Domino Island

by Desmond Bagley

  Stern broke in. ‘She also telephoned me.’

  ‘Before or after contacting the police?’

  Mrs Salton’s lips compressed slightly and Stern said evenly, ‘She wanted my advice. I told her to get in touch with the police immediately.’

  ‘I telephoned Commissioner Barstow,’ she said.

  Another millionaire touch: if you want something, go right to the top. I said, ‘He sent someone to find out what was happening?’

  ‘He came himself.’

  Of course. Let a millionaire vanish and the chief cop would arrive in a sprint. ‘What was his reaction?’

  Stern said, ‘What you’d expect. His first thought was that David had been kidnapped. He alerted all his men and they began to investigate.’

  ‘There was a lot of talk that went on and on that evening. Some of Barstow’s plain-clothes men even attached a tape recorder to the telephone in case any kidnappers got in touch.’ There was a note of weariness in Mrs Salton’s voice – perhaps an echo of the weariness of that night. ‘I had a headache and went to my room to rest and I was looking across the water towards the mainland when I suddenly thought of the boat. It’s kept in a boathouse over there.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve seen the boathouse.’

  ‘I told Barstow and he had the boathouse checked. The boat wasn’t there.’ She paused, then said, ‘It was exactly midnight.’

  ‘So your husband’s body was discovered as a result of a sea search?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘A fisherman out of Hogtown discovered the boat early next morning and towed it into San Martin.’

  I thought about it for a while. Stern fidgeted in the silence but Mrs Salton was as composed as ever. It all seemed to hang together and explained why there had been no hue and cry as soon as Salton went missing. Perhaps it hung together too well, but suspicion is an occupational disease in my trade. I said, ‘What do you think really happened, Mrs Salton?’

  ‘Substantially what was said at the inquest. I think that David was very angry when he left here, and to cool down he took the boat out. I think he had a heart attack and died at sea.’

  ‘What was your quarrel about?’

  Stern jerked himself erect. Mrs Salton said, ‘It was about a personal matter which I don’t care to go into.’

  Stern subsided, but not much. I said carefully, ‘So your husband was very angry – angry enough that you weren’t surprised he’d flown to the States, apparently in a fit of pique?’

  She looked down at the back of her hands. ‘He was very upset,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Upset enough to take his own life?’

  ‘Don’t answer that,’ said Stern sharply. He glared at me and said frostily, ‘That’s a most improper question.’

  ‘Under the circumstances I think not.’

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ said Mrs Salton. ‘My husband would never commit suicide, Mr Kemp. He was not that kind of man.’

  ‘The idea of David Salton committing suicide is laughable to anyone who knew him,’ said Stern.

  ‘I had to ask the question,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry if it distressed you in any way.’

  ‘I understand, Mr Kemp,’ she said. ‘You must do your job.’ The way she said it made me wish I had a different job.

  ‘Strictly speaking, it’s not my affair,’ I said, and Stern stared at me in surprise. ‘A Mr Ogilvie is dealing with the matter of the claim. I’ll see him and pass on the information you’ve given me so that you won’t have to go through all this again. I expect he’ll be coming to see you quite soon but if you wish he can deal through Mr Stern.’

  ‘He certainly must deal through me,’ said Stern. ‘But what are you here for?’

  ‘Oh, I’m here on an entirely different matter,’ I said blandly. ‘I’m representing Mr Costello, the company’s investment analyst. Not unnaturally, he is interested in the future of Salton Estates Ltd.’

  ‘What has Western and Continental got to do with Salton Estates?’ asked Mrs Salton.

  ‘They invested money in the firm,’ I said. ‘Over three million pounds.’

  ‘Eight million dollars,’ said Stern. ‘Mr Salton tended to think in dollars. He lived over there a long time.’

  I watched the frown mar Mrs Salton’s lovely face. ‘Didn’t you know about your husband’s business affairs?’

  ‘Some,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t think he’d borrow that much. It was a loan? He always said he’d never give away a piece of the action.’

