The Cry of the Halidon

by Robert Ludlum

  “Why?”

  “Because he was here. I talked with him.”

  “Do tell.”

  She did.

  Alison had finished sorting out research notes she had prepared for the north coast, and was about to take her shower, when she heard a rapid knocking from Alex’s room. Thinking it was one of their party, Alison opened her own door and looked out in the corridor. A tall, thin man in a white Palm Beach suit seemed startled at her appearance. It was an awkward moment for both. Alison volunteered that she had heard the knocking and knew McAuliff was out; would the gentleman care to leave a message?

  “He seemed very nervous. He stuttered slightly, and said he’d been trying to reach you since eleven o’clock. He asked if he could trust me. Would I speak only to you? He was really quite upset. I invited him into my room, but he said no, he was in a hurry. Then he blurted it out. He had news of a man named Sam Tucker. Isn’t he the American who’s to join us here?”

  Alex did not bother to conceal his alarm. He bolted from his reclining position and stood up. “What about Tucker?”

  “He didn’t go into it. Just that he had word from him or about him. He wasn’t really clear.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me on the phone?”

  “He asked me not to. He said I was to tell you when I saw you, not over the telephone. He implied that you’d be angry, but you should get in touch with him before you went to anyone else. Then he left. Alex, what the hell was he talking about?”

  McAuliff did not answer; he was on his way to her telephone. He picked up the receiver, glanced at the connecting door, and quickly replaced the phone. He walked rapidly to the open door, closed it, and returned to the telephone. He gave the Sheraton’s number and waited.

  “Mr. Piersall, room fifty-one, please.”

  The interim of silence was infuriating to McAuliff. It was broken by the soothing tones of a subdued English voice, asking first the identity of the caller and then whether the caller was a friend or, perhaps, a relative of Dr. Piersall’s. Upon hearing Alex’s replies, the unctuous voice continued, and as it did so, McAuliff remembered a cold night on a Soho street outside The Owl of Saint George. And the flickering of a neon light that saved his life and condemned his would-be killer to death.

  Dr. Walter Piersall had been involved in a terrible, tragic accident.

  He had been run down by a speeding automobile in a Kingston street.

  He was dead.

  12

  Walter Piersall, American, Ph.D., anthropologist, student of the Caribbean, author of a definitive study on Jamaica’s first known inhabitants, the Arawak Indians, and the owner of a house called High Hill near Carrick Foyle in the parish of Trelawny.

  That was the essence of the information supplied by the Ministry’s Mr. Latham.

  “A tragedy, Mr. McAuliff. He was an honored man, a titled man. Jamaica will miss him greatly.”

  “Miss him! Who killed him, Mr. Latham?”

  “As I understand it, there is very little to go on: the vehicle sped away, the description is contradictory.”

  “It was broad daylight, Mr. Latham.”

  There was a pause on Latham’s part. “I know, Mr. McAuliff. What can I say? You are an American; he was an American. I am Jamaican, and the terrible thing took place on a Kingston street. I grieve deeply for several reasons. And I did not know the man.”

  Latham’s sincerity carried over the wire. Alex lowered his voice. “You say ‘the terrible thing.’ Do you mean more than an accident?”

  “No. There was no robbery, no mugging. It was an accident. No doubt brought on by rum and inactivity. There is a great deal of both in Kingston, Mr. McAuliff. The men … or children who committed the crime are undoubtedly well into the hills now. When the rum wears off, the fear will take its place; they will hide. The Kingston police are not gentle.”

  “I see.” McAuliff was tempted to bring up the name of Sam Tucker, but he held himself in check. He had told Latham only that Piersall had left a message for him. He would say no more for the time being. “Well, if there’s anything I can do …”

  “Piersall was a widower, he lived alone in Carrick Foyle. The police said they were getting in touch with a brother in Cambridge, Massachusetts.… Do you know why he was calling you?”

  “No idea.”

  “A great deal of your survey will take place in Trelawny Parish. Perhaps he had heard and was offering you hospitality.”

  “Perhaps … Mr. Latham, is it logical that he would know about the survey?” Alex listened intently to Latham’s reply. Again, Hammond: Learn to spot the small things.

