The Cry of the Halidon: A Novel

  In Paris and Rome and Greenwich Village, such wide alleys held some of the best restaurants in the world, known only to those who cared.

  In Shenzen and Macao and Hong Kong, they were the recesses where anything could be had for a price.

  In Kingston, this one housed a man with arthritis who worked for British Intelligence.

  Queen’s Alley was no more than fifty feet long. On the right was a bookstore with subdued lighting in the windows, illuminating a variety of wares from heavy academic leather to nonglossy pornography. On the left was Tallon’s.

  He had pictured casements of crushed ice supporting rows of wide-eyed dead fish, and men in soiled, cheap white aprons running around scales, arguing with customers.

  The crushed ice was in the window; so were several rows of glassy-eyed fish. But what impressed him was the other forms of ocean merchandise placed artistically: squid, octopus, shark, and exotic shellfish.

  Tallon’s was no Fulton Market.

  As if to add confirmation to his thoughts, a uniformed chauffeur emerged from Tallon’s entrance carrying a plastic shopping bag, insulated, Alex was sure, with crushed ice.

  The double doors were thick, difficult to open. Inside, the counters were spotless; the sawdust on the floor was white. The two attendants were just that: attendants, not countermen. Their full-length aprons were striped blue and white and made of expensive linen. The scales behind the chrome-framed glass cases had shiny brass trimmings. Around the shop, stacked shelves lighted by tiny spotlights in the ceiling, were hundreds of tins of imported delicacies from all parts of the world.

  It was not quite real.

  There were three other customers: a couple and a single woman. The couple was at the far end of the store, studying labels on the shelves; the woman was ordering from a list, being overly precise, arrogant.

  McAuliff approached the counter and spoke the words he had been instructed to speak.

  “A friend in Santo Domingo told me you had north-coast trout.”

  The light-skinned black man behind the white wall barely looked at Alex, but within that instant there was recognition. He bent down, separating shellfish inside the case, and answered casually. Correctly. “We have some freshwater trout from Martha Brae, sir.”

  “I prefer saltwater trout. Are you sure you can’t help me?”

  “I’ll see, sir.” The man shut the case, turned, and walked down a corridor in the wall behind the counter, a passageway Alex assumed led to large refrigerated rooms.

  When a man emerged from a side door within the corridor, McAuliff caught his breath, trying to suppress his astonishment. The man was black and slight and old; he walked with a cane, his right forearm still, and his head trembled slightly with age.

  It was the man in Victoria Park: the old man who had stared at him disapprovingly in front of the bench on the Queen Street path.

  He walked to the counter and spoke, his voice apparently stronger than his body. “A fellow saltwater trout lover,” he said, in an accent more British than Jamaican, but not devoid of the Caribbean. “What are we to do with those freshwater aficionados who cost me so much money? Come, it is nearly closing. You shall have your choice from my own selection.”

  A hinged panel of the butcher-block counter was lifted by the light-skinned attendant in the striped apron. Alex followed the arthritic old man down the short corridor and through a narrow door into a small office that was a miniature extension of the expensive outer design. The walls were paneled in fruitwood; the furniture was a single mahogany desk with a functional antique swivel chair, a soft leather couch against the wall, and an armchair in front of the desk. The lighting was indirect, from a lone china lamp on the desk. With the door closed, Alex saw oak file cabinets lined against the inner wall. Although the room was confining in size, it was eminently comfortable—the isolated quarters of a contemplative man.

  “Sit, Mr. McAuliff,” said the proprietor of Tallon’s, indicating the armchair as he hobbled around the desk and sat down, placing his cane against the wall. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You were in Victoria Park this morning.”

  “I did not expect you then. To be quite frank, you startled me. I’d been looking at your photograph minutes before I took my stroll. From nowhere the face of this photograph was in front of my eyes in Victoria.” The old man smiled and gestured with his palms up, signifying unexpected coincidence. “Incidentally, my name is Tallon. Westmore Tallon. We’re a fine old Jamaican family, as I’m sure you’ve been told.”

