by John Kerr
‘Daddy says the British should keep fighting the Nazis even if it means moving the government to Canada,’ said Nancy unexpectedly.
‘Hah,’ said de Marigny dismissively. ‘What does the old fool know about anything? He’s just worried about his gold.’
‘I understand this fellow Ericsson’s all for peace with Germany,’ said Hamilton pleasantly. ‘Let the Nazis and the Soviets go at each other’s throats, while we in the West stay out of it.’ He briefly made eye contact with Evelyn, whose impassive expression revealed nothing.
‘I don’t know the gentleman personally,’ said de Marigny, ‘but I certainly share his point of view. You could secure an honourable peace, as we did.’
‘I hope Daddy doesn’t hear you talking this way,’ Nancy stage-whispered to her husband.
‘The dinner, as always,’ said de Marigny with a glare at his wife, ‘was fabulous, Madame Shawcross. But we must be getting home. Come along, Nancy.’ Abruptly he rose from the table.
‘Well, OK. ’Bye,’ said Nancy petulantly.
Hamilton and Evelyn walked the de Marignys to the top of the stairs and wished them goodnight. ‘An interesting pair,’ commented Hamilton, once they were down the stairs and out the front door.
‘Very,’ said Evelyn. ‘I expect there’s going to be nothing but trouble between Alfred and Sir Harry. May I interest you in a nightcap?’
Hamilton smiled. ‘I’d love nothing better.’ Once their drinks were served, he joined her by the railing overlooking the garden. He turned to look at her in the silvery moonlight that caught the facets of a sapphire pendant at her neck. A cool breeze stirred the trees, mingling the exotic fragrances of the blossoming shrubs with Evelyn’s subtle perfume. ‘Mmm,’ said Hamilton, taking a sip of his drink and fighting the impulse to put his arm around her. ‘It’s heavenly here.’
She turned toward him and, looking up into his eyes, said, ‘It’s only an illusion. Despite what you said about not caring about the war, and despite what de Marigny said about peace, there’s not going to be any peace.’
Hamilton stared into her eyes, surprised by her intensity. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not any time soon.’
‘Will you stay for awhile?’ she asked softly. ‘Here, in Nassau?’
He nodded. ‘For a while.’
‘What I said earlier wasn’t true, Tom. It is lonely here, and so many of the people are … well, you’ve seen for yourself. Will you call me again?’
‘Yes, and you can show me more of Greycliff.’ He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’d better be going.’
CHAPTER FOUR
IN COLONIAL NASSAU, the term Bay Street denoted power and influence, in reference to the complex of nineteenth-century public buildings – the House of Assembly, Colonial Secretariat, Council Chamber, and Courthouse – erected by the British on the street of that name opposite Rawson Square. And the clique of Nassau merchants who wielded the power and dispensed the influence in the chambers and cloakrooms of these public buildings was universally referred to as ‘Bay Street Boys’. Tom Hamilton hurried along the shady side of Bay Street in the oppressive morning heat, his jacket slung over his shoulder, on his way to an appointment with his solicitor. By the time he arrived at a drab building opposite the Courthouse a damp stain had formed on his shirt and his brow glistened. With a glance at his watch, he started up the stairs, aware that he was late. At the end of the second-floor corridor, Dobbs & Iverson, Solicitors was neatly stenciled on a frosted-glass door. Shrugging on his jacket, Hamilton turned the knob and let himself in.
Looking up from her cheap novel, the middle-aged receptionist gave Hamilton a prim smile and said, ‘I’ll let Mr Dobbs know you’re here.’
Harold R. Dobbs fitted what Hamilton imagined was the stereotype of the Nassau solicitor: British born and bred, a graduate of a red-brick university in Yorkshire with a degree in law who had emigrated to the Bahamas for the prospect of steady employment and the tropical climate, striving to obtain the quickest results for his clients with the least expenditure of time and effort, relying if possible on his contacts within the Bay Street regime.