  I suppressed a smile at the uncharacteristic slang in the well-modulated English tone. ‘Yes, it was a long-term loan at two per cent over bank rate. He’s been paying the interest regularly – that comes to £288,000 a year. He was due to begin paying off the principal in a couple of years’ time.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said.

  ‘It was just an ordinary business deal,’ said Stern.

  I shrugged. ‘Mr Salton may have been a very good businessman but he appears to have played a lone hand. Now that he’s … no longer around, Mr Costello is wondering if Salton Estates will continue to be run along the lines laid down by Mr Salton.’ I smiled in what I hoped looked like sympathy. ‘It’s not that we’re very worried but we’d just like to make sure.’

  ‘And how are you going to make sure?’ asked Stern. He seemed unaccountably hostile.

  ‘I’d like to run my eye over the books – check the cash flow, the reserves, things like that.’

  ‘Are you empowered to do that?’

  I leaned back in my chair. ‘If you think I’m not then I suggest you telephone Lord Hosmer immediately.’

  ‘Of course you can look at the books,’ said Mrs Salton. ‘As far as I know Salton Estates is doing marvellously.’ She glanced at Stern. ‘Maybe you could take Mr Kemp to the office this afternoon, introduce him to Martin Idle.’

  Stern nodded curtly. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Meanwhile, perhaps you’d care to stay for lunch, Mr Kemp?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said politely.

  The house had a series of internal courts or rooms without roofs – the atrium of Roman architecture, modified for the Caribbean – and we had lunch in one of these. Over the crawfish I remembered the man from the dusty cornfield and said, ‘I met someone who sends you his regards – a Mr McKittrick.’

  Mrs Salton seemed confused. ‘McKittrick?’

  ‘Tall, well-built.’

  Her brow cleared. ‘Oh, Doctor McKittrick.’

  I sampled the nutty-flavoured white flesh of the crawfish. ‘He didn’t look like a doctor to me. When I saw him he was planting corn.’

  Mrs Salton smiled. ‘Dr McKittrick has unorthodox ideas of what constitutes medical practice.’

  ‘Very unorthodox,’ said Stern. ‘He’s a troublemaker.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Jake McKittrick for nearly two years,’ said Mrs Salton.

  ‘He said he was sorry to hear of what happened to your husband.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Stern. ‘I’d have thought he’d be cheering.’

  ‘Just because he and David had a quarrel doesn’t mean …’ She stopped, then said, ‘I must drop him a line.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Stern. ‘The elections are coming up. As your lawyer I advise you to put nothing in writing to Jacob McKittrick. It could be misinterpreted – no matter what you write.’

  I waited for Mrs Salton to reply but she said nothing, apparently content to drop the issue. I added McKittrick’s name to the list on my mental file and dropped another stone into the conversational pool. ‘A man called Jackson gave me some interesting information on local affairs. You may know him, Mrs Salton. An American on the staff of the Chronicle.’

  ‘On the staff? He’s the editor.’

  Jackson may have been miles away on the other side of the island, but he was still capable of pulling surprises.

  ‘He told me you own the Chronicle.’

  ‘I suppose I do, now that David is dead.’

  ‘Don Jackson’s a sound man,’ pro
nounced Stern. ‘A very good editor.’

  And a very good backstabber, I thought. It was not news to me that a newspaperman’s personal politics need have no relationship to the political views of the paper for which he works – it’s probably why journalists have a reputation for cynicism – but Jackson’s naked hostility towards Salton and his wife seemed to be different and based on something other than politics. I sensed that if Western and Continental torpedoed Mrs Salton’s claim, then Jackson would be very pleased. He was a dog in the manger and there must be a reason.

  Stern glanced at his watch. ‘I have to be getting back.’

  I suddenly changed my mind about investigating Salton Estates that afternoon. I wanted a chance to talk to Mrs Salton without Stern in the way – he was a repressive influence. ‘I’d like to talk to Haslam while I’m here,’ I said. ‘If I get it all wrapped up it will save Mr Ogilvie a journey.’