  “I hadn’t, but one look at your … fish store would seem to confirm it.”

  “Oh, yes. We’re frightfully expensive, very exclusive. Private telephone number. We cater only to the wealthiest on the island. From Savanna to Montego to Antonio and Kingston. We have our own delivery service—by private plane, of course.… It’s most convenient.”

  “I should think so. Considering your extracurricular activities.”

  “Which, of course, we must never consider to the point of discussion, Mr. McAuliff,” replied Tallon quickly.

  “I’ve got several things to tell you. I expect you’ll transmit the information and let Hammond do what he wants.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “On one issue, I am. Goddamned angry … Mrs. Booth. Alison Booth. She was manipulated here through Interpol. I think that smells. She made one painful—and dangerous—contribution. I should think you people would let her alone.”

  Tallon pushed his foot against the floor, turning the silent antique swivel to his right. He aimlessly reached over for his cane and fingered it. “I am merely a … liaison, Mr. McAuliff, but from what I understand, no pressure was exerted on you to employ Mrs. Booth. You did so freely. Where was the manipulation?”

  Alex watched the small, arthritic man toy with the handle of the cane. He was struck by the thought that in some strange way Westmore Tallon was like an artist’s composite of Julian Warfield and Charles Whitehall. The communion of elements was disturbing. “You people are very professional,” he said quietly, a touch bitterly. “You’re ingenious when it comes to presenting alternatives.”

  “She can’t go home, Mr. McAuliff. Take my word for that.”

  “From a certain point of view, she might as well.… The Marquis de Chatellerault is in Jamaica.”

  Tallon spun in the antique chair to face McAuliff. For an instant he seemed frozen. He stared at Alex, and when he blinked it was as though he silently rejected McAuliff’s statement. “This is impossible,” he said simply.

  “It’s not only possible, I don’t even think it’s a secret. Or if it is, it’s poorly kept; and as somebody said about an hour ago, that’s not much of a secret.”

  “Who gave you this information?” Tallon held onto his cane, his grasp visibly firmer.

  “Charles Whitehall. At three o’clock this morning. He was invited to Savanna-la-Mar to meet Chatellerault.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “The circumstances aren’t important. The important fact is that Chatellerault is in Savanna-la-Mar. He is the house-guest of a family named Wakefield. They’re white and rich.”

  “We know them,” said Tallon, writing a note awkwardly with his arthritic hand. “They’re customers. What else do you have?”

  “A couple of items. One is extremely important to me, and I warn you, I won’t leave here until something’s done about it.”

  Tallon looked up from his notepaper. “You make pronouncements without regard for realistic appraisal. I have no idea whether I can do anything about anything. Your camping here would not change that. Please continue.”

  Alex described James Ferguson’s unexpected meeting with Craft at the Palisados Airport and the manipulation that resulted in the electronic devices in his luggage. He detailed Craft’s offer of money in exchange for information about the survey.

  “It’s not surprising. The Craft people are notoriously curious,” said Tallon, writing painfully on his notepaper. ?
??Shall we get to the item you say is so vital?”

  “I want to summarize first.”

  “Summarize what?” Tallon put down his pencil.

  “What I’ve told you.”

  Tallon smiled. “It’s not necessary, Mr. McAuliff. I take notes slowly, but my mind is quite alert.”

  “I’d like us to understand each other.… British Intelligence wants the Halidon. That was the purpose—the only purpose—of my recruitment. Once the Halidon could be reached, I was finished. Complete protection still guaranteed to the survey team.”

  “And so?”

  “I think you’ve got the Halidon. It’s Chatellerault and Craft.”

  Tallon continued to stare at McAuliff. His expression was totally neutral. “You have arrived at this conclusion?”

  “Hammond said this Halidon would interfere. Eventually try to stop the survey. Diagrams aren’t necessary. The marquis and Craft fit the prints. Go get them.”

  “I see …” Tallon reached once more for his cane. His personal scepter, his sword Excaliber. “So, in one extraordinary simplification, the American geologist has solved the riddle of the Halidon.”