‘Good morning, Hamilton,’ said Dobbs as he traipsed after his secretary into the small reception area, where his client was inspecting a framed map of the township of Nassau above a threadbare sofa. In shirtsleeves with his collar open, Dobbs was wearing old-fashioned metal armbands around his thick biceps, and his large, round face was slightly flushed in the stifling heat. ‘Let’s step into the conference room,’ he suggested, ‘where there’s a breath of air.’ Despite the wide-open windows, there was just a breath of air in the adjoining, cramped room. Dobbs smiled at Hamilton, who, with his expensive American clothes and polished manners, seemed an excellent prospect for a fat fee. ‘This is the abstract,’ said Dobbs, placing a thick, blue-bound folder on the ink-stained table. He drew back a chair and motioned to Hamilton to sit next to him. ‘The chain of title on the particular parcel,’ he explained, ‘back to the original grant from the Crown in 1763.’
Hamilton thumbed through the sheaf of legal-sized sheets, stopping to study a document at the back of the folder. ‘What is New Providence Land Co., Ltd.?’ he asked.
‘Ah,’ said Dobbs. ‘The present holder of the title. A share company organized in June of ’39, immediately prior to the conveyance of this parcel. You see, Hamilton, this forty-two-acre tract was carved out, as it were, of a much larger section of land on Hog Island.’
‘And who owns New Providence Land? Who are the shareholders?’
‘The identity of the share owners is not a matter of public record. But the registered agent is a solicitor on the third floor of this building. And’ – he paused to pat his brow with a handkerchief – ‘I happen to have obtained, confidentially of course, the names of the owners.’
Hamilton nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Who are they?’
‘As you might imagine, this particular tract, lying directly opposite the centre of town, could conceivably have value some day, if a bridge should be built across the channel.’
‘Obviously. Why do you suppose I—’
‘Oh, yes, of course. At any rate, several of the more influential Bay Street gentlemen therefore decided to purchase the tract, as a rank speculation.’
‘I see,’ said Hamilton. ‘You know these men?’
‘Yes.’ Dobbs smiled. ‘I’ve spoken to several of them, and, at the right price, considering the disastrous effect the war’s having, they would be willing sellers.’
‘Good. Were you able to get me permission to take a look around?’
‘Yes.’ Dobbs handed him an envelope. ‘A simple letter of authorization. And this,’ he said, reaching into his briefcase, ‘is a memorandum summarizing my conclusions with regard to the common law and civil ordinances. At present, of course, gambling is prohibited in the Colony.’ He handed Hamilton the typewritten document.
‘Fine,’ said Hamilton. ‘That’s all I need for now.’ He removed an envelope from his jacket and said, ‘Here’s a cheque for the first instalment of your fee.’
Hamilton hurried back to the British Colonial and placed a call to Sir Philip. Then, after double-checking the clip and action of the Beretta, he changed into his polo shirt, dungarees and canvas shoes, put the letter he’d obtained from Dobbs in his pocket, grabbed his hat and went down. Thirty minutes later, Hamilton was standing in the bright sunshine on Prince George’s Wharf as Carter motored up in the gleaming Chris Craft. Hamilton clambered down an iron ladder and vaulted onto the deck. ‘Afternoon, Mr Tom,’ said Carter. ‘Ready to go?’
‘It’s just Tom,’ said Hamilton with a smile. ‘No mister. And yes, I’m ready.’
‘OK, Tom,’ said Carter as he glanced over his shoulder and backed out of the slip. Cruising below planing speed, they chugged around the end of the wharf and crossed the narrow channel separating Hog Island from Nassau. Hamilton studied the shoreline. ‘It shouldn’t be much of a problem to build a bridge,’
he commented. ‘How deep is the channel?’
‘Oh, not more than forty feet,’ said Carter. ‘But deep enough for deep-draught shipping.’ Carter steered the boat alongside a tumbledown pier. Switching off the engine as Hamilton fastened a line to the pier, Carter said, ‘I brought along some rubber boots, Tom. We’ll need ’em.’ After both men pulled on their boots and climbed onto the pier, Hamilton took a rolled-up document from his jacket and spread it on the weathered boards.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘here we are,’ tapping a finger on the survey. ‘If we walk about three hundred yards north-east, we should reach the boundary. There’s supposed to be a surveyor’s stake.’
Carter, standing above Hamilton with his hands on his hips, frowned and said, ‘There ain’t much to see on this side of the island. Just marshland. What is it, exactly, that you’re looking for?’
