by John Kerr
Hamilton had invited the solicitor Dobbs to meet him for a drink at George’s Tavern, a favourite of the legal establishment located around the corner from the sailors’ dives on Bay Street. As he entered the dimly lit bar, Hamilton noticed a small, pitiful Christmas tree in the corner, fashioned from a native pine and decorated with tinsel and shiny red ornaments, while the ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ played on a radio somewhere in the back. Choosing a booth by the half-curtained window, he considered the general seediness of the place; the stained carpets, split-open cushions on the barstools, and pall of cigarette smoke. A middle-aged waitress with sagging upper arms slowly walked over and, with an expression of infinite boredom, asked him what he’d like to drink. Thinking decent whisky might take his mind off the squalor, he ordered a Scotch. Moments after she returned with his drink, the bell over the entrance jingled, and Harold Dobbs appeared in the doorway. Pausing to clap a fat hand on the shoulder of a fellow solicitor, he quickly scanned the establishment and walked over to the booth.
‘There you are, Hamilton,’ said Dobbs in a voice loud enough for the table of men at the back to overhear, ‘having a bit of Christmas cheer, I see.’
Hamilton gave Dobbs a tight-lipped smile and said, ‘Have a seat.’ Dobbs squeezed into the booth and made a funny face at the waitress with a gesture she apparently comprehended, as she appeared in a moment with a frosted mug of beer.
Lifting his glass, Hamilton said, ‘Cheers.’
Dobbs hoisted his mug and took a swallow, leaving a ribbon of foam above his lip. ‘Well, Mr Hamilton,’ he said, ‘I’ve ascertained some rather interesting information.’
Hamilton noticed out of the corner of his eye that a man at the bar was paying close attention, as were several others at a nearby table. ‘Good,’ said Hamilton. ‘Were you able to contact the owners and let them know what I’m prepared to offer?’
‘I spoke to Jennings.’ Dobbs paused to listen to the throaty exhaust of an approaching motorcycle and rose from his seat to watch as a gleaming black sedan shot past, Union Jacks fluttering on the fenders. ‘Blimey,’ exclaimed Dobbs. ‘It’s the guv’nor!’ Hamilton noticed that several other patrons also rose to catch a glimpse of the duke’s Rolls Royce. After clearing his throat and taking another slosh of beer, Dobbs continued, ‘Mason Jennings, who owns the haberdashery. Decent chap, with a good head for business. Jennings is the key man.’
Hamilton sipped his drink and said, ‘What did Jennings have to say?’
‘I advised him that you were prepared to offer five thousand dollars.’
‘And?’ Hamilton took another sip.
‘Well, here’s the interesting bit. Jennings says, why that’s a very good offer, especially with the effect the war’s having. Bloody disaster for the merchants on Bay Street,’ said Dobbs with a thoughtful look.
Hamilton nodded and said, ‘Yes, I’m sure, but what did he say?’
‘It’s a good price,’ resumed Dobbs, ‘but, says Jennings, it won’t clear the mortgage. Mortgage? I said. What mortgage? I’ve searched the title, and I assure you there’s no mortgage of record on that piece of property.’ Hamilton could feel eyes all around boring in on them.
‘Go on,’ said Hamilton in a low voice.
‘Well, says Jennings, we’d be prepared to sell your client this parcel subject to the mortgage, plus a small cash consideration.’
‘OK,’ said Hamilton, ‘and what’s the balance on this unrecorded mortgage?’
‘Well, Jennings reached into his desk and produced the document, a mortgage securing payment of a note for twenty thousand pounds. Why, that’s over a hundred thousand dollars!’
‘I can do the math,’ said Hamilton irritably. ‘Hold on a minute, Harold. That’s ridiculous. Nobody in his right mind would pay a hundred thousand bucks for that piece of swampland, with no access from Nassau. Or loan a hundred thousand with that property as collateral.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Dobbs.
‘Surely they don’t think I’d pay a dime for it, subject to that mortgage?’
‘Well,’ said Dobbs, giving his chin a contemplative rub, ‘I honestly don’t know. Jennings made a point of drawing my attention to the name of the mortgage holder, Lake Shore Mining, Ltd. Jennings seemed to place some emphasis on the name.’
‘I see,’ said Hamilton, increasingly exasperated. ‘Let me think this over.’ He reached for his wallet and counted out several bills. ‘That should cover it,’ he said as he slid from the booth. ‘Merry Christmas, Harold. I’ll be in touch.’
