“Ah, Lady James,” the Irishman interjected, “if you would jest point us toward Sir Conan, we’d be leaving you to yer guests.”
“Well, speak of the devil,” she said, an edge to her voice. “Here comes my beloved husband now.”
He came trotting down the massive marble steps from the house. He wore an expensive short-sleeved shirt and pleated slacks. He was tall, with the build of a professional tennis player. The black hair was wavy, close-cropped. The face demanded a double take.
Lady James motioned toward him. “Jimmy! Jimmy, come here, dear. These two gentlemen would like to have a word with you.”
Sir Conan James was the man I had hidden from the night before in Diacona Ebanks’ apartment.
6
Conan James possessed a quality of openness and mannishness backdropped by an air of aristocracy.
I’m sure that everyone he’d ever talked to in his adult life came away feeling the better for his friendship. Americans call that quality leadership. The Irish call that quality British. He had it all: strong handshake, congenial smile, look of concern, and that peculiar ability to make everything he said sound as if he was trusting you and you alone with the information.
Under any other circumstances, I would probably have liked him. Or at least not disliked him. But I kept seeing the look on his face when Dia refused him: a man trying to bed his mistress the night after his son was kidnapped. I tried my damnedest not to let him see the contempt I felt for him.
He led us inside to his study. The shelves were lined with books, and the furniture was plush, covered with saddle leather. There were mounted fish on walls of natural wood. The servant brought us drinks, then left without a word. Sir Conan sat behind his desk near the fireplace. There were French windows behind him, and it made it hard to see his face or read his expression. O’Davis and I sat in chairs that would have seemed more at home in some London men’s club.
“Commander O’Davis—do you mind if I call you by your rank?”
“Wes is fine, Sir Conan. Or Westy.”
“Fine. Wes, I appreciate your offer to help. Government House tells me that you requested this assignment.”
“I had become friends with your nanny, Cynthia Rothchild. She was murdered in me home.”
“Yes. Most unfortunate. A fine, fine person, Cynthia.”
“Aye, she was. But I’d like ta make it clear, Sir Conan, that me interest is more than jest personal. I realize that a man in yer position is privy to much of the information that goes through Government House. You know that I do more than jest teach scuba divin’ ta tourists. I also serve Her Majesty in various capacities, but the less said about that the better. What I’m sayin’ is, I volunteered because it is also me dooty—in a professional sense.”
“And your friend?”
“Me friend is a friend—no more, no less. I asked him ta join me because he possesses certain abilities that could be invaluable if we are ta save yer lad.”
“You know that many other people are working on the case?”
“I do.”
“But you are intent on going ahead anyway?”
“I am.”
He nodded and allowed us a conservative smile. “Good. I’m glad. You have my every confidence that if there is some way to free our Tommy, you will find it. But promise me this, Wes. Promise me that you will do nothing that will endanger his life if you do find him.”
“I promise we will do the very best job we can, Sir James.”
“I appreciate that. Now tell me how I can help.”
“First of all, do ya have any intention of tryin’ ta raise the two million pounds?”
“Quite impossible on such short notice, I’m afraid.”
“In that case, we’d like ta see the lad’s room.”
“The police have already gone over it.”
“Sure, an’ I trust they found every scrap of evidence. But we’d like ta see it jest the same.”
We followed him up a broad, winding staircase. The boy’s room was like a little household unto itself. In one corner of the room was a table and sink with a marble top. There were Bunsen burners, racks of test tubes and chemicals and beakers. On the other side of the room was one of the most massive stereo systems I have ever seen. There were four speakers, all as tall as the average man. Special shelves had been built to house his hundreds of albums. French doors opened out onto a balcony. Near the windows was an ebony grand piano.
“How old is your son, Sir Conan?”
“Fourteen. Almost fifteen.”
“And he still had a nanny?”
“More a tutor than nanny, Mr. MacMorgan. Lady James and I each have our interests. They often take us away from home for days at a time. We felt better with Miss Rothchild here. You see, Tommy is an extremely intelligent boy. His instructors tell me he is brilliant. The work he was doing in physics and chemistry was on the highest college level. Miss Rothchild was a great help.”
“And music?”
Sir Conan smiled. “Tom is well schooled in the classics. But like most teenagers these days, he loves rock and roll. We had this room soundproofed because of his love—and our disdain—for it.”
“What sort of burglar defenses do you have on the estate?”
He shrugged wearily. “Too few, obviously. Mr. O’Davis can tell you this island has a very low crime rate. At one time we had watchdogs, but their barking became a nuisance. There were burglar alarms, but my son usually slept with the windows opened—and always unlocked. So of course no alarm went off.”
“Who was in the house the night your son was kidnapped?”
“Two members of my permanent staff—they’ve been with the family for years and can be trusted completely. Miss Rothchild, we had thought, and my wife. I . . . was away on business.”
“Off the island?”
“No. Just away from the residence. As men, you can certainly understand.”
Westy took over the questioning for a while. “Could ya be tellin’ us who found the ransom note, Sir Conan?”
“The maid. It was pinned to Tommy’s bed.”
While the two of them talked, I made my way around the room. There was a photograph of the boy on the dresser. He looked frailer than I would have expected a son of Sir Conan James to look. He had his mother’s translucent skin, huge dark eyes, and a bristling hair cut. There was no smile—just a look of distant interest, as if he were wondering what kind of camera the photographer was using. There was a shelf full of books on chemistry and natural science. I pulled a couple of books out and found the kid’s secret cache of
Playboys
stashed behind them—the sexual standbys of all adolescent males. The record albums were mostly rock and roll. Some Beatles and Rolling Stones, but mostly groups with names suitably bizarre:
Cannon Fodder,
the
Sex Pistols, Kiss,
and others. The covers get weirder with each progressive acne generation, but the volume and lack of artistry remain the same.
