The Cry of the Halidon: A Novel

  “They backed up Latham’s theory. They say it’s hit-and-run. They also hinted that Piersall had a diversion or two that was closeted. He was run down in a very rough section.”

  “That sounds suspiciously pat to me. They’re covering themselves.” Alison’s eyebrows furrowed, her expression one of disbelief.

  “They may be,” answered Alex casually, sincerely. “But they can’t tie him to Sam Tucker, and that’s my only concern.”

  “He is tied. He told me.”

  “And I told them. They’ve sent men to Carrick Foyle, that’s where Piersall lived. In Trelawny. Others are going over his things at the Sheraton. If they find anything, they’ll call me.” McAuliff felt that he was carrying off the lie. He was, after all, only bending the truth. The arthritic Westmore Tallon was doing these things.

  “And you’re satisfied with that? You’re just going to take their word for it? You were awfully troubled with Mr. Tucker a few hours ago.”

  “I still am,” said Alex, putting down his glass and looking at her. He had no need to lie now. “If I don’t hear from Sam by late tonight … or tomorrow morning, I’m going to go to the American Embassy and yell like hell.”

  “Oh … all right. Did you mention the little buggers this morning? You never told me.”

  “The what?”

  “Those bugs in your luggage. You said you were supposed to report them.”

  Again McAuliff felt a wave of inadequacy; it irked him that he wasn’t keeping track of things. Of course, he hadn’t seen Tallon earlier, had not received his instructions, but that was no explanation. “I should have listened to you last night. I can just get rid of them; step on them, I guess.”

  “There’s a better way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Put them someplace else.”

  “For instance?”

  “Oh, somewhere harmless but with lots of traffic. It keeps the tapes rolling and people occupied.”

  McAuliff laughed; it was not a false laugh. “That’s very funny. And very practical. Where would they be, listening, I mean?”

  Alison brought her hands to her chin; a mischievous little girl thinking mischievously. “It should be within a hundred yards or so—that’s usually the range tolerance between bugs and the receivers And where there’s a great deal of activity … Let’s see. I complimented the headwaiter on the red snapper. I’ll bet he’d bring me to the chef for the recipe.”

  “They love that sort of thing,” added Alex. “It’s perfect. Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

  Alison Booth, former liaison to Interpol, reported that two electronic devices were securely attached to the permanent laundry hamper under the salad table in the Courtleigh Manor kitchen. She had slipped them inside—and pushed them down—along with a soiled napkin, as an enthusiastic chef described the ingredients of his Jamaican red snapper sauce.

  “The hamper was long, not deep,” she explained as McAuliff finished the last of his dinner. “I pressed rather hard; the adhesive will hold quite well, I think.”

  “You’re incredible,” said Alex, meaning it.

  “No, just experienced,” she replied, without much humor. “You were only taught one side of the game, my darling.”

  “It doesn’t sound much like tennis.”

  “Oh, there are compensations. For example, do you have any idea how limitless the possibilities are? In that kitchen, for the next three hours or so, until it’s tracked?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Depending upon who’s on the tapes, there’ll be a mad scramble writing down words and phrases. Kitchen talk has its own contractions, its own language, really. It will be assumed you’ve taken your suitcase to a scheduled destination, for reasons of departure, naturally. There’ll be quite a bit of confusion.” Alison smiled, her eyes again mischievous, as they had been before he had gone upstairs to pry loose the bugs.

  “You mean, ‘Sauce béarnaise’ is really a code for submachine gun? ‘B.L.T.’ stands for ‘hit the beaches’?”

  “Something like that. It’s quite possible, you know.”

  “I thought that sort of thing only happened in World War Two movies. With Nazis screaming at each other, sending Panzer divisions in the wrong directions.” McAuliff looked at his watch. It was 9:15. “I have a phone call to make, and I want to go over a list of supplies with Ferguson. He’s going to—”

  He stopped. Alison had reached over, her hand suddenly on his arm. “Don’t turn your head,” she commanded softly, “but I think your little buggers provoked a reaction. A man just came through the dining room entrance very rapidly, obviously looking for someone.”