  “Logical? What is logical in Jamaica, Mr. McAuliff? It is poorly kept secret that the Ministry—with the gracious help of our former mother country—is undertaking an overdue scientific evaluation. A secret poorly kept is not really much of a secret. Perhaps it is not logical that Dr. Piersall knew; it is certainly possible, however.”

  No hesitations, no overly quick responses, no rehearsed words.

  “Then I guess that’s what he was calling about. I’m sorry.”

  “I grieve.” Again Latham paused; it was not for effect. “Although it may seem improper, Mr. McAuliff, I should like to discuss the business between us.”

  “Of course. Go ahead.”

  “All of the survey permits came in late this morning … less than twenty-four hours. It generally takes the best part of a week.”

  The processing was unusual, but Alex had come to expect the unusual with Dunstone, Limited. The normal barriers fell with abnormal ease. Unseen expediters were everywhere, doing the bidding of Julian Warfield.

  Latham said that the Ministry had anticipated more, rather than less, difficulty, as the survey team would be entering the territory of the Cock Pit, miles of uninhabited country—jungle, really. Escorts were required, guides trained in the treacherous environs. And arrangements had to be made with the recognized descendants of the Maroon people, who, by a treaty of 1739, controlled much of the territory. An arrogant, warlike people, brought to the islands as slaves, the Maroons knew the jungles far better than their white captors. The British sovereign, George the First, had offered the Maroons their independence, with a treaty that guaranteed the Cock Pit territories in perpetuity. It was a wiser course than continuing bloodshed. Besides, the territory was considered unfit for colonial habitation.

  For over 235 years that treaty was often scoffed at but never violated, said Latham. Formal permission was still sought by Kingston from the “Colonel of the Maroons” for all those who wished to enter their lands. The Ministry was no exception.

  Yet the Ministry, thought McAuliff, was in reality Dunstone, Limited. So permissions were granted, permits obtained with alacrity.

  “Your equipment was air-freighted to Boscobel,” said Latham. “Trucks will transport it to the initial point of the survey.”

  “Then I’ll leave tomorrow afternoon or, at the latest, early the next day. I’ll be hiring out of Ocho Rios; the others can follow when I’m finished. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”

  “Your escort-guides, we call them ‘runners,’ will be available in two weeks. You will not have any need for them until then, will you? I assume you will be working the coast to begin with.”

  “Two weeks’11 be fine.… I’d like a choice of runners, please.”

  “There are not that many to choose from, Mr. McAuliff. It is not a career that appeals to many young people; the ranks are thinning. But I shall do what I can.”

  “Thank you. May I have the approved maps in the morning?”

  “They will be sent to your hotel by ten o’clock. Good-bye, Mr. McAuliff. And again, my deeply felt regrets over Dr. Piersall.”

  “I didn’t know him either, Mr. Latham,” said Alex. “Good-bye.”

  He did not know Piersall, thought McAuliff, but he had heard the name Carrick Foyle, Piersall’s village. He could not remember where he had heard it, only that it was familiar.

  Alex re
placed the telephone and looked over at Alison, on the small balcony. She had been watching him, listening, and she could not conceal her fear. A thin, nervous man in a white Palm Beach suit had told her—less than two hours ago—that he had confidential information, and now he was dead.

  The late afternoon sun was a Caribbean orange, the shadows shafts of black across the miniature balcony. Behind her was the deep green of the high palms, behind them the awesome rise of the mountain range. Alison Booth seemed to be framed within a tableau of chiaroscuro tropic colors. As though she were a target.

  “He said it was an accident.” Alex walked slowly to the balcony doors. “Everyone’s upset. Piersall was liked on the island. Apparently, there’s a lot of drunken hit-and-runs in Kingston.”

  “And you don’t believe him for an instant.”

  “I didn’t say that.” He lighted a cigarette; he did not want to look at her.

  “You don’t have to. You didn’t say one word about your friend Tucker, either. Why not?”

  “Common sense. I want to talk to the police, not an associate director of the Ministry. All he can do is babble and create confusion.”

  “Then let’s go to the police.” Alison rose from the deck chair. “I’ll go get dressed.”

