FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (17 page)

Brandeford started to say something but she put a finger to his lips.

“Don’t sweat it, Lucas. And now, if you aren’t too old, I want you to show me those tricks. All of them.”

Alana saw the look on his face and laughed.

“Not all at once, of course. We have time.”

***

Things had not changed much since. Their bodyguards were first amused, then fascinated, by the sounds coming from the master bedroom. Even Jobert could not blame Brandeford for his lust. The woman was exquisite, for a woman.

For his part, Brandeford swore that he would never lose Alana, as he did her mother. 

CHAPTER 22 - THE LAZY LIZARD

Scarne caught a 10 AM Delta flight out of JFK the next morning, arriving at Princess Juliana International Airport just over four hours later. It was his first time in Sint Maarten, although like many people he had marveled at the Internet videos of huge jets landing over the heads of bathers on Maho Beach at the end of the main runway. Indeed, just before touchdown, as Scarne looked out his window, it seemed as if he could shake hands with some of them.

The closest hotel to the airport was something called Mary's Boon Beach Resort and Spa, and that’s what he had booked. Scarne did not know what to expect but was pleasantly surprised when the man at the car rental counter told him it was a favorite among both locals and tourists, with no room more than about 20 feet from the beach. After he checked in and unpacked, he called Bastian.

The private investigator spoke English with a slight French accent. He said he already had something to report and suggested they meet for drinks in Philipsburg.

“Is that convenient for you?” Scarne asked. “I could come to your office.”             

“Monsieur Scarne, it is a small island. Marigot and Philipsburg are but a few miles apart. I always welcome an opportunity to leave my office. Besides, I have some personal business to attend to on the Dutch side. There is a bar called the Lazy Lizard near the Sint Maarten Museum just past Zout Street on the Boardwalk. Despite the name, it is quite acceptable. Everyone knows it. Shall we say 5 o’clock. That will give you time for a nice swim, perhaps to wash off the New York dust, non?”

“How will I recognize you?”

“I will look like a French detective looking for an American detective. It is not a large bistro. If we can’t find each other, we should both look for other employment.”

Scarne laughed. He suspected he would get on well with Bastian. He rang off and decided that a long swim was not such a bad idea. He changed, went down to the beach with a towel, which he draped on a hotel lounge, and dove into one of the most lovely stretches of pure green/blue water he’d ever seen. An hour later, he emerged refreshed, went up to his room and showered.

He then put on a light-blue, two-button tropical blend suit, white button-down shirt and dark blue tie. He stood in front of a mirror to see if the 9MM Hechler-Koch automatic in its shoulder holster ruined the line of his specially tailored jacket, which it didn’t. The supercilious customs agent at the airport had queried Scarne at length about the reason for his visit in Sint Maarten, particularly the need for a weapon, which he had declared. Scarne, who was federally licensed to carry firearms (compliments of Anne Rasmussen’s superiors as a thank-you for what he had done for them), came close to losing his temper with the man. He wanted to ask why two people with fake passports and $20 million in diamonds had no trouble entering the blasted island while he was being sweated over a legal handgun. But he held his tongue. The diamonds undoubtedly explained the red carpet laid out for Alana Dallas and Brandeford.

As promised, the Lazy Lizard was easy to find. It was a pleasant, rather funky restaurant that sat on a corner of a busy street just off the boardwalk and was open to the street on two sides. Scarne was early and took a seat at the bar, where the bartender tried to talk him into “the famous Sint Maarten Guavaberry Colada”, which many people in the place seemed to be drinking. Scarne, who wouldn’t be caught dead drinking anything that pink, ordered a Red Stripe beer, and wondered if the food the kitchen served was as good as it smelled.

He was on his second Red Stripe when Hercule Poirot walked into the Lazy Lizard, spotted Scarne and walked over.

“Monsieur Scarne, I presume,” the man, who was wearing a seersucker suit with a bow tie, said, putting out his hand.

“Did anybody ever tell you …”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Farron Bastian said happily. “I hear it all the time. I look like Poirot, or at least like the actor who portrays Hercule on television.”

“David Suchet. You do resemble him.”

“Yes. Portly, balding, I know. But brilliant. I can live with that. Even though Suchet is an English actor and the fictional Poirot is Belgian in books written by an Englishwoman, Agatha Christie.” Bastian smiled. “I will tell you a secret. I did not always have this mustache. It really makes me look a little like him, which is good for business. But I draw the line at his three-piece suit. Fine for Belgium or England, where it is usually freezing, but surely fatal in the tropics.”