  ‘He’s available,’ said Mrs Salton. ‘The plane’s not been used since …’ She stood up. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  She went away and Stern said, ‘It seems to me that Western and Continental are being unduly zealous, Mr Kemp. I should have thought that the inquest made the situation quite clear.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Inquests have been known to be wrong. As I’m sure you know, insurance companies are regarded as fair game by a lot of otherwise legally-minded people. To cheat an insurance company is viewed as a minor infringement, like smuggling an extra bottle of booze through Customs. So they tend to be zealous as a matter of routine.’

  Stern nodded acceptance. ‘I suppose you’re right. And you have your job to do – whatever that is. But if you’re not coming to San Martin with me now, when do you want to look at the books?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow. I’ll phone first.’

  Mrs Salton came back. ‘You can see Haslam any time.’

  ‘No time like the present,’ said Stern jovially. ‘You can cross to the mainland with me. I’d like to have a word with you on the way.’

  So my plan was stymied, and Stern and I crossed to the mainland together. Whatever word he’d wanted to have with me I never found out because he didn’t tell me. I concluded that the sole aim of his manoeuvres was to make sure that I was never alone with Mrs Salton. I could have been wrong, but that was the way it worked out.

  II

  Haslam lived in a neat little house next to the airstrip. He was a tall, spare Canadian with not enough meat on his bones for his height. His eyes were a faded blue, networked around with the wrinkles of middle age, so that he gave the impression of being worried about something. Maybe he was.

  His wife was a frizzy blonde, pouchy under the eyes and burnt nearly black from too much sun so that her hair made a startling contrast to her leathery skin. And she showed a lot of skin.

  I found them sitting beside a small swimming pool behind the house. Haslam stood up as I approached. ‘Mr Kemp?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Salton said you’d be coming. She told me to tell you anything you want to know.’

  Haslam’s wife looked up at me and indicated a jug on the deck table beside her. ‘Drink, Mr Kemp? Margarita.’

  I felt the mid-afternoon sun searing my scalp and the roof of my mouth was dry. ‘It would be appreciated.’

  She got to her feet. ‘I’ll go get a glass while you talk business with Jim. Then we can all have another drink.’

  She appeared to have had too many already – the perils of a sedentary life in paradise, perhaps. I said, ‘I’ll be wanting to speak to you, too, Mrs Haslam.’

  She lifted her eyebrows. ‘Okay. Be back soon.’ She tottered unsteadily towards the house.

  I turned to Haslam and took the cane chair he indicated. ‘Suppose you tell me everything that happened just before Mr Salton died.’

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you any more than I’ve told already.’

  ‘Humour me,’ I said. ‘I’m a stranger round here.’

  So he told me, and there was nothing in his account that was any different from that of Mrs Salton. While he was speaking, his wife came back with a glass and a refilled jug, sat by the pool and poured me a drink, as well as one for herself. Haslam was not drinking. I sipped my margarita while listening to him and discovered that Mrs Haslam was uncomfortably heavy with the tequila.

  At last he finished. ‘That’s all I know, Mr Kemp.’

  From the airstrip came the sudden howl of a jet engine winding up. I said, ‘What’s happening over there?’

  ‘Les Philips is testing the engines. I’m taking her up this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, where are you going?’

  ‘No place. Just around. There are a lot of moving parts in an airplane, Mr Kemp, and if they’re left alone they get sticky. An airplane needs exercise, same as a man. She’s not been up since … since we came back from the States.’

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Maybe an hour.’

  I said, ‘I wanted to look at the plane. Maybe I’ll come with you.’

  He hesitated. ‘That’s all right with me, but maybe I’d better check with Mrs Salton.’ He broke into an embarrassed laugh. ‘It’s her airplane. I’m just the hired driver.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you ask her if it’s all right?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll do that.’ He got up and walked towards the house.

  Mrs Haslam reached for the jug and refilled her glass. ‘You wanna ask me somethin’?’ She was drinking too fast and her voice was slurred.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘On the day that Mrs Salton came up here to ask if you’d seen her husband, you told her that your husband and Mr Salton had gone into the plane and then the plane took off. Isn’t that what you said?’