  “For us?”

  “For you, to be precise, I’d say.”

  “The kitchen codes didn’t fool them very long.”

  “Perhaps not. On the other hand, it’s quite possible they’ve been keeping loose tabs on you and were double-checking. It’s too small a hotel for round-the-clock—”

  “Describe him,” interrupted McAuliff. “As completely as you can. Is he still facing this way?”

  “He saw you and stopped. He’s apologizing to the man on the reservations book, I think. He’s white; he’s dressed in light trousers, a dark jacket, and a white—no, a yellow shirt. He’s shorter than you by a bit, fairly chunky—”

  “What?”

  “You know, bulky. And middle-young, thirties, I’d say. His hair is long, not extreme, but long. It’s dark blond or light brown; it’s hard to tell in this candlelight.”

  “You’ve done fine. Now I’ve got to get to a telephone.”

  “Wait till he leaves; he’s looking over again,” said Alison, feigning interested, intimate laughter. “Why don’t you leer a little and signal for the check. Very casually, my darling.”

  “I feel like I’m in some kind of nursery school. With the prettiest teacher in town.” Alex held up his hand, spotted the waiter, and made the customary scribble in the air. “I’ll take you to your room, then come back downstairs and call.”

  “Why? Use the phone in the room. The buggers aren’t there.”

  Damn! Goddamn! It had happened again; he wasn’t prepared. The little things, always the little things. They were the traps. Hammond said it over and over again … Hammond. The Savoy. Don’t make calls on the Savoy phone.

  “I was told to use a pay telephone. They must have their reasons.”

  “Who?”

  “The Ministry. Latham … the police, of course.”

  “Of course. The police.” Alison withdrew her hand from his arm as the waiter presented the bill for Alex to sign. She didn’t believe him; she made no pretense of believing him. Why should she? He was a rotten actor; he was caught.… But it was preferable to an ill-phrased statement or an awkward response to Westmore Tallon over the phone while Alison watched him. And listened. He had to feel free in his conversation with the arthritic liaison; he could not have one eye, one ear on Alison as he talked. He could not take the chance that the name Chatellerault, or even a hint of the man, was heard. Alison was too quick.

  “Has he left yet?”

  “As you signed the check. He saw we were leaving.” Her reply was neither angry nor warm, merely neutral.

  They walked out of the candlelit dining room, past the cascading arcs of green foliage into the lobby, toward the bank of elevators. Neither spoke. The ride up to their floor continued in silence, made bearable by other guests in the small enclosure.

  He opened the door and repeated the precautions he had taken the previous evening—minus the scanner. He was in a hurry now; if he remembered, he would bless the room with electronic benediction later. He checked his own room and locked the connecting door from her side. He looked out on the balcony and in the bathroom. Alison stood in the corridor doorway, watching him.

  He approached her. “Will you stay here until I get back?”

  “Yes,” she answered simply.

  He kissed her on the lips, staying close to
her, he knew, longer than she expected him to; it was his message to her. “You are a lovely lady.”

  “Alex?” She placed her hands carefully on his arms and looked up at him. “I know the symptoms. Believe me, I do. They’re not easy to forget.… There are things you’re not telling me and I won’t ask. I’ll wait.”

  “You’re overdramatizing, Alison.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “What you just said. I used those words with David. In Malaga. He was nervous, frightened. He was so unsure of himself. And of me. And I said to him: David, you’re being overly dramatic.… I know now that it was at that moment he knew.”

  McAuliff held her eyes with his own. “You’re not David and I’m not you. That’s as straight as I can put it. Now, I have to get to a telephone. I’ll see you later. Use the latch.”

  He kissed her again, went out the door, and closed it behind him. He waited until he heard the metallic sounds of the inserted bolt, then turned toward the elevators.