  “No!” McAuliff realized as he said the word that he was too emphatic. “I mean, I’ll go. I don’t want you involved.”

  “I spoke to the man. You didn’t.”

  “I’ll relay the information.”

  “They won’t accept it from you. Why should they hear it secondhand?”

  “Because I say so.” Alex turned away, ostensibly to find an ashtray. He was not convincing, and he knew it. “Listen to me, Alison.” He turned back. “Our permits came in. Tomorrow I’m going to Ocho Rios to hire drivers and carriers; you people will follow in a couple of days. While I’m gone I don’t want you—or any member of the team—involved with the police or anybody else. Our job here is the survey. That’s my responsibility; you’re my responsibility. I don’t want delays.”

  She walked down the single step, out of the frame of color, and stood in front of him. “You’re a dreadful liar, Alex. Dreadful in the sense that you’re quite poor at it.”

  “I’m going to the police now. Afterwards, if it’s not too late, I may drop over to the Ministry and see Latham. I was a little rough with him.”

  “I thought you ended on a very polite note.”

  It was Alison who spotted Hammond’s small things, thought McAuliff. She was better than he was. “You only heard me. You didn’t hear him.… If I’m not back by seven, why not call the Jensens and have dinner with them? I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  “The Jensens aren’t here.”

  “What?”

  “Relax. I called them for lunch. They left word at the desk that since it was a day off, they were touring. Port Royal, Spanish Town, Old Harbour. The manager set up their tour.”

  “I hope they enjoy themselves.”

  He told the driver that he wanted a half hour’s tour of the city. He had thirty minutes to kill before cocktails in Duke Street—he’d spot the restaurant; he didn’t know the specific address—so the driver could do his imaginative best within the time span.

  The driver protested: thirty minutes was barely sufficient to reach Duke Street from the Courtleigh in the afternoon traffic. McAuliff shrugged and replied that the time was not absolute.

  It was precisely what the driver wanted to hear. He drove out Trafalgar, south on Lady Musgrave, into Old Hope Road. He extolled the commercial virtues of New Kingston, likening the progress to Olympian feats of master planning. The words droned on, filled with idiomatic exaggerations of the “alla time big American millions” that were turning the tropical and human overgrowth that was Kingston into a Caribbean financial mecca. It was understood that the millions would be German or English or French, depending on the accent of the passenger.

  It didn’t matter. Within minutes, McAuliff knew that the driver knew he was not listening. He was staring out the rear window, watching the traffic behind them.

  It was there.

  A green Chevrolet sedan, several years old. It stayed two to three cars behind, but whenever the taxi turned or sped ahead of other vehicles, the green Chevrolet did the same.

  The driver saw it too.

  “You got trouble, mon?”

  There was no point in lying. “I don’t know.”

  “I know, mon. Lousy green car be’n d’ere all time. It stay in big parking lot at Courtleigh Manor. Two block sons of a bitch drivin’.”

  McAuliff looked at the driver. The Jamaican’s last statement triggered his memory of Robert Hanley’s words from Montego Bay. Two black men picked up Sam’s things. Alex knew the connection was far-fetched, coincidental at best in a black country, but it was all he had to go on. “You can earn twenty dollars, friend,” he said quickly to the driver, “if you can do two things.”

  “You tell me, mon!”

  “First, let the green car get close enough so I can read the license plate, and when I’ve got it, lose them. Can you do that?”

  “You watch, mon!” The Jamaican swung the wheel to the right; the taxi veered briefly into the right lane, narrowly missing an oncoming bus, then lurched back into the left, behind a Volkswagen. McAuliff crouched against the seat, his head pressed to the right of the rear window. The green Chevrolet duplicated the taxi’s movements, taking up a position two cars behind.

  Suddenly the cabdriver accelerated again, passing the Volks and speeding ahead to a traffic light that flashed the yellow caution signal. He swung the car into the left intersection; Alex read the street sign and the wording on the large shield-shaped sign beneath:

  TORRINGTON ROAD

  ENTRANCE

  GEORGE VI MEMORIAL PARK

  “We head into a racecourse, mon!” shouted the driver. “Green son of a bitch have to stop at Snipe Street light. He come out’a d’ere fast. You watch good now!”