The more Hamilton thought about it as he walked along Bay Street the more bizarre Dobbs’s story seemed. A group of local merchants, so-called Bay Street Boys who evidently ran things in the Colony, mortgaged a piece of swampland for more than ten times what it was worth? Some sort of game was obviously being played, but what? In any case, his plan to buy the property for a song was out the window. And with all the lawyers and courthouse scouts in that bar, it wouldn’t be long before word was all over town. Glancing at his watch, he realized he’d have just enough time to change before dinner with the Sassoons. Perhaps Sir Philip could unravel the mystery.
The clerk at the front desk called out to him as he hurried past. Hamilton walked over and accepted a cream-coloured envelope, addressed to Mr Thomas R. Hamilton in blue-black ink. Hmm, he thought, as he stuffed it in his coat pocket and started for the lifts. Half an hour later, he strode through the lobby to the portico where he hailed a jitney. Another band of rain showers had passed from the mainland, streaking the sky fiery orange as the taxi turned into the drive at Eves. Hamilton listened to the rain dripping from the palm fronds as he strolled the wet flagstones to the front door where Annie was waiting.
‘Evenin’,’ she said with a smile. ‘Sir Philip’s in his study.’
Hamilton considered Sir Philip’s fondness for his book-lined study, which he was able to reach by a lift. As he passed through the living room, Marnie emerged from the hallway. ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said with a smile. ‘Don’t you look handsome.’
‘And you look terrific, as usual,’ he replied, letting his eyes fall from her brown eyes to her low-cut black cocktail dress, where a brilliant yellow diamond was suspended on a gold chain.
She leaned over, placed a hand on his arm and kissed him lightly. ‘Tell me,’ she said quietly, ‘you’re not falling for that Englishwoman?’
‘My God, she’s married. Besides, it’s none of your business….’
‘I knew it.’ She shook her head, giving her blonde curls a bounce. ‘I could tell that first night you were here.’
‘Now, Marnie,’ said Hamilton reproachfully.
‘Listen to me, Tom,’ she said, gazing into his grey eyes. ‘Use her. Do whatever you have to do to get what you’re after. But don’t fall for her.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself.’
‘Maybe,’ she said sceptically. ‘But I’ve known women like Evelyn, and I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘OK,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Sir Philip was in his favourite armchair with his pipe and a volume of Kipling’s barracks verse. ‘Come in, darling,’ he said, closing his book. ‘Hello, Tom.’
Hamilton sat beside Marnie on the sofa and said, ‘Any news from London?’
‘Yes, and most of it quite depressing. Shipping losses to these packs of U-boats have been dreadful. And with the success they’ve had sinking tankers coming out of the Gulf, our oil supplies are in real jeopardy. Now, Tom, how have you been getting along?’
‘Getting along just fine with Milady Shawcross,’ said Marnie tartly.
‘Well, I did manage to see her again,’ said Hamilton. ‘And I’m sure I have her confidence. But, frankly, I think she’s just a bored and lonely woman who doesn’t have much interest in the war.’
‘The most dangerous variety,’ said Marnie under her breath.
‘Perhaps you can gain some notion, through Mrs Shawcross, of the duke’s views,�
�� suggested Sir Philip.
‘It looks like I’m going to be meeting the old boy.’ He reached into his pocket for an envelope. ‘An invitation,’ he said, removing it from the envelope, ‘to dinner and dancing at Government House, on Saturday, the 18th. From His Royal Highness, the Duke of Windsor, and the Duchess—’
‘Her Royal Lowness,’ interjected Marnie.
‘Black tie, naturally,’ said Hamilton. ‘I’m escorting Mrs Shawcross.’
‘Shocking,’ said Marnie. ‘I’m sure she cleared it with Wallis, who’s bound to sympathize with the plight of a married woman.’
Sir Philip smiled. ‘Well, Tom, that’s excellent. The duke and duchess’s Christmas ball is the talk of the town.’
‘I’ll have to hurry,’ said Hamilton. ‘OSS is pulling me out of here.’
‘Why?’ said Sir Philip. A disappointed look crossed Marnie’s face.
‘Donovan wants to send me to South America. It seems that Ericsson has been active in Peru. We need to find out what he’s up to.’
‘But what about your scheme to buy the land on Hog Island?’ asked Sir Philip.
