White Cargo (19 page)

“Never mind,” he said, pointing outside, “we've got another source of light.” A large moon had risen from the sea, illuminating the room in a patchwork of astonishingly white light.

She rose to her knees, reached down, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. “I didn't think you'd do this first,” she said.

“I wish I had had the guts,” he replied, kissing her back. He reached for her, and his hand fell squarely on a breast. She made a small noise, and he left it there.

Then, in one smooth motion, she hoisted the caftan over her head and let it drop to the floor. The moonlight made her naked body glow like marble as she helped him with his clothes. They stretched out together on the wide sofa, and in a moment were locked hungrily together.

When they had finished and were lying, spent, Cat felt as if he had taken a great leap across a wide chasm and safely made the other side. He tried to think more about it, but sleep overwhelmed him.

•   •   •

Much later, he woke. The moon was high over the house now, and the room was dark; the veranda and the beach were nearly as bright as day. He thought about himself,
thought about the way he had been in the months since Katie had died. With his right hand he felt his wedding ring; he had never taken it off since the day he had been married.

He gently extricated himself from the sleeping Meg and walked out onto the terrace. He continued down to the beach, a warm breeze playing about his naked body. At the water's edge, tears streaming down his face, he dipped his hand into the water, for lubrication, then, with difficulty, worked the gold band over his knuckle. He stood still for a moment, then drew back and threw the ring as far out into the sea as he could, out to where Katie slept in
Catbird.
For weeks he had not been able to recall her face clearly, but now he could, this last time. Finally, he could let her go.

“Goodbye, Katie,” he said aloud to her. “Peace.”

He turned and walked back toward the house.

W
HEN HE WOKE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THE HOUSE WAS
empty. He went down to the beach for a swim, and when he came back the smell of bacon greeted him.

“Morning,” she called out. “I had to pick up some groceries. I didn't want to wake you. Breakfast in ten minutes.”

He showered and got into some shorts. When he came out breakfast was on the table.

“Happy birthday! You were really sleeping this morning,” she laughed.

“Can you blame me?” he asked. “The tennis alone was enough to render me unconscious.”

She looked up from her breakfast. “Am I the first woman you've been with since your wife died?”

“Yes.”

She turned back to her food. “Good.”

“That was some birthday present,” he said, and he meant it.

After breakfast he asked about a phone. “I want to see how Rodriguez is doing with the telephone records.”

“In my study, through there.”

The study was also an editing room. A number of videotape machines occupied one end of the space, and
everything was pin-neat, very professional. He called the Caribé and asked for Rodriguez.

“Who is calling, please?”

“Mr. Ellis.”

“One moment.” The operator was gone for a few seconds, then came back. “Mr. Rodriguez is not available.”

“Ask him to call me, please.” He gave her the number.

He lay around the house, read for a while, went for a run along the beach while Meg edited her Santa Marta tape on the
gamines.
When, at five o'clock, Rodriguez had not called back, he rang again and was told the man was still not available.

That night they drove into Cartagena and had dinner at a lovely place in the old city, a restaurant in an open courtyard. The heat and humidity were high, even in the evening, but the food and wine were excellent. Cat found himself relaxing into the relationship with Meg. She was now more than just a lover, she was a friend. Back at home, they made love again, and Cat found it even better than the first time. They were getting to know each other. The following morning he telephoned Rodriguez again and got the same answer from the operator.

“I feel as though I'm getting the runaround,” he told Meg.

“Let me try,” she said. She called the hotel and asked for Rodriguez in Spanish. He came onto the line almost immediately. She handed the phone to Cat.

“Hello, Mr. Rodriguez,” he said. “This is Mr. Ellis. I've had difficulty reaching you.”

Surprised, Rodriguez waffled for a moment, then said, “I am very sorry, señor, but a search of our records shows no such telephone call. I will be unable to assist you further.” He hung up.

Cat told Meg what the man had said. “I don't buy it, do you?”