Hamilton squinted up into the sun and smiled. ‘We’re not looking for anything, Carter, but hopefully, someone’s looking for us.’
They started across the open ground, picking their way around the larger brambles and thorny shrubs. Compared to the interior of the island, it was more of a bog or slough, with standing water and mud that sucked at their boots. It was slow going with the sun at its zenith and, by the time they found the surveyor’s stake, both men’s faces were streaming. Further inland, the vegetation was denser, with low trees and brush that limited visibility to a few yards. ‘Should’ve brought a machete,’ muttered Hamilton as he struggled to free himself from thorns. Carter abruptly dropped to one knee and placed a finger to his lips. Hamilton detected both movement and indistinct colour and then caught a glimpse of a horse and heard men’s muffled voices. Motioning to Carter, Hamilton said loudly: ‘This must be the property line. Let’s head back to the boat.’
A man riding a tall chestnut mare suddenly appeared, trotting up within several yards of them. Two others followed on foot, one with a German shepherd straining on a leash. They were wearing the same khaki uniform with military caps Hamilton had observed in the guard tower. The man on horseback carried a carbine, and the others had revolvers holstered on webbed belts. Reining in the horse, the man motioned to Hamilton with his carbine and barked, ‘Hands over your heads!’ The other two raced up, barely able to restrain the dog, who pawed the air, baring his teeth.
Hamilton and Carter stood motionless with their hands up. After a moment, Hamilton said calmly, ‘You’re trespassing.’
‘What?’ demanded the man. ‘What did you say?’
Hamilton debated whether the accent was Swedish or German. The close-cropped hair under his cap was light blond. ‘I said, you’re trespassing,’ repeated Hamilton. ‘And put down that goddamn rifle.’ He studied the insignia on the man’s collar.
‘You are the one who’s trespassing,’ said the rider with a sneer. ‘You and your friend can be shot for this, you know. Tie them up,’ he said to his confederates.
‘Was haben sie gesagt?’ said Hamilton in his best German. Carter gave him a curious look.
The mounted guard glared. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in heavily accented English, slinging the carbine on his shoulder and keeping a tight rein on his horse.
‘I’m Tom Hamilton, and you’re trespassing on property that belongs to the New Providence Land Company. Here …’ He reached into his pocket for the letter and handed it to the rider.
Quickly scanning it, the guard uttered an incomprehensible expletive and stuffed the letter into his shirt pocket. ‘Tie them up,’ he repeated to the others. As one of the men took a step toward them, the dog lunged at Carter with a vicious bark, causing the nervous horse to rear up. In the momentary confusion, Hamilton seized his opportunity, grabbing the Beretta from his waistband and taking aim at the nearest guard.
‘OK,’ said Hamilton, shifting his aim to the man struggling to control his horse. ‘That’s better.’ Carter dropped his hands to his sides, where he patted the knife concealed in his pocket. The men slowly retreated, pulling the dog with them, while the rider tightened the reins, backing the jittery mare. ‘Now,’ said Hamilton, lowering the pistol, ‘go back and tell Mr Ericsson I’m planning to buy this property. And I’ll be over here to take a look around whenever I feel like it.’
‘All right,’ said the rider with a smile. ‘Sehr gut. I will convey your message. But next time … I would be more careful.’ With a jerk of the reins, he rode into the thicket.
‘Are you all right?’ Hamilton asked Carter.
After expelling a long sigh, Carter grinned and said, ‘You were mighty handy with that pistol. I always was scared of big dogs.’
‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
Following a hot shower, Hamilton dressed in a sports shirt and slacks and headed down to hail a jitney for Cable Beach. By the time Henry served him his ice-cold martini on the terrace, he was feeling utterly relaxed. Marnie sat next to Sir Philip with her hand on his arm.
‘Well, Tom,’ she said, ‘to hear Carter tell the story, that was a close call with those guards.’
‘You’re sure they’re Germans?’ asked Sir Philip.
‘Well, they were speaking German.’
Sir Philip motioned to Henry, standing in the shadows. ‘A drink, darling?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have a Bellini,’ said Marnie. Hamilton gave her a curious look. ‘You should try one. From that bar in Venice, made with fresh peach.’