  The doors closed; the elevator descended. The soft music was piped over the heads of assorted businessmen and tourists; the cubicle was full. McAuliff’s thoughts were on his imminent telephone call to Westmore Tallon, his concerns about Sam Tucker.

  The elevator stopped at an intermediate floor. Alex looked up at the lighted digits absently, vaguely wondering how another person could fit in the cramped enclosure. There was no need to think about the problem; the two men who waited by the parting doors saw the situation, smiled, and gestured that they would wait for the next elevator.

  And then McAuliff saw him. Beyond the slowly closing panels, far down in the corridor. A stocky man in a dark jacket and light trousers. He had unlocked a door and was about to enter a room; as he did so, he pulled back his jacket to replace the key in his pocket. The shirt was yellow.

  The door closed.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me, please!” said McAuliff rapidly as he reached across a tuxedoed man near the panel of buttons and pushed the one marked 2, the next number in descent. “I forgot my floor. I’m terribly sorry.”

  The elevator, its thrust suddenly, electronically interrupted, jerked slightly as it mindlessly prepared for the unexpected stop. The panels opened and Alex sidled past the irritated but accommodating passengers.

  He stood in the corridor in front of the bank of elevators and immediately pushed the Up button. Then he reconsidered. Where were the stairs?

  The EXIT—STAIRCASE sign was blue with white letters. That seemed peculiar to him; exit signs were always red. It was at the far end of the hallway. He walked rapidly down the heavily carpeted corridor, nervously smiling at a couple who emerged from a doorway at midpoint. The man was in his fifties and drunk; the girl was barely in her twenties, sober and mulatto. Her clothes were the costume of a high-priced whore. She smiled at Alex; another sort of message. He acknowledged, his eyes telling her he wasn’t interested but good luck, take the company drunk for all she could.

  He pushed the crossbar on the exit door. Its sound was too loud; he closed it carefully, quietly, relieved to see there was a knob on the inside of the door.

  He ran up the concrete stairs on the balls of his feet, minimizing the sound of his footsteps. The steel panel had the Roman numeral III stenciled in black over the beige paint. He twisted the knob slowly and opened the door onto the third-floor corridor.

  It was empty. The nocturnal games had begun below; the players would remain in the competitive arenas until the prizes had been won or lost or forgotten in alcoholic oblivion. He had only to be alert for stragglers, or the overanxious, like the pigeon on the second floor who was being maneuvered with such precision by the child-woman mulatto. He tried to recall at which door the man in the yellow shirt had stood. He had been quite far down the hallway, but not at the end. Not by the staircase; two-thirds of the way, perhaps. On the right; he had pulled back his jacket with his right hand, revealing the yellow shirt. That meant he was not inside a door on Alex’s left. Reversing the viewpoint, he focused on three … no, four doors on his left that were possible. Beginning with the second door from the suitcase, one-third the distance to the elevators.

  Which one?

  McAuliff began walking noiselessly on the thick carpet down the corridor, hugging the left wall. He paused before each door as he passed, his head constantly turning, his eyes alert, his ears listening for the sound of voices, the tinkling of glasses. For anything.

  Nothing.

  Silence. Everywhere.

  He looked at the brass numbers—218, 216, 214, 212. Even 210. Any farther would be incompatible with what he remembered.

  He stopped at the halfway point and turned. Perhaps he knew enough. Enough to tell Westmore Tallon. Alison had said that the tolerance range for the electronic bugs was one hundred yards from first positioning to the receiving equipment. This floor, this section of the hotel, was well within that limit. Behind one of those doors was a tape recorder activated by a man in front of a speaker or with earphones clamped over his head.

  Perhaps it was enough to report those numbers. Why should he look further?

  Yet he knew he would. Someone had seen fit to intrude on his life in a way that filled him with revulsion. Few things caused him to react violently, but one of them was the actual, intended invasion of his privacy. And greed. Greed, too, infuriated him. Individual, academic, corporate.

  Someone named Craft—because of his greed—had instructed his minions to invade Alex’s personal moments.

