert. We’re just here for a little bit of a holiday.”
“Watkins?” The card index in Henry’s mind did a quick flip and came up with a fact. He had only seen Mavis in photographs, but the combination of the name and Pauline’s profile was enough. “Then you must be Lady Ironmonger’s parents. I thought I read that you had gone back to England.”
Hubert and Pauline exchanged a quick look. Then Hubert said, “Eddie...that is, Sir Edward, my son-in-law—he suggested we come here for a few days. The whole thing has been a severe shock to my wife, hasn’t it, dear?”
“A nasty shock,” Pauline agreed. “Poor little Mavis. Such a sweetly pretty girl, and doing so well for herself. Still, at least it’s all cleared up now.” To the barman, a stoutish, sober-faced black man, she added, “I’ll have another Pirate’s Special, Francis, and go easy on the Tabasco, will you?” Then, to Henry again, “Yes, I dare say you’ve heard, it was some black woman killed our Mavis. From this very island. Jealous, you see. Well, what can you expect, they’re all half-savage, aren’t they? Just can’t control themselves like civilized people. I don’t mean Eddie, of course. There’s a real gentleman for you. But he got away from this place, you see, and bettered himself. But the others...thank you, Francis...yes, that’s very nice...now, just you remember the way I like it...yes, as I was saying, it’s no use expecting them to behave like us, because they never have and they never will. Not that I’m bitter—you can ask anybody...”
Emmy felt her stomach turning over, and instinctively drew away from Pauline. Is it possible, she thought, that the woman really imagines that Francis can only hear her when she’s actually talking to him? Is it possible that she is so insensitive as not to realize what she’s saying? Doesn’t she think he’s human? Oh God, let’s get away from them...
But Henry seemed to have developed an unaccountable appetite for the company of the Watkinses. He insisted on introductions, he bought another round of drinks and before long all thoughts of Mavis were buried under great spadefuls of laughter, as Hubert Watkins roared at his own jokes.
At length, he said, “Well, it’s certainly cheered this place up a bit, meeting a couple of kindred spirits from the old country. Between ourselves, old man, the Yankees here are a bit...well...stand-offish, if you know what I mean. Pauline’s noticed it, haven’t you, dear?”
“Well, some of them,” said Pauline. “But there’s that nice Mrs. Belmont who arrived yesterday—her husband’s a senator, you know, something to do with the conference. We had a most interesting talk about the Color Problem—somehow, I never realized they had it in America, and she seemed quite surprised when I told her about places like Wolverhampton, back home. It just goes to show how travel can broaden the mind... Francis! Mr. Watkins is ready for another drink!”
“Point of fact, old man,” Hubert Watkins confided, “you’re just about the only English people we’ve seen since we’ve been here. After the Embassy crowd went back to Washington, that is. We were told there was an old English lady, a Miss Pontefract-Deacon, living out at Sugar Mill Bay, and we thought it would be civil to go and call on her. The Queen of Tampica, they call her. Well, I can only tell you, we had one hell of a ride over there in a mini-moke—and then she was almost rude to us. Talk about Lady High-and-Mighty. Knew all about us and who we were, of course. They say there’s nothing that goes on on this island that she doesn’t know. But we definitely got the feeling that we weren’t welcome, didn’t we, Pauline?”
“Especially,” said Pauline bitterly, “when she told us she’d no water to flush the toilet, so we’d better go behind a palm tree. I thought that was really coarse, for a woman of her age. And very uncomfortable, too. I must say, I shan’t be too sorry to go home tomorrow. Not that we haven’t had a wonderful time,” she added quickly. “I’m sure everybody at home in Penge will be ever so interested to hear all about it. And Magnolia has promised to write. Mrs. Belmont, that is. She likes me to call her Magnolia.”
“I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon.” Henry sounded completely guileless.
“Well, yes... Hubert can’t stay away from the office forever, and now that the case has been solved, Eddie—Sir Edward, that is—felt we’d rather be off back to Penge. Ah, here come Magnolia and the Senator now!” Pauline waved energetically. “Hullo, there! Over here!”
It was with inexpressible relief that Emmy saw Otis and Virginia Schipmaker coming down the steps from the dining room to the bar, and raising their hands in greeting. She and Henry quickly excused themselves and made their way towards Ginny and Otis, leaving the Belmonts and the Watkinses to broaden their minds on their own.
“It’s a real pleasure,” said Otis Schipmaker, “just to sit here and relax and have a quiet drink before Ginny starts hounding me off to work.”
“To work?” Emmy echoed.
Otis Schipmaker grinned. “Making contact with the conference delegates,” he explained. “I see Belmont over there—he hates my guts anyhow, so I won’t waste much time on him. But there are the Pentagon people and the special assistant from the State Department and so on. I should be able to get a line on how things are going.”
“I can tell you a little,” Henry said. “Gleaned from Senator Belmont, who has the other half of our cottage. The Tampicans are going to hold out for a ridiculously high rent for the base, because they don’t really want the U.S. Navy here. They’d rather have the bay and its facilities for tourism.”
“That’s common knowledge,” said Otis. “Point is—how are the negotiations going?”
“Tough on both sides, I gather,” said Henry. “And there’s one rather interesting thing.”
“What’s that?” Virginia Schipmaker leaned forward, her attractive, intelligent face outlined against the light of a Chinese lantern.
Henry said, “There’s been a lot of talk about developing Barracuda Bay for tourism, but up to now I understood it was only talk. Today, I heard that a real estate development company has already been formed, and that stock is selling fast.”
Schipmaker regarded the glowing tip of his cigar. He said, “Are you sure about that? It would be quite a story.”
“No, I’m not sure,” said Henry. “I haven’t been able to find out the name of the company, or who holds the stock.”
“Could be interesting.”
“If you should happen to hear...”
Henry let his remark hang unresolved in the air. Then Virginia Schipmaker leaned back, lit a cigarette, and said decisively, “Sure, Henry. If Otis finds out, he’ll tell you.”