‘That’s the damnedest thing,’ said Hamilton. ‘When my solicitor approached the owners, he discovered there’s a mortgage on the property for twenty thousand pounds.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Sir Philip. He paused to knock out his pipe on the heel of his hand.
‘The leader of the group,’ said Hamilton, ‘some shop owner in town, had the nerve to offer me the property subject to the mortgage, plus some cash. What do you suppose is going on? I can’t figure it out.’
‘Did your solicitor learn the identity of the holder of the mortgage?’
‘Some outfit called Lake Shore Mining, Ltd.’
‘Well, then,’ said Sir Philip. ‘That explains it.’
‘Explains it?’ said Hamilton. ‘Explains what?’
‘It’s Oakes,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Up to one of his usual games.’ When Hamilton responded with a perplexed look, Sir Philip explained. ‘Lake Shore Mining is one of Oakes’s holding companies. The name refers to his gold strike in Canada. These local men are obviously his front men.’
Hamilton exchanged a glance with Marnie, who seemed unsurprised by her husband’s astuteness. ‘But why twenty thousand pounds?’ asked Hamilton. ‘No one would pay a fraction of that amount—’
‘Precisely,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Oakes wants to make sure no one else acquires the property. Nor does he want it known that he’s the owner. So he arranges for these local men to hold the title, while he takes an unrecorded mortgage. Thus, anyone wanting the property – including yourself – eventually has to come to terms with Oakes. Rather ingenious.’
‘Very,’ said Hamilton dejectedly.
‘Well, cheer up,’ said Sir Philip with a smile. ‘You still have the Christmas ball to look forward to.’
‘True,’ said Hamilton. ‘And before leaving Nassau, I intend to get a close-up look at Hurricane Hole.’
CHAPTER SIX
THE PROSPECT OF meeting the Duke of Windsor and the woman whose charms were such that he’d surrendered the crown for them gave Tom Hamilton an adolescent thrill. Or perhaps, he considered, as he studied his reflection in the mirror while he worked on his bow tie, his mood of expectancy was due more to the thought of another evening with Evelyn Shawcross. Satisfied with his tie, he put on his dinner jacket and slipped the car keys in his pocket.
Sir Philip’s Bentley convertible was parked in the hotel drive. As Hamilton walked out of the lobby, the Bahamian doorman was slowly circling the vehicle, gazing admiringly at its dark-red leather upholstery and sensuous curves. ‘Nice automobile,’ he said as he opened the driver’s door.
Slipping the doorman a note, Hamilton said, ‘I’m just borrowing it for a date.’ He turned the key, pleased by the deep, throaty rumble of the V-12 engine and swung out into the cool December evening. Government House stood alone at the top of the hill in a blaze of celebratory lights, from the chandelier above the fanlight on the portico to the lamps burning in the windows along the upper floors. Turning at the corner, Hamilton pulled up to a stop in front of Greycliff, leaving the engine running as he walked up to the front door. No sooner had he rung the bell, Evelyn appeared with a smile, wearing the same blue chiffon dress she’d worn to the Sassoons’ dinner party, with a blue moiré stole over her bare shoulders.
‘Evening, madam,’ said Hamilton as he took her arm. ‘All ready for the ball?’
With a glance the Bentley, she said, ‘My, I feel a bit like Cinderella.’
‘Swell, isn’t it?’ said Hamilton, as they started down the walk. ‘I thought we’d make a grand entrance.’ Compared with the lacklustre black sedans and jitney cabs in the queue at Government House, the Bentley convertible seemed grand indeed as Hamilton turned into the sweeping drive. As they queued up, Hamilton looked over at Evelyn and said, ‘I’d better get a few things straight. How does one address the duke?’
Evelyn smiled. ‘Despite the fact that he’s only a duke,’ she explained, ‘he was the king, and therefore you should say, “your royal highness,” with a bow.’
‘And the duchess?’
‘Simply “your grace”, or “Duchess”. I’m told the duke wasn’t very happy about that, thinking she was entitled to a curtsy and “your highness”, but the authorities in London were very firm.’
‘I see.’ Hamilton drove under the chandelier on the portico.
‘Welcome, ma’am,’ said the elaborately liveried doorman as he opened the door for Evelyn.