  Alexander Tarquin McAuliff was a very angry man.

  He started back toward the staircase, retracing his steps, close to the wall, closer to each door, where he stopped and stood immobile. Listening.

  212, 214, 216, 218 …

  And back once again. It was a question of patience. Behind one of those doors was a man in a yellow shirt. He wanted to find that man.

  He heard it.

  Room 214.

  It was a radio. Or a television set. Someone had turned up the volume of a television set. He could not distinguish the words, but he could hear the excitement behind the rapid bursts of dialogue from a clouded speaker, too loud to avoid distortion.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of a harsh, metallic crack of a door latch. Inches away from McAuliff someone had pulled back the bolt and was about to open the door.

  Alex raced to the staircase. He could not avoid noise, he could only reduce it as much as possible as he lurched into the dimly lit concrete foyer. He whipped around, pushing the heavy steel door closed as fast and as quietly as he could; he pressed the fingers of his left hand around the edge, preventing the door from shutting completely, stopping the sound of metal against metal at the last half second.

  He peered through the crack. The man in the yellow shirt came out of the room, his attention still within it. He was no more than fifty feet away in the silent corridor—silent except for the sound on the television set. He seemed angry, and before he closed the door he looked inside and spoke harshly in a Southern drawl.

  “Turn that fuckin’ thing down, you goddamn ape!”

  The man in the yellow shirt then slammed the door and walked rapidly toward the elevators. He remained at the end of the corridor, nervously checking his watch, straightening his tie, rubbing his shoes over the back of his trousers until a red light, accompanied by a soft, echoing bell, signaled the approach of an elevator. McAuliff watched from the stairwell two hundred feet away.

  The elevator doors closed, and Alex walked out into the corridor. He crossed to Room 214 and stood motionless for a few moments. It was a decision he could abandon, he knew that. He could walk away, call Tallon, tell him the room number, and that would be that.

  But it would not be very satisfying. It would not be satisfying at all. He had a better idea: he would take whoever was in that room to Tallon himself. If Tallon didn’t like it, he could go to hell. The same for Hammond. Since it was established that the electronic devices were planted by a man named Craft, w
ho was in no way connected with the elusive Halidon, Arthur Craft could be taught a lesson. Alex’s arrangements with Hammond did not include abuses from third and fourth parties.

  It seemed perfectly logical to get Craft out of the chess game. Craft clouded the issues, confused the pursuit.

  McAuliff had learned two physical facts about Arthur Craft: He was the son of Craft the Elder and he was American. He was also an unpleasant man. It would have to do.

  He knocked on the door beneath the numerals 214.

  “Yes, mon? Who is it, mon?” came the muffled reply from within.

  Alex waited and knocked again. The voice inside came nearer the door.

  “Who is it, please, mon?”

  “Arthur Craft, you idiot!”

  “Oh! Yes sir, Mr. Craft, mon!” The voice was clearly frightened. The knob turned; the bolt had not been inserted.

  The door had opened no more than three inches when McAuliff slammed his shoulder against it with the full impact of his near two hundred pounds. The door crashed against the medium-sized Jamaican inside, sending him reeling into the center of the room. Alex gripped the edge of the vibrating door and swung it back into place, the slam of the heavy wood echoing throughout the corridor.

  The Jamaican steadied himself, in his eyes a combination of fury and fear. He whipped around to the room’s writing desk; there were boxed speakers on each side. Between them was a pistol.

  McAuliff lurched forward, his left hand aiming for the gun, his right grabbing any part of the man it could reach. Their hands met above the warm steel of the pistol; Alex gripped the black man’s throat and dug his fingers into the man’s flesh.

  The man shook loose; the gun went careening off the surface of the desk onto the floor. McAuliff lashed out with the back of his fist at the Jamaican man’s face, instantaneously opening his hand and yanking forward, pulling the man’s head down by the hair. As the head went down, Alex brought his left knee crashing up into the man’s chest, then into his face.