A Matter of Time (21 page)

Dan shook his head. “You’d never believe it.”

Bartholomew didn’t answer, asking her instead, “You think—it was this MacLean fellow that Eric saw in the bar? And that the
boy knew something that connected him with the murder?”

Maud sighed. “It does sound a little far-fetched, doesn’t it?” She looked around the table. “But no one’s fetched anything
less far.”

Later, as they were leaving The Frog & Onion, Dan took Bartholomew aside.

“Someone else left the table that night and never came back,” he murmured, “And I don’t think he went a-wooing.”

Then he remembered something else. “And he, too, was in the bar, when Eric came in.”

25
  
  
the new french connection

Harry Cochrane could not remember ever being so tired. He stared at the Interpol report on the desk in front of him. It had
arrived by fax an hour ago. What time was it now? He looked at his watch: ten o’clock. Was that ten at night? Or ten in the
morning? The situation room had no windows; he could not see if it was light or dark out.

Why was he so spaced? He’d pulled all nighters before. Missed three nights sleep, in fact, and hardly noticed it—until he
crashed. You’re 57 now, he reminded himself. A bit old and creaky. No longer the button-bright crime-fighter of yore. You’re
going to retire in three years.

But if he was honest—and he always tried to be, at least with himself—he had to admit the case was getting to him. A brutal,
execution-style homicide—in paradise. He had been trying, by sheer force of will, to
make
a break happen. The effort had cost him last night’s sleep. To no avail. There were no clues. No witnesses. No mistakes.
Nothing.

Until now.

He focused on the Interpol report. Hector Vincennes.
Murderer. Drug king-pin. A list of charges dating back 42 years—all his adult life and most of his youth. Early release from
maximum security prison five weeks ago.

At the bottom of the sheet was the name of the arresting officer: François Roland, Inspecteur, Préfecteur de Police, Cap d’
Antibes. On an impulse he reached for the phone, then stopped. It was four in the morning over there! How would he like to
be called at four? But if he waited till it was office hours, it would be two or three in the morning here. And if he wasn’t
asleep by then, he would be worthless.

He picked up the phone, and with the help of several operators, reached the office of le Préfecteur—and eventually a very
sleepy, very resentful Inspecteur Roland. Who became not at all sleepy or resentful when he heard why Inspector Cochrane had
called.

“His early release took me by surprise,” said Roland. “I thought we had him on ice for at least four more years.” He paused.
“We had a missing person situation here last month, a young man aboard an American yacht who took off with a former girlfriend
of Vincennes. We assumed it was
l’amour
.” Pause. “If I’d known Vincennes was back in circulation, I would have assumed something far darker than—”

Cochrane interrupted him. “The yacht—what was its name?”

“
Laventura
.”

“It’s here!”

“That’s right! Bermuda was on its itinerary! And practically every major island in the Caribbean—
Oh, mon Dieu!
It all fits!”

“What fits?” demanded Cochrane.

“Yesterday morning, a flying squad of Bangkok police
raided a methamphetamine lab—and shut down Thailand’s entire meth supply! The best part? For once, the meth cartel’s eyes
and ears in the police force failed them. There was no advance warning of the raid—and they got all the top people! Now the
chemical engineer who set up their lab—and designed the labs in Singapore, Rangoon, and Sri Lanka—is telling all he knows,
to keep his neck out of the gibbet!”

“Sounds like a big story,” Cochrane replied. “How come we haven’t heard about it?”

“Because for once, things are breaking our way. Bangkok is playing it close to the vest. Interpol wants to net as many of
the big fish as they can.”

“But they told you, because—”

“Vincennes is one of the biggest. And since I know him better than most, they wanted me in, as it were.”

All thought of fatigue had vanished from Harry Cochrane’s consciousness. This was the best news in—so long, he could not remember
when he’d had better. “Then you know what he was up to. Tell me!”

“I will, inspector.” Roland lowered his voice. “But I must ask you to tell no one else, not even your most trusted personnel.
We have to keep this as quiet as we can, for as long as we can. The ones we are trying to hook have so much money they can
buy anyone.”

“Tell me about Vincennes,” Cochrane prompted.

“According to our new friend, the engineer, Vincennes had done a deal with him. He had purchased twenty sets of plans for
meth labs and twenty thousand starter doses. Apparently he intended to set up labs throughout the Caribbean. He was going
to franchise them, like Mac-Donald’s!”

Cochrane swore. That was all Bermuda needed!
Cannabis and cocaine were everywhere, Ecstasy had arrived, heroin was making a comeback—and now this!

He recalled what little he knew about meth—speed—mostly from the police bulletins. It had been big in the States in the sixties,
when designer drugs like LSD first appeared. It had pretty much died out, but had exploded out on the Pacific Rim, where the
booming economy had produced a new middle class, with discretionary income to spend on recreational drugs. That was the danger:
Meth, like cocaine, was perceived to be psychologically but not physically addictive, like heroin. If you were careful, used
it only at parties, or on weekends.…

He swore again. The Caribbean had its own emerging middle class. Which was well established on Bermuda.

To Roland he said, “Well, something seems to have derailed the meth express. Your man was eliminated by someone here. You
have any idea what went wrong?”