  She looked at me owlishly. ‘Sure, that’s what I said.’

  ‘But it wasn’t so. Why did you say it?’

  ‘It was so, too. You making me a liar, Mr Kemp?’

  ‘I’m just trying to get things straightened out,’ I said.

  ‘It happened like I said. Mr Salton got into the airplane with Jim. The plane took off.’ She looked up. ‘But I wasn’t looking at that airplane the whole damn time.’

  I said carefully, ‘You mean that Mr Salton might have left the aircraft without you seeing him, before it took off?’

  ‘Sure.’ She drank from her glass and a dribble of liquid ran from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She dabbed it with the back of a paw.

  ‘But when it became clear that Mr Salton was missing, didn’t it occur to you to tell someone?’

  She shook her head muzzily. ‘I didn’t know David Salton was missing. And if Mrs Salton thought he was, then she kept her troubles to herself.’

  That fitted. I couldn’t see Mrs Salton confiding in a woman like this, the addled wife of her husband’s employee. Haslam called from the house. I said, ‘Excuse me,’ to Mrs Haslam and went across.

  ‘Mrs Salton would like to talk with you,’ he said, and led me inside the house to the telephone.

  I picked it up. ‘Kemp here.’

  Her voice was cool and pleasant. ‘After your flight would you like to come back to the house and make use of the pool?’

  ‘That would be very nice.’ I paused. ‘I have no trunks with me.’

  She sounded amused. ‘I think we can find something for you. In about an hour, then.’

  I put down the telephone and went back to Haslam. ‘Would you like to go right away?’ he asked.

  ‘If you’re ready,’ I said.

  He nodded abruptly and went back to the pool. He had a few words with his wife and then came back. I fell into step with him and we walked across the airstrip towards the distant hangar. He was silent and seemed to be brooding about something. At last he said, ‘Bette … my wife … She’s not usually like that. It’s just that she’s upset.’

  ‘About Mr Salton?’

  He shrugged. ‘In a way. She’s worried about me.’

  ‘I don’t see that you can be blamed for anything,’ I said.
/>
  Haslam stopped in mid-stride and turned to me. ‘It’s not that. She’s worried about my job. Mrs Salton doesn’t use the airplane much – it was his baby – and Bette thinks I may be out of a job pretty soon. She may be right, at that.’

  ‘Did you like working for Mr Salton?’

  ‘Hell, yes. He was a real nice guy. Very considerate, not like some bosses I’ve had. Wherever we went – and we went to some weird places – he always saw that the aircrew were okay before he went about his business.’

  We began to walk again, and I said, ‘How many in the crew?’

  ‘There’s me as pilot, and Les Philips. He’s the engineer and does the routine ground servicing but he has his pilot’s ticket too, so he comes along as co-pilot. I do the navigating. House servants are on board as stewards – one or two, depending on the number of passengers. And there was usually Mr Salton’s secretary.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Mrs Forsyth.’

  ‘Is she around here now?’

  Haslam shook his head. ‘She used to live here at El Cerco but she’s now working with Mr Idle in San Martin.’

  I thought of the rambling house on the island in the lagoon. ‘Does Mrs Salton now live entirely alone in the house? I mean, apart from servants.’

  Haslam looked at me consideringly for a moment, then said briefly, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  We’d been walking for several minutes and it suddenly struck me that this was an indecently large airstrip to accommodate a relatively small plane. I asked Haslam about it.

  ‘I thought the same thing when I first came here. What you have to remember is that it wasn’t built by Mr Salton. The strip predates that lagoon house by many years.’

  That surprised me. The northern tip of the island was remote by any standards, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would put a random airstrip – especially one as big as this – so far away from the island’s residential centres.

  ‘It was actually built by you Brits in the war,’ said Haslam. ‘Transport station for most of the Caribbean. The Yanks had squadrons here too. After they all shipped out, it was used occasionally for local traffic. But then Mr Salton bought it up when he moved back to the island. Now it’s just his plane that flies out of here.’