  The cab sped down Torrington, swerving twice out of the left lane to pass three vehicles, and through the wide-gated entrance into the park. Once inside, the driver slammed on the brakes, backed the taxi into what looked like a bridle path, spun the wheel, and lurched forward into the exit side of the street.

  “You catch ’em good now, mon!” yelled the Jamaican as he slowed the car down and entered the flow of traffic leaving the George VI Memorial Park.

  Within seconds the green Chevrolet came into view, hemmed between automobiles entering the park. And then McAuliff realized precisely what the driver had done. It was early track time; George VI Memorial Park housed the sport of kings. Gambling Kingston was on the way to the races.

  Alex wrote down the license number, keeping himself out of sight but seeing clearly enough to know that the two black men in the Chevrolet did not realize that they had passed within feet of the car they were following.

  “Them sons of bitches got to drive all way ’round, mon! Them dumb block sons of bitches!… Where you want to go, mon? Plenty of time, now. They don’t catch us.”

  McAuliff smiled. He wondered if the Jamaican’s talents were listed in Hammond’s manual somewhere. “You just earned yourself an extra five dollars. Take me to the corner of Queen and Hanover Streets, please. No sense wasting time, now.”

  “Hey, mon! You hire my taxi alla time in Kingston. I do what you say. I don’ ask questions, mon.”

  Alex looked at the identification behind the dirty plastic frame above the dashboard. “This isn’t a private cab … Rodney.”

  “You make a deal with me, mon; I make a deal with the taxi boss.” The driver grinned in the rearview mirror.

  “I’ll think about it. Do you have a telephone number?”

  The Jamaican quickly produced an outsized business card and handed it back to McAuliff. It was the taxi company’s card, the type that was left on hotel counters. Rodney’s name was printed childishly in ink across the bottom. “You telephone company, say you gotta have Rodney.
Only Rodney, mon. I get the message real quick. Alla time they know where Rodney is. I work hotels and Palisados. Them get me quick.”

  “Suppose I don’t care to leave my name—”

  “No name, mon!” broke in the Jamaican, grinning in the mirror. “I got lousy son-of-a-bitch memory. Don’t want no name! You tell taxi phone … you the fella at the racecourse. Give place; I get to you, mon.”

  Rodney accelerated south to North Street, left to Duke, and south again past the Gordon House, the huge new complex of the Kingston legislature.

  Out on the sidewalk, McAuliff straightened his jacket and his tie and tried to assume the image of an average white businessman not entirely sure of which government entrance he should use. Tallon’s was not listed in any telephone or shopping directory; Hammond had indicated that it was below the row of government houses, which meant below Queen, but he was not specific.

  As he looked for the fish store, he checked the people around him, across the street, and in the automobiles that seemed to go slower than the traffic allowed.

  For a few minutes he felt himself in the pocket of fear again; afraid that the unseen had their eyes on him.

  He reached Queen Street and hurried across with the last contingent making the light. On the curb he turned swiftly to watch those behind on the other side.

  The orange sun was low on the horizon, throwing a corridor of blinding light from the area of Victoria Park several hundred yards to the west. The rest of the street was in dark, sharply defined shadows cast from the structures of stone and wood all around. Automobiles passed east and west, blocking a clear vision of those on the north corner. Corners.

  He could tell nothing. He turned and proceeded down the block.

  He saw the sign first. It was filthy, streaked with runny print that had not been refinished in months, perhaps years:

  TALLON’S

  FINE FISH AND NATIVE DELICACIES

  311½ QUEEN’S ALLEY

  1 BLOCK—DUKE ST. WEST

  He walked the block. The entrance to Queen’s Alley was barely ten feet high, cut off by grillwork covered with tropical flowers. The cobblestone passage did not go through to the next street as is common in Paris and Rome and Greenwich Village. Although it was in the middle of a commercial market area, there was a personal quality about its appearance, as though an unwritten sign proclaimed this section private: residents only, keys required, not for public usage. All that was needed, thought McAuliff, was a gate.