“Let's go look him up,” she said.

Cat went to change. As he was leaving the room, he hesitated, then slipped into the shoulder holster and put on a bush jacket. At the hotel, he didn't ask for Rodriguez but walked around looking for him. Presently they saw the young man talking to a table of guests at poolside. When he turned to walk toward the main building, Cat stepped behind a large palm and waited.

“What are we doing?” Meg asked, getting behind him.

“I don't want him to see us until it's too late.” Cat saw the man approaching and stepped out to meet him.

Rodriguez seemed very unhappy to see him. “What is it you want, señor? I must go to a meeting now.”

“Tell me about the telephone call,” Cat said, pleasantly.

“I told you, señor, we have no record of such a call.”

Something snapped in Cat. This man knew something about Jinx, and he wanted to know it. Down a few feet of path from where they stood was a maintenance closet, its door open. A mop and pail were visible inside. Cat grabbed the smaller man by the necktie and hauled him into the closet. Meg was close behind, shutting the door.

“Tell me,” Cat said, trying not to clench his teeth.

“There was no phone call!” the man said. Sweat was pouring down his face.

Cat pulled out the pistol and shoved it hard up under the man's jaw. “Tell me,” he said.

“I could be killed for talking to you again,” Rodriguez stammered. “Please, you must go away.”

“You are about to be killed for
not
talking to me,” Cat said, cocking the pistol.

The man's eyes bulged. “Suite 800,” he said quickly.

“And who was occupying Suite 800?” Cat asked.

“Please, señor, I can—” Cat pushed the pistol harder against the man's neck. “Tell me all of it right now,” he said. “I'm not going to ask you again.”

“Suite 800 is permanently rented,” Rodriguez managed to say. “Please, señor, you are hurting me.”

Cat lowered the man from his tiptoes, held him against the wall with one hand, and put the pistol to his forehead. “Go on.”

“A business rents the suite. I don't know any names.”

“What business?”

“The Anaconda Company.”

“And what business are they in?”

“I don't know, señor, nobody knows for sure.”

“But you have an idea.”

“I think, perhaps, an illegal business.”

“Drugs?”

“I think, perhaps.”

“Where is the company located?”

“I don't know.”

“Where are the bills sent? You must know that.”

“The bills are paid in cash. They come, they go in a jet airplane. They always have much cash.”

“Who is the head of the company?”

“I swear to you, señor, I don't know any names. I don't deal directly with these people. Not even the manager does. They come, they sit around the pool, they order room service, they pay cash, they go away in their jet.”

Cat produced the photograph of Jinx. “Did you see this girl?”

Rodriguez looked fearfully at the photograph.

“Don't lie to me, Rodriguez.”

“Yes, once, when they arrived. She was taken immediately upstairs to the suite. She never came down again. I didn't see them leave. I think she . . .” He paused.

“Tell me.”

“I think she was drugged. She looked . . . sleepy. They took her upstairs very quickly. When they left it was at night. I wasn't on duty.”

“How long were they here?”

“They left on the third of the month. The day after the telephone call.”

“Who is in the suite now?”

“No one. No one has been here since the third.”

“All right, now listen to me carefully, Mr. Rodriguez. You and I and this lady are going up to the eighth floor and have a look around this suite. We'll use your passkey.”

“Dios,”
the man said, quaking, “I cannot do this. I will be seen. I will lose my job, my life even. You do not know these people, señor.”

“Give me your passkey,” Cat commanded.

Rodriguez fumbled in a pocket and produced a key.

Cat handed Meg the pistol. “Keep him here. I'll be as quick as I can. If he gives you a problem, kill him.” He winked.

Meg took the pistol. “Sit down on the floor,” she said to the man, holding the pistol to his temple.

“Which way?” he asked Rodriguez.

“In the old part of the hotel,” the man replied, breathing hard. “Into the lobby and turn right to the elevators, the one at the far end. For God's sake, señor, don't let anyone see you. It is my life.”