I went out on the balcony. Someone had removed the ladder. There were scratch marks on the wrought-iron railing. A high-powered telescope stood beside the railing. The lens cover was off and I peered through. It was aimed at the low northern horizon.
“Does your son wear glasses, Sir Conan?”
He gave me an odd look. “No. With all the reading he does, one would think he would have to. But his eyes are perfect. We had them checked recently.”
While O’Davis asked him more about the ransom note, I completed my examination of the room. Two other things caught my attention.
“What time does Tommy usually get up in the morning?”
The Englishman thought for a moment. “He has private instructors while on the island, so he sleeps rather late. About nine, I suppose.”
“Who sleeps in the room below this one?”
“No one. It’s the guest room, and we’ve had no guests.” It was obvious Sir Conan was getting a little tired of questions. “Really, Mr. MacMorgan, I don’t see how any of this applies. The fact is, someone has taken my only child. If you two gentlemen really are interested in helping, then I strongly suggest you get out with the others and begin looking. This is a very small island. He has to be somewhere!”
For the first time, emotion crept into the man’s voice. It was less anger than concern.
“You are absolutely right, Sir Conan.” I looked at the Irishman. “Ready?”
“Aye, that I am.”
He showed us to the front door and we both shook hands. Outside, the lawn party was still in subdued motion. While O’Davis went searching for his ratty little Fiat, I stood in the shade by the drive. That’s when I heard a voice calling me.
“Mr. MacMorgan. Mr. MacMorgan, just a minute.”
It was Lady James. She stood in the shadows at the corner of the house. There was a fresh drink in her hand. The long dress followed the lush curvature of her body perfectly. She had removed her hat, and the pale hair tumbled down on her shoulders.
“Yeah?”
She waited for me to get an arm’s length away before she said, “I just wanted to apologize again for being rude. And to wish you luck.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll do our best.”
She had the burning look in her eyes again, poorly hidden by her obvious nervousness. “And to prove my apology is sincere, I was wondering if you wouldn’t dine with me this evening.”
“If your husband—”
“Jimmy has other plans. Let me speak plainly, Mr. MacMorgan. The invitation is for you and you alone. There is a matter of greatest importance I would like to discuss with you.”
I tried to shuffle for some excuse, but before I could, O’Davis came roaring up in his red car. “Good,” she said, waving. “I’ll expect you at nine. Dress . . . casually.”
When I slid in beside him, O’Davis raised his eyebrows. “What was that all about, Yank?”
“Lady James wants me over for dinner tonight. And you’re not invited.”
The Irishman chuckled gaily. “Ah, I bet she does want ye fer dinner, lad. Served alone,
au naturel.
But I’m a little surprised she didn’t invite meself as the main course. . . . ”
Our stop at Government House was short and uneventful. Nothing more was known about the kidnapped boy. Police were following up a couple of leads, but they really didn’t have much to go on. Every hour, Radio Cayman was reading a plea to the kidnappers at Sir Conan’s orders. It asked them to contact a neutral party of their choice so they could negotiate. Lab reports had turned up nothing on the murder of Cynthia Rothchild—only that she had been killed by a very sharp instrument, probably a razor. Westy’s English superior told us all this in a dry, bored voice before officially welcoming me to the case—his welcome made, I noted, with all the dubiousness he could muster.
The Irishman wheeled us back through the main part of Georgetown. Great modern financial institutions dominated the tiny town: Canadian Imperial Bank, Bank of Nova Scotia, Chase Manhattan, Swiss Bank and Trust, and many others. As a tax haven, Grand Cayman has become an important base for international finance and investment. As a result, barefooted island children roam the streets hawking their wares of conches and woven hammocks in the shadow of billion-dollar money institutions.
O’Davis turned the car into Alice’s Texaco beside the two-story gray-pink Cayman police station. Explaining, he said, “Need a bit of fuel. While you wait, lad, I’ll stop at headquarters and ask me policeman friend about yer silver Jaguar.”
“And while you’re doing that, I’ll walk back to the library.”
“Is this any time ta be spendin’ yer time in idle readin’?”
“You never know,” I said. “You never know.”
The Cayman library was a squat conservative building of stone block. The lady at the desk was pleasant and eager to help. She went through their books on astronomy and finally found the star chart I requested. When I had finished, I thanked her.
“Not at all,” she said in the pretty mixture of Scotch, Southern, and English lilt of the Caymans. “Anytime you need somethin’, please come.”
When I got back, O’Davis and I crossed the street to the Fort, a pleasant, informal restaurant that served pretty good green-turtle steak.
“Did your policeman friend give you anything to go on?” I asked as the waitress brought us our iced tea.
“Aye. An’ somethin’ very interesting too. But first, tell me—what was that business about goin’ to the library, Yank?”
“Simple,” I said. “The kid’s telescope. It wasn’t focused anywhere close to infinity—as it would be if he had been recently viewing constellations. Furthermore, I checked the star charts. No planets rising in the north this time of year. So why would he have it pointed that direction in the first place?”
“Could be jest accidental, Yank. Maybe he moved it.”
“You’re right. But we’re looking for any lead we can get.
“True, true.”
“Furthermore, the telescope came into pretty good focus on the landward horizon. Sir Conan said the kid had perfect eyes and that means average. My vision was something better than average last time I had it checked. So what’s directly north of Sir Conan’s estate?”