A Matter of Time

by David Manuel

“The best. Ever.”

  Ron, who’d been watching the door, now softly exclaimed, “Oh, no! Don’t look now, Dan, but M&M have just arrived.”

  “Who?” asked the Chief.

  “You know, Maud and Margaret from Sandys House.” He groaned. “They’re coming this way.” He turned his gaze to the fire and studied it.

  “Hi,” said Dan politely as the two ladies approached. “Nice fire,” he added, nodding towards it. He pointedly did not introduce their guest or invite them to join their table. They took the other table near the fire, and the men went back to their conversation.

  “What did the inspector ask you?” Bartholomew persisted.

  “The usual,” replied Dan, with a shrug. “What were we doing, why had we come, how was the fishing. And had we seen anything at all unusual in the last couple of days, particularly at night.”

  “What did you think of the inspector?”

  Dan assessed him from memory. “He’s good. Didn’t waste any time. Covered everything. And—he was watching us all the time as we answered, to see what our bodies might say beyond what our words conveyed.”

  Bartholomew smiled. “Like you do.”

  “Yeah,” smiled Dan, “I guess.”

  Bartholomew turned to Ron. “Our Chief conducts all interviews himself, if possible.” He turned back to his friend. “So, he is good.”

  “Yup,” admitted the Chief. “And he saved the key question for last, almost as an afterthought. He’s a pro.”

  Ron frowned. “Which reminds me: Why anything unusual at night?”

  “Because you can’t very well haul a stiff out there and stuff him under a reef in broad daylight.”

  They all laughed.

  “Not too easy to go stiff-stuffing at night, for that matter,” noted Dan. “He—or they—must have used one of those underwater lights that scuba divers strap on their heads for hands-free work.”

  Bartholomew, gazing into the fire, did not seem to hear him. “There was something unusual Sunday afternoon,” he mused.

  The Chief looked at him. “You mean, Eric taking off like that?”

  Bartholomew nodded, and the Chief turned to Ron. “What did you make of all that?”

  “You mean, when the boy finally came home? I thought he looked—strung out. And I’ve never seen a kid get from the front door to his room faster, with fewer words.” He paused. “Except my own kid.”

  They laughed.

  “You think there’s a connection between Eric and the murder?” Bartholomew asked.

  The Chief frowned and slowly nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that. I get the feeling he may be involved with drugs. And if the murder turns out to be drug related….”

  “Is there anything either of you can do for him?”

  Ron sighed. “I’m going to call his father. If it was my kid, I’d want someone to call me.”

  “I’m sure Nan’s been talking to him,” Dan observed.

  “Yeah, but you know how men discount what their wives tell them.” He smiled. “I don’t mean you and Peg. Anyway, I’m going to call Ian first thing in the morning, before he gets those Blue Water Anglers out on the bay.”

  Dan noticed Bartholomew had not taken his eyes from the fire. “There’s something else, isn’t there,” he asked softly.

  Bartholomew nodded. “When he came into the bar Sunday—it seems like a week ago—he was fine, at first. Then he saw something, and it spooked him. And he took off like a bat—”

  “Some-thing? Or some-one?”

  They were startled; the question had come from the next table.

  “Maudie!” hissed her friend, scandalized.

  “Well, they’re talking about it, and we’re talking about it. Why don’t we talk about it together?”

  Margaret turned to them, genuinely embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I can’t do a thing with her when she gets this way.”

  “Gets what way?” Maud snapped at her. “Everybody eavesdrops in restaurants; I’m just honest about it.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I’m really sorry.”

  “And stop apologizing for me! I can apologize for myself, if it’s called for.” She turned to the other table. “I want to know what that one thinks,” she declared, pointing at Bartholomew. And sensing the resentment emanating from the group of men, she added, “And I saw something yesterday morning that I think you’ll be interested in. I was there!”

  That got their attention. “You were one of the snorkel-ers?” asked Dan.

  “We both were.”

  With a sigh, Ron waved to the two women to come join them, and ordered a round of Fra Angelicos.

  “What’s that?” asked Maud.

  “Trust me.”

  “All right, ladies,” said Dan, when they’d pulled up their chairs, “let’s hear it.”

  “Boys go first.”

  “Maud!”

  “I’m just being funny.” She turned to Bartholomew. “But I do want to hear what you think.”

  He turned to Dan, who simply shrugged. So he said, “I think there was something—or someone—in the room that freaked him out.”

  Maud nodded. “I think so, too,” she said. “And I think I know who it was.”

  That really got their attention.

  When all eyes were on her, Maud opened her purse and extracted one of her very long, very thin cigars. Ron, who smoked, flicked open his Zippo and lit it for her. She inhaled deeply, and then slowly let the smoke out. This was her moment, and she was milking it for all it was worth.

  Then in meticulous detail she related the morning’s adventure. Which was interesting but hardly arresting, until she got to the part about the girl being sick.

  “You remember I said that the other two from our place were a honeymoon couple?” she asked Bartholomew, who nodded. “Well, the bridegroom, Buff MacLean, puts his arm around the girl from the Red Lion’s shoulders to comfort her. And he leaves his arm there—a little longer than was necessary.”

  Margaret turned to the men and said, “She’s got an imagination like the Dismal Swamp.”

  “And how often does it turn out I’m right?” Maud scowled at her friend. She turned back to the others. “This Buff character’s been married, what, all of two days? And all of a sudden he’s hitting on this other woman. With his new bride standing right there! Or maybe—” she stopped to take another deep drag on her super-slim cigar.

  At which point the waitress arrived with five snifters, cradling a honey-colored liquid. More delay. Then Maud exhaled into her snifter, filling it with a cloud of smoke.

  “Or maybe—what!” Ron almost shouted.

  “Or maybe—he already knew her. Which could explain why he was so antsy to get out of there, Saturday night.” She turned to Dan. “Yes, Chief, I noticed it, too. He’d left the table about half an hour before he actually got up and left.”

  Dan nodded. “And never came back.”

  “And we stayed with his poor bride long after you two went to bed,” chided Margaret. “Finally, we saw her to her room. He wasn’t there, either.”

  “He’d told her he was going to get a surprise for her. Some surprise!” snorted Maud. “If you ask me, he was down the road at the Red Lion, romancing Miss I-can-hold-my-breath-for-a-minute. Or maybe—” she took a swallow of the liquid. “Hey, this is good!”

  “Or maybe—what?” shouted Ron. He looked around and was relieved to see no one else in earshot.

  “Or maybe—he was busy murdering someone and sticking them in the cove.”

  They all thought about that.

  “Why would he go snorkeling there the very next morning?” asked Margaret. “Wouldn’t that be the last place he’d want to be?”

  Bartholomew traced the rim of his water glass. “Not if he was interested in establishing an alibi,” he said thoughtfully. “Of course, he’d be hoping the body would never be found. But if it was, that would the last place anyone would expect the murderer to be.”

  Maud looked at him. “I like you.
You have a devious mind. What do you do in real life?”

  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 F
renchman 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.”