Cat left the maintenance closet and closed the door behind him. He walked back into the hotel lobby, went to
the right-hand elevator, and looked around him. Only one woman was at the desk, and she was dealing with a guest. He pressed the button, and the doors opened immediately. He got in and reached for the button for the eighth floor. There was no button, just a keyhole. “Shit,” he said aloud to himself. He tried the passkey; to his relief, it worked. The elevator rose. The doors opened into a vestibule. Cat strode to the door of the suite and inserted the key. It opened easily. Instinctively, he reached for the pistol, then remembered he had given it to Meg. He entered a large sitting room, decorated, he imagined, to the owner's taste. It certainly was not standard hotel decor in the tropics. The furniture was well chosen, with some antique pieces, and there were good pictures on the walls. It had the look of the home of an old-line investment banker, he thought.

Hallways led, left and right, off the room. Cat turned right. He came into a comfortable, panelled library, filled with books, many of them leather-bound. There seemed to be nothing in the room of a personal nature.

He went back to the living room and tried the other hallway. It turned and ran along the rear side of the hotel. Opening doors as he went, he found four large bedrooms, all elegantly decorated, but devoid of anything of interest. At the end of the hall he came to a large door, which was locked. He tried the passkey. It worked. The bedroom inside was as large as the living room and decorated even more richly. There was a large television set, a bar, a couple of sofas, a fireplace, and a huge bed with a canopy. There were closets on either side of the bed. The first held a wardrobe of negligees and expensive dresses. There seemed to be at least three different sizes, and there were labels from Bergdorf Goodman and Bonwit Teller. Shoe
racks held at least a couple of dozen pairs of shoes with Charles Jourdan and Ferragamo labels, again in several sizes. A bank of drawers held lacy underwear.

The closet on the other side of the bed held a dozen men's suits in tropical fabrics. There were no store labels, so Cat looked for a tailor's label inside a pocket. They were all from Huntsman, in London, and had been made in the last year, but there was no customer's name in the usual place on the label. There was a stock of shirts and shoes from London makers as well, and a rack of neckties. In the drawers there were underwear and beach clothes, all custom-made. There was nothing in the closet to reveal the identity of the owner, but on all the shirts, there was a monogram, an A.

Cat went methodically through the room, looking for anything else with a name, but found nothing. There was a telephone on a desk, with a card describing in English and Spanish how to make an international call. Cat felt he was where Jinx had been. Next to the phone was a large crystal ashtray and two books of matches. One was the hotel's, the other, different. It was a large matchbook, made of heavy, enameled black paper. Stamped in gold on the front was a rather good drawing, Cat thought, of a large snake dangling from a tree. On the back was a monogram, an A. He slipped the matches into his pocket.

What else could be in the suite? A kitchen, perhaps. He retraced his steps, and as he entered the sitting room he heard a key scrape in the lock of the front door. Not breaking his stride, he continued straight across the room, down the hall, and into the study. As he ducked into the room, he heard the voices of a man and woman, speaking quietly in Spanish. As far as he knew, there was not another entrance to the suite, but he thought there must be a
fire escape. He was about to look for it when a loud noise interrupted the thought. A vacuum cleaner.

Placing the noise in the living room, he walked in that direction and peeped into the room. A woman was pushing the machine a few feet from him, and a man was dusting furniture. Both had their backs to him. He made quickly for the front door. Then the vacuum cleaner stopped.

“Buenos días, señor”
a man's voice said.

Cat stopped and turned. The man and woman were staring at him. The man spoke again, asking a question in Spanish. Cat had no idea what he was saying.

“It's okay,” he said, waving a hand at the room. “Go right ahead. I'm just going out for a while.”

“Si,
señor”
the man said, smiling.
“Gracias.”

“De nada”
Cat said, smiling back at him. He closed the door behind him. The elevator was waiting, its doors open. He inserted the key, turned it, and the elevator started down. Cat took a deep breath and released it. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his knees felt weak.