  Neither man spoke for several moments. McAuliff broke the silence with equally quiet anger. “I could get to dislike you, Mr. Tallon. You’re a very arrogant man.”

  “My concerns do not include your approval, Mr. McAuliff. Jamaica is my passion—yes, my passion, sir. What you think is not important to me … except when you make absurd pronouncements that could affect my work.… Arthur Craft, père et fils, have been raping this island for half a century. They subscribe to the belief that theirs is a mandate from God. They can accomplish too much in the name of Craft; they would not hide behind a symbol. And Halidon is a symbol, Mr. McAuliff.… The Marquis de Chatellerault? You were quite correct. Mrs. Booth was manipulated—brilliantly, I think—into your survey. It was cross-pollination, if you like; the circumstances were optimum. Two kling-klings in a hibiscus, one inexorably forcing the other to reveal himself. She was bait, pure and simple, Mr. McAuliff. Chatellerault has long been suspected of being an associate of Julian Warfield. The marquis is with Dunstone, Limited.” Tallon lifted his cane up laterally, placed it across his desk, and continued to gaze blankly at Alex.

  McAuliff said finally, “You withheld information; you didn’t tell me things I should have been told. Yet you expect me to function as one of you. That smells, Tallon.”

  “You exaggerate. There is no point in complicating further an already complicated picture.”

  “I should have been told about Chatellerault, instead of hearing his name from Mrs. Booth.”

  Tallon shrugged. “An oversight. Shall we proceed?”

  “All right. There’s a man named Tucker. Sam Tucker.”

  “Your friend from California? The soil analyst?”

  “Yes.”

  McAuliff told Hanley’s story without using Hanley’s name. He emphasized the coincidence of the two black men who had removed Tucker’s belongings and the two Jamaicans who had followed his taxi in the green Chevrolet sedan. He described briefly the taxi owner’s feats of driving skills in the racetrack park, and gave Tallon the license-plate number of the Chevrolet.

  Tallon reached for his telephone and dialed without speaking to Alex. “This is Tallon,” he said quietly into the phone. “I want M.V. information. It is urgent. The license is KYB four-four-eight. Call me back on this line.” He hung up and shifted his eyes to McAuliff, “It should take no longer than five minutes.”

  “Was that the police?”

  “Not in any way the police would know.… I understand the Ministry received your permits today. Dunstone does facilitate things, doesn’t it?”

  “I told Latham I was leaving for Ocho Rios tomorrow afternoon. I won’t if Tucker doesn’t show up. That’s what I want you to know.”

  Once again, Westmore Tallon reached for his cane, but not with the aggressiveness he had displayed previously. He was suddenly a rather thoughtful, even gentle man. “If your friend was taken against his will, it would be kidnapping. A very serious crime, and insofar as he’s American, the sort of headline attraction that would be an anathema. It doesn’t make sense, Mr. McAuliff.… You say he’s due today, which could be extended to this evening, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suggest we wait. I cannot believe the parties involved could—or would—commit such a gargantuan mistake. If Mr. Tucker is not heard from by, say, ten o’clock, call me.” Tallon wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Alex. “Commit this to memory, please; leave the paper here.”

  “What are you going to do if Tucker doesn’t show?”

  “I will use perfectly legitimate connections and have the matter directed to the most authoritative officials in the Jamaican police. I will alert highly placed people in the government; the governor-general, if necessary. St. Croix has had its murders; tourism is only now coming back. Jamaica could not tolerate an American kidnapping. Does that satisfy you?”

  “I’m satisfied.” Alex crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and as he did so, he remembered Tallon’s reaction to Chatellerault’s appearance in Savanna-la-Mar. “You were surprised that Chatellerault was on the island. Why?”

  “As of two days ago, he was registered at the Georges Cinque in Paris. There’s been no word of his leaving, which means he flew here clandestinely, probably by way of Mexico. It is disturbing. You must keep a close watch on Mrs. Booth. You have a weapon, I assume?”