Roland thought for a moment. “One—he’d mentioned to the engineer that he was going to Zurich from there. Perhaps he was picking
up funds. Someone else’s funds. Who,
peut-être
, did not appreciate his attitude.”

“What attitude?”

Roland chuckled. “Well, during my last
engagement
with Hector, it emerged that he had
une plus grande conception
of himself. He saw himself as the new French Connection.”

26
  
  
mr. big

A dense growth of red-blossomed bougainvillea hid the palatial, hilltop domicile from the eyes of anyone below. Yet the view
of Hamilton Harbour from the sky-blue marble terrace that surrounded the white marble pool was spectacular. Particularly in
this last hour of sunlight, when all the houses nestled below were bathed in golden hues.

Normally the owner took comfort in this view from his terrace at this time of day, knowing the truth of what his friends assured
him: that of all the magnificent homes in the parish, his was the jewel in the crown.

But there was scant comfort in the information that René Dupré, also known as “Laurent Devereux,” had just related to him
this Tuesday afternoon.

“Do you realize,” he said to the Frenchman, “that this is the first—unpleasantness we’ve encountered, since our serendipitous
meeting in Monte Carlo two years ago?”

Dupré waited.

With a wistful smile, the owner stared down at the harbor. “I often think about that. How on a whim I decided
to drop down to Monte because it had grown so oppressively hot in Paris. How I thought I would try the
chemi
table, and I don’t really care for
Chemin de Fer
. How you played so skillfully I invited you for a drink afterwards. We had dinner together.”

Dupré nodded. “You informed me that the bottom had fallen out of the coffee market, and the income from your farm in Kenya
and the plantation in Jamaica had dropped to a third of what it had traditionally yielded. Also, the growing unrest in Kingston
had forced you to double your security force—which was already the largest private army on the island.”

His host looked at him with new appreciation. “You do have remarkable recall, René!”

The Frenchman shrugged. “It comes in handy. You suddenly needed a new source of income. A substantial source.”

The Bermudian tapped his fingers together. “My lifestyle is extravagant, I must admit. But how fortuitous that we met, just
as I was in—rather a quandary. Which you resolved. Although,” he gave a slight shudder, “I still have trouble meeting the
gaze of the Brigadier.”

At his guest’s frown, he nodded towards the library. “The portraits. My father, the only one in his class at Sandhurst to
win the V.C. And
his
father, the Governor General.”

“Of Bermuda?”

“Heavens no! Australia!” He sighed and shook his head. “I know they don’t approve. Truth be told, neither do I. Detestable
business, drugs! But surely they would not want to give up—all this?” With a sweeping gesture, he took in the pool terrace,
the house behind them, and the rest of the top of the hill.

Dupré remained silent.

The other man smiled at his guest. “But your
élan
, your
savoir faire
, your—
je ne sais quoi
—made it,” the perfect phrase eluded him, “somehow less detestable.”

The Frenchman chuckled. “Plus, I did all the work. You provided the capital; I spent two years developing our network in the
Caribbean, recruiting the agents we would need, preparing the way. I even arranged for my associate in New York to come down
here and run our base of operations over in Somerset, so my face would not become familiar on the island.”

“Brilliant,” his host murmured.

“I did not return until a few days before the arrival of Vincennes, staying at Sandys House literally next door, posing as
a captain of industry—
en retreat
, as it were.”

His host sighed. “It was all going so smoothly, until—this. What made him do it?”

“Greed,” Dupré replied simply. “He wanted—he
expected
—a third.”

“A
third?
”

“Of projected net revenue.”

“He wanted to be—
a partner
?”

“
A full
partner.”

The owner slowly shook his head and tapped his long fingers together. “Is there no honor among thieves?”

His guest raised a hand. “I was shocked! As dismayed as you are! But I kept it light, as if it had not troubled me. I did
not remind him of all we had accomplished while he languished in exile as a guest of his government. I let him believe that
you would be as ready as I to accept him into our partnership.”

The owner nodded but said nothing. Picking up a pair of high-powered binoculars, he trained them on the sailboats
in the distance. “Gavin seems smoother today,” he observed. “But Anson is still having his problems.” He swung the glasses.
“Ah, here come Lars and Søren. Now we’ll see.”

He lowered the glasses and turned to his guest. “The unseeded captains are already racing, but they won’t face the seeded
skippers until tomorrow.” He sighed. “Match racing is such an elegant sport to watch! As polo once was. When I was a lad,
my grandparents would take me. Their chauffeur would serve strawberries and clotted cream and Veuve Cliquot from the back
of the Rolls. The players were all friends, of course. The Duke of Windsor was a friend of my grandfather’s. I met him with
Beryl Markham once….”

With a sad shake of the head, he forced himself to return to the business at hand. “When did you decide—what needed to be
done?”

“When he told me that he had stashed our property ashore and was not about to produce it until the three of us had met and
sealed our new arrangement. I realized then that there could be only one outcome to the evening.”

“You had convinced him you were not upset.”

His guest smiled. “I let the
escargots
do that. He could smell them simmering, and he was hungry.”

The sun was setting on the western horizon. Shading his eyes, the owner of the house watched it. “What did you use to—incapacitate
him?”