The bartender came over and greeted Bastian like an old friend, and put a whiskey on the bar. The Frenchman drained his glass, which was quickly refilled. He held up the amber liquid.

“In France, all we ever drink is wine. In the Caribbean, rum, which I am sick of. I have acquired a taste for whiskey and am working up the nerve for bourbon, which, after all, has a French name. Now, down to business, my friend. I did not know Juliette Loudin personally but her reputation in the Sûreté is impeccable. I am honored she recommended me. Am I to assume that this matter is highly confidential, and may have an intelligence angle?”

Scarne saw no harm in letting Bastian believe the stakes were higher than they were. The French love conspiracies. So, he merely smiled.

“You said you had something to report.”

Bastian looked around. The bar area was filling up.

“Let us sit. There is a table by the kitchen.” He turned to the bartender. “We would like privacy, Claude.”

“You got it, Farron,” the man said.

Scarne put some money on the bar and followed Bastian to the table. After they sat, the Frenchman leaned forward.

“I am almost certain that the girl and her paramour are not on the French side. Since your call, I went to my contacts in the rental offices and the marinas, and among the guides who specialize in diving. I also made some discreet inquiries among people who might be interested in jewelry, particularly diamonds. There was nothing, although one man said that he heard a vague rumor about someone recently spending a good deal of money on this side of the island. And the word diamond was mentioned. So, I suspect that nothing on my side indicates something on this side. That, I think is progress. I will concentrate my efforts here.”

“Agreed. I am thinking of looking myself.”

Bastian shook his head.

“My friend, I think that would be a mistake.”

“Your fee is guaranteed, no matter who finds them, Bastian.”

“You misunderstand. I am not worried about the money. But Sint Maarten is very small. Having two people asking questions, showing pictures, is sure to be noticed. You may scare away your quarry. I, on the other hand, am always asking questions on both sides of the island. I am mere background noise. And the people I ask are less likely to gossip. Give me a day or two. I should have more by then.”

Scarne could see the sense in that.

“All right. I’ll play the tourist until I hear from you.”

“Good. I will start the first thing in the morning.”

“Not tonight?”

“Alas, as I told you, I have a personal commitment this evening. A Dutch lady. She is one of the reasons I am drinking whiskey. For courage. I fear our little entanglement must come to an end and I must tell her.” Bastian smiled. “Her husband is not quite the fool she thought he was. He has become suspicious of the many afternoons she spent ‘shopping’ and hired a private detective to find out who her lover is. Fortunately, I am that detective.”

The French and their conspiracies!

“Good Lord! How do you expect to get out of it?”

Bastian’s Gallic shrug was straight out of
Casablanca
.

“I will tell the husband that his wife’s lover is a figment of his overactive imagination. I will explain that I discovered that she was neither shopping or screwing, but was volunteering in a shelter for abused women. There is such a shelter. I have made a substantial donation to its manager, who will back up the story. I also told him that if he didn’t, he might wind up with another abused woman.”

Scarne couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

“What about the wife?”

Another shrug.

“Her husband is very rich. She stands much to lose. I hope this will frighten her into mending her ways. But I am not too sanguine about that. She is lustful and the husband is elderly. She will probably find another lover.”

“What about you?”

Bastian looked astounded.

“I still have my wife. And, of course, a mistress.” Bastian looked at his watch. “Well, my little drama must start. I must go. Au revoir.”

As he watched Bastian walk away, Scarne smiled.

If anyone could find Alana Dallas and Brandeford, it was the conniving Caribbean Hercule Poirot.

CHAPTER 23 - HIGH STAKES

And Bastian did just that.

Scarne was two days into his enforced “vacation” when the Frenchman called.

“Our friends will be at the Casino Royale tonight. There is a high-stakes tournament that the man has entered. It begins at 10 PM.”

“Baccarat?”

Bastian chuckled.

“Alas, nothing so romantic. Some sort of poker game.”

“Texas Hold ‘Em?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Will the woman be there?”

“That is my understanding. They have a reservation in the private dining room at 8. There is a bar just to the left as you enter the casino. I will meet you there at 9 and tell you what I have learned.”

“Why not now.”

“I have my reasons.”

Scarne understood. Bastian had not identified himself or used Alana or Brandeford’s name.

Scarne had not been idle for the two days. In the mornings, after a long swim and quick breakfast at his hotel, he had driven around Saint Martin to get a feel for both nations. He had been surprised at how mountainous the interior was, and the sheer beauty of the island. He lