The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) (12 page)

José coped, solving each problem as it came along. He spoke no language other than Spanish, but that has never stopped a Spaniard from making himself understood. One way or another, all the calls went through. From time to time José sent his little son Joselito out to get him an ice cream cone. It was hot work, placing international phone calls from Santa Eulalia in June.

Harry and José were friends. Harry spoke a crude Spanish set entirely in the present tense and employing the infinitive exclusively. He was understood by everyone.

Harry didn’t mention that his call was urgent. He had been in Spain long enough to know that that attitude gets you nowhere. Tell a Spaniard that something is urgent and his mind goes on vacation. Urgent? Has someone been killed? That is the Spaniard’s idea of urgent.

“Paris,” José said, looking at the number Harry had written down. “Must be important, no?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders to show that this call was really a matter of no concern to him, so unimportant that he could scarcely understand why he had bothered getting out of bed to make it. Then he reflected; yes, maybe it did have some slight importance. He said, grudgingly, “
Bastante.
”

Bastante
means “enough,” or “sufficiently.” It is a seemingly inexpressive little word that can mean a great deal in the right corner of the Spanish-speaking world. Harry had learned that it was a word more decisive than the
urgencias
and
rápidos
of the Spanish language. Harry had learned that when José said something was
muy caro
it meant it was less expensive than something that was
bastante caro.

“I’ll get it for you right away,” José said, disconnecting a lady who had talked long enough to her husband in Copenhagen. He put his hand on the handcrank—yes, you cranked these telephones like old U.S. Army field units—muttered, “Pues, a ver,” and cranked.

And he got Paris just like that; sometimes it’s like magic. And there it was: Harry was through; now if only Hob was on the other end.

ME, HARRY HAMM

27

i was just resting up in bed after a hard day of being pushed around by Jean-Claude and friends when suddenly there was Harry Hamm on the telephone.

“Harry? How are you!”

“Hot and tired, Hob, but bearing up. Got some news for you.”

I had been so wrapped up in the concerns of the moment that I’d clean forgotten that my life did not consist of merely a single case, as seems to happen with so many private detectives in literature, who apparently live in a state of limbo between cases, with nothing better to do than indulge their alcoholic pursuits and eat at heartbreak diners full of cheap food and wisecracks. Real detectives, such as myself, have more than one case going at a time.

“Yeah,” I said, “give it to me.”

“Near as I can make out,” Harry said, “those sailboards of yours are on a fishing boat bound for France.” Harry told me that Industrias Marisol was run by Enrique and Vico. Enrique had gone to San Sebastián, and Vico had left the island by fishing boat. The boat seemed to be going to France. Harry presumed that Vico and the missing sailboards were aboard.

“I don’t suppose you know where in France?” I asked him.

“I don’t know for sure,” Harry said. “These fishing boats don’t file flight plans. But I saw this article today in the
International Herald-Tribune.
Page five, lower right hand corner. It seems there’s a sailboat race to be held tomorrow in the Honfleur harbor in France. What do you want to bet those boards end up there?“

“I think you’ve got something,” I said. “Good going, Harry! So you’ll fly into Honfleur and check it out.”

“Hob,” Harry said, “I can’t leave Spain.”

“Are you wanted for something in France?”

“Nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve applied for my
permanencia.
”

“
Merde
,” I said, in my anger slurring the italics. The
permanencia
is your permission to live permanently in Spain. It carries several privileges and a few obligations. To get it, you must fill out your forms, surrender your passport, and reside in Spain for six months. After that your passport is returned and you can come and go more or less as you please.

“When’s your
permanencia
supposed to come through?”

“In about six weeks.”

“This is damned inconvenient,” I said. “Can’t you get your buddy Belasco to get your passport back for you?”

“No sweat, if it were on the island,” Harry said. “But you know as well as I do, all paperwork goes to Madrid.”

I nodded, grinding my teeth. Bloody overcentralized Spain. I’m a regional autonomy man, myself.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll check it out myself.”

HONFLEUR

28

i went to the Gare Montparnasse and caught a train to Honfleur.

Honfleur is a couple of hours from Paris. It’s an old port in Brittany on the English Channel. It played an important role during the Napoleonic wars.

I took a room at the Hôtel Arènes with a nice view of the harbor. I felt better immediately. From my window I could look out on the narrow cobblestoned streets, the steep church steeples, the cobblestoned ramp down to the harbor. I had noticed a few welcome sailboarders signs on the streets. Aside from that, there didn’t seem to be much local interest.

There wasn’t much to do in Honfleur, but that was all right by me. I strolled in the town and along the harbor, admiring the skies, which looked like the skies in French seascape paintings; I stopped at cafés here and there for coffees and apéritifs. I loafed and invited my soul.

When I returned to my hotel I wasn’t entirely surprised to learn from the bell captain that a gentleman had asked for me, and was now awaiting my return in the lounge.

Looking into the bar, I saw the burly, familiar, tweed-clad back and leonine head of Major Nigel Wheaton.

I slid onto a stool beside him. “Hi, Nigel,” I said.

As I have mentioned, I am not of the muscular persuasion. When there is anything dirty to do, I subcontract it. Why do it yourself when an expert is close at hand forever in need of money?