Hamilton took Evelyn by the arm and led her up a red carpet into the marble foyer, which was crowded with men and women in formal attire, buzzing with excitement at the prospect of meeting the duke and duchess. The staircase was festooned with garlands of holly, tied in red ribbons, and a string quartet in the corner played ‘Greensleeves’. Evelyn nodded politely to the couple standing nearest them, who glanced at Hamilton with a curious but disapproving expression.
When their turn came at the top of the stairs, Evelyn handed a card to a tall British sergeant in a dress Cameron kilt, who announced, ‘Mrs Evelyn Shawcross, and Mr Thomas Hamilton.’
Taking Evelyn by the arm, Hamilton walked up to the handsome former king, who, like his guests, was attired in evening dress, and the attractive woman at his side, bowed and said, ‘Good evening, your royal highness.’ Turning to the duchess, he smiled and added, ‘Your grace.’
The duke shook Hamilton’s hand stiffly and then leaned over to kiss Evelyn on the cheek. ‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ he said with a smile.
‘Your highness,’ replied Evelyn with a graceful bow.
‘Evelyn, you look terrific,’ said the duchess, taking her by the hand. ‘I love your hair.’ Turning toward Hamilton, she said, ‘I’m so glad you were able to come.’
‘Why, thanks,’ said Hamilton. ‘It was nice of you to include me.’ He looked briefly at the duchess, who was wearing a lavender décolletage evening gown with an exceptional sapphire and diamond necklace around her swan-like neck. Feeling a gentle tug on his arm as the next couple in line was announced, Hamilton walked with Evelyn across the fine old parquet toward the centre of the elegant ballroom, where a group of men and women were clustered beneath a crystal chandelier. Scanning the room, he located the bar and said, ‘I could use a drink. What can I get you?’
‘Oh,’ said Evelyn, ‘champagne, if it’s decent.’
By the time Hamilton returned, Evelyn was deep in conversation with a tall, distinguished-looking man. ‘There you are,’ said Hamilton, handing Evelyn her glass.
‘Tom,’ she said, ‘meet Alastair Mackintosh, an old friend.’
‘Good evening,’ said Mackintosh, as he shook hands.
‘Tom’s a real estate speculator,’ said Evelyn, ‘and an oilman.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Mackintosh, giving Hamilton an appraising look. ‘With the war, I shouldn’t think there would be much worth speculating on in Nassau.’
‘You’d be
surprised,’ said Hamilton.
An elderly woman, slightly stooped and wearing a black silk gown, walked up and placed a gloved hand on Evelyn’s arm. ‘Evelyn, my dear,’ she said in a Southern accent that surprised Hamilton, ‘you look gorgeous. And who’s this handsome man you’ve brought with you?’
‘Tom Hamilton,’ said Evelyn, ‘who’s visiting from Texas. Tom, this is Mrs Bessie Merryman.’
‘Evening, Mrs Merryman,’ said Hamilton with a polite nod.
‘Just call me Aunt Bessie,’ she said. ‘Everybody else does.’
‘Bessie is the duchess’s aunt,’ explained Evelyn. With Evelyn’s grace and beauty, and her ties to their royal host, Hamilton sensed they were attracting a crowd. He turned as Georges de Videlou strode up and, with one hand on the back of Evelyn’s gown, lightly kissed her cheek.
‘Madame Shawcross,’ he said theatrically. ‘Bon soir.’
Moments later they were joined by the de Marignys. At 6’ 5”, the debonair Frenchman towered over his young wife and stood holding her hand as if escorting a schoolgirl across a busy road. ‘’Allo, Tom,’ said Alfred cheerfully, clapping Hamilton on the shoulder.
Hamilton noticed that Aunt Bessie seemed to recoil at the arrival of the two Frenchmen. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Nancy,’ he said to the young Mrs de Marigny, who responded with a blush and awkward smile.
‘Tom,’ said Evelyn, ‘there’s someone I want you to meet.’
‘Excuse us,’ said Hamilton. He followed Evelyn across the room where several middle-aged couples were gathered around an imposing, broad-shouldered man with a round, pink face and carefully parted silver hair, speaking in heavily accented English.
‘And you see,’ he was saying, ‘there is truly a benefit to your interests here in Nassau from the economic development of the Out Islands— Oh, it’s Mrs Shawcross,’ he said with a wide smile as Evelyn walked up to him. He took her by the hands and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Nils,’ said Evelyn, ‘Let me introduce Tom Hamilton, from the United States.’ Hamilton stepped forward and shook hands, surprised by the older man’s powerful grip.