‘Harry’s,’ said Sir Philip. ‘At any rate, Mr Hamilton, you got your message across.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Hamilton, ‘is why the Royal Navy doesn’t pay a friendly call on our Swedish friend? Cruise right up into this Hurricane Hole of his and see what’s up?’
‘Ah,’ said Sir Philip, ‘perhaps I failed to explain. Ericsson is on very close terms with the duke and duchess. The duke admires the man greatly. The royal couple have been guests on Ericsson’s yacht, the Northern Lights, an exceptionally large and luxurious vessel, including a well-publicized cruise to Miami. Under the circumstances, the local naval commander – an admirer of the duke – wouldn’t dare do anything that might offend Ericsson.’
‘Ericsson,’ said Marnie, ‘and old Sir Harry Oakes, despite being such a boor, are the only folk on the island who measure up to the duke’s standards.’
‘Well, then,’ said Hamilton, ‘I suppose I’ll have to get to the bottom of this by myself. And, if you can spare him, with the help of your man Carter.’
‘He’s at your service,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Tell me, Mr Hamilton, how you’re getting along with Mrs Shawcross?’
‘I had a pleasant evening at Greycliff,’ said Hamilton as he reached for his martini. ‘It would have been perfect if it hadn’t been for de Marigny and his child-bride.’
‘That poor, silly girl,’ said Marnie.
‘I don’t know why Evelyn invited them,’ said Hamilton. ‘It was obvious she can’t stand them, unless it was to smoke me out.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sir Philip.
‘Use de Marigny to question what I’m doing here. Why I’m not off fighting in the war.’
‘I see,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Did the tactic succeed?’
‘I suppose. He asked me about it, and I gave him the usual answer. De Marigny seemed not to mind, since he thinks we should make a deal with Hitler, like the Vichy.’
‘What about Evelyn? What are her views?’
‘I’m not sure. She listened carefully to de Marigny, but didn’t comment, except to tell me later that she thinks peace with the Germans is – what did she call it? An illusion.’
‘What else were you able to learn about her?’ asked Sir Philip.
‘Oh, that’s she’s a gifted pianist, and lonely here all by herself, though she doesn’t seem to feel much for her husband, who’s a staff officer in Cairo. She mentioned that her parents are coming out for Christmas. She wants to see me again.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ said Marnie. ‘You better watch out.’ Hamilton responded with a smile.
‘Her pare
nts are traveling to Washington, according to my sources,’ said Sir Philip, ‘where they’ll be the guests of the ambassador, Lord Halifax. Thence to Nassau, I assume. Before the war, they wintered here, at Greycliff.’
‘So she said,’ said Hamilton.
‘See Evelyn again,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Get close to her, and see what you can glean about the attitude of the duke and Halifax as regards the war. And as regards your Swedish friend, Ericsson.’
‘All right,’ said Hamilton. ‘I will. And Marnie – don’t worry about me.’
Days passed without any luck in Hamilton’s attempts to contact Evelyn Shawcross; languid days in the torpid rhythm of wartime Nassau, swims with Marnie on Cable Beach followed by lunches on the terrace with Sir Philip, and another meeting with the solicitor Dobbs, keeping up appearances as an indolent young man pursuing his Hog Island real estate speculation. He cabled his contact in Washington: BUSINESS PROSPECTS DEVELOPING MORE SLOWLY THAN ANTICIPATED STOP. Samuel, the Greycliff servant who answered the telephone, reported simply that ‘Miz Shawcross’ was ‘away’, expected to return in several days. It was thus a pleasant surprise when Evelyn answered Hamilton’s morning telephone call. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘I was hoping you’d call. I’ve been out of town for the past several days. You must come for lunch and a swim.’
Hamilton elected to walk up from the hotel, pausing after several blocks to take in the panoramic view of the town and waterfront. After weeks of warm sunshine, thunderstorms had rumbled across the island in the pre-dawn darkness, leaving behind a high layer of thin clouds and a fresh northerly breeze with a distinct chill. He wondered whether he’d have any use for his bathing suit as he strolled past the fortifications surrounding Government House, the black cannons of which were sited on the approaches to the harbour. Turning the corner, he walked the final block, arriving at Greycliff’s dark green front door precisely at half past noon.