Nigel Wheaton was ex-Red Berets, a former colonel in Moise Tshombe’s ill-fated army. Before that, he had lent a hand in various unpleasantnesses in Malaysia, Kenya, Brunei and Afghanistan. Wheaton was tall, and, when he forgot to hold in his stomach, portly. He had a full head of untamed reddish-brown curls, a curly beard and moustache. He looked a little like a lion, and a little like a Monty Woolley who had been left out in the sun too long. Nigel’s face was a monument to tropical sunlight and hard booze. He was a complicated man with several different aspects. One of his best acts was the slightly stuffy British ex-army type. Comical, that one. He had other personas, too, and no one, not even Nigel, knew which was the real Wheaton.

“Jean-Claude said you had a job for us,” Nigel said.

“How’d you know to look for me here?”

“I remembered you used to come here often in the old days, when you were fed up with Paris but not quite ready to return to Ibiza.”

“You know my ways, Watson,” I said.

Nigel nodded. “How’s Kate, by the way?”

“Just fine,” I said.

“Does she ever ask after me?”

“Not really, Nigel. Kate has put the good old days far behind her.”

“Lovely woman, Kate,” Nigel said. “Are the children all right?”

“Yes, fine. They didn’t ask after you, either.”

“Well, so much for the good old days. What’s happening currently, Hob?”

“Alex Sinclair. Remember him?”

“Only too well,” Nigel said. “For a while he had a finca adjoining mine in Ibiza. Devious Alex, the golden-haired boy. I was best man at his second wedding, you may remember. I can’t remember now if that was his marriage to Margaret or Catherine.”

“What else do you remember about him?”

“He did a scam with Raúl Fauning, the art forger. Then worked for Bernie Cornfeld for a while selling imaginary real estate. Then returned to the States. Gave up his days of wild and illicit freedom and went to work for some big law firm in Washington, D.C. The last I heard he was living high on the hog in Georgetown.”

“That’s about the limit of my knowledge, too. I’ve been hired to find him. Seems he came to Paris about a month ago and disappeared.”

“Who’s hiring you? If I’m not being indiscreet by asking.”

“No, you’re on the payroll now, such as it is. The lady in question is named Rachel Starr, or at least that’s the name she gave me.”

“Never heard of her,” Nigel said. “Not one of the old bunch, I presume?”

I shook my head. “I introduced her to Rus and he didn’t know her. If Rus didn’t know her, she wasn’t on the scene.”

“Why does she want to find Alex?”

“She won’t tell me. It seems to be a personal matter.”

Nigel smiled. “With Alex it usually is. What do you want me and Jean-Claude to do?”

“That should be obvious. Try to find something out. Specifically, what Alex was really up to, how and why he’s disappeared, where he is now.”

“Seems reasonable enough,” Nigel said. “When are you coming back to Paris?”

“Soon,” I said, unhelpfully.

“What are you doing here?”

“Another case,” I told him.

“Well, old boy,” Nigel said, “we’re partners now. Fill me in.”

So I told him about Frankie and what Harry had uncovered.

“You’re going to intercept the guy here?” Nigel asked.

“Yes, assuming he and the sailboards do indeed come here. Maybe this whole thing can be settled easily.”

“A lot easier than trying to establish jurisdiction, eh?” Nigel said. “Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

I nodded; although I didn’t, not really.

“Could you advance me and Jean-Claude a little something?” Nigel asked. “I believe you Americans refer to it as walking-around money.”

I gave Nigel five thousand francs to split with Jean-Claude. I gave him a list of the people I had interviewed so far. He gave me a telephone number where a message could be left for him or for Jean-Claude.

“Are you taking the train back?” I asked.

Nigel shook his head. “I’ve still got the old Hispano-Suiza. See you in Paris.”

He turned to go. I said, “By the way, Nigel …”

He turned, a splendid military figure with a slight paunch. “Yes, Hob?”

“About Turkey. I did
not
set up you and Jean-Claude.”

“I know that,” Nigel said.

“Jean-Claude didn’t seem to believe me. How come you know I’m telling the truth?”

“I worked it out long ago. If I really thought you’d turned us in, Hob, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d be lying at the bottom of St-Martin canal with my exercise weights tied to your ankles. See you in Paris, Hob.”

MEETING VICO

29

That evening I took a taxi out to Honfleur’s little aerodrome, which also served Le Havre and the Pays-de-Caux. It was a mild evening. To the east, a gray haze was visible over the Paris basin. The evening flight from Antibes was twenty minutes late. I was close to the passenger gate when they got off. There were many people on the flight. Only a few of them were men in the right age group. The rest were women, children, priests and military. There were also several South Americans, evident at once because of their serapes and tap shoes.

It was pretty easy to find an observation point where I could watch without being spotted. The coffee bar opposite the passenger gate had a large mirror in which I could watch the arrivals.

There were two priests, and a bunch of schoolgirls in school sweaters, maybe a volleyball team, the Nice High School All-Stars versus the Camargue Ducks. Maybe not.

And then I spotted the man. He came out of the aircraft and looked around, like he’d just come to the promised land. I saw the package come through. Five brightly colored sailbags, other colored canvas bags holding gear.

They came around on the baggage carrousel, and he took them off and stacked them neatly. A porter came over, took the bags out, gave them to a limousine marked Hôtel Ritz, Honfleur. Vico was about to get into the limousine when there came an announcement for him, a telephone call. He went to get it. When he got back, the limousine had left.

“Excuse me,” I said. “May I offer you a lift into town?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. “But I’d be very pleased. My luggage went without me.”

He got in. I drove off.

“We haven’t met,” I told him, “but we do have a mutual acquaintance. We both know Frankie Falcone.”