  “Two rifles in the equipment. An .030 Remington telescopic and a long-power .22 automatic. Nothing else.”

  Tallon seemed to debate with himself, then make his decision. He took a key ring from his pocket, selected a key, and opened a lower drawer of his desk. He removed a bulky manila envelope, opened the flap, and shook a pistol onto his blotter. A number of cartridges fell out with the gun. “This is a .38 Smith & Wesson, short barrel. All markings have been destroyed. It’s untraceable. Take it, please; it’s wiped clean. The only fingerprints will be yours. Be careful.”

  McAuliff looked at the weapon for several seconds before reaching out and slowly picking it up. He did not want it; there was a finality of commitment somehow attached to his having it. But again, there was the question of alternatives: Not having it might possibly be foolish, though he did not expect to use it for anything more than a show of force.

  “Your dossier includes your military service and experience in small-arms fire. But that was a long time ago. Would you care to refresh yourself at a pistol range? We have several, within minutes by plane.”

  “No, thank you,” replied Alex. “Not too long ago, in Australia, it was the only diversion we had.”

  The telephone rang with a muted bell. Tallon picked it up and acknowledged with a simple “Yes?”

  He listened without speaking to the party on the other end of the line. When he terminated the call, he looked at McAuliff.

  “The green Chevrolet sedan is registered to a dead man. The vehicle’s license is in the name of Walter Piersall. Residence: High Hill, Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny.”

  13

  McAuliff spent another hour with Westmore Tallon, as the old Jamaican aristocrat activated his information network. He had sources all over the island.

  Before the hour was up, one important fact had been uncovered: the deceased, Walter Piersall of Carrick Foyle, parish of Trelawny, had in his employ two black assistants with whom he invariably traveled. The coincidence of the two men who had removed Sam Tucker’s belongings from the hotel in Montego Bay and the two men who followed Alex in the green Chevrolet was no longer far-fetched. And since Piersall had brought up Sam’s name with Alison Booth, the conclusion was now to be assumed.

  Tallon ordered his own people to pick up Piersall’s men. He would telephone McAuliff when they had done so.

  Alex returned to Courtleigh Manor. He stopped at the desk for messages. Alison was at dinner; she hoped he would join her. There was nothing el
se.

  No word from Sam Tucker.

  “If there are any calls for me, I’ll be in the dining room,” he said to the clerk.

  Alison sat alone in the middle of the crowded room, which was profuse with tropical plants and open-grilled windows. In the center of each table was a candle within a lantern; these were the only sources of light. Shadows flickered against the dark red and green and yellow foliage; the hum was the hum of contentment, rising but still quiet Crescendos of laughter; perfectly groomed, perfectly dressed manikins in slow motion, all seemingly waiting for the nocturnal games to begin.

  This was the manikins’ good hour. When manners and studied grace and minor subtleties were important. Later it would be different; other things would become important … and too often ugly. Which is why James Ferguson knew his drunken pretense had been plausible last night.

  And why Charles Whitehall arrogantly, quietly, had thrown the napkin across the table onto the floor. To clean up the foreigner’s mess.

  “You look pensive. Or disagreeable,” said Alison as Alex pulled out the chair to sit down.

  “Not really.”

  “What happened? What did the police say? I half expected a call from them.”

  McAuliff had rehearsed his reply, but before delivering it he gestured at the cup of coffee and the brandy glass in front of Alison. “You’ve had dinner, I guess.”

  “Yes. I was famished. Haven’t you?”

  “No. Keep me company?”

  “Of course. I’ll dismiss the eunuchs.”

  He ordered a drink. “You have a lovely smile. It’s sort of a laugh.”

  “No sidetracking. What happened?”

  McAuliff lied quite well, he thought. Certainly better—at least more persuasively—than before. He told Alison he had spent nearly two hours with the police. Westmore Tallon had furnished him with the address and even described the interior of the main headquarters; it had been Tallon’s idea for him to know the general details. One could never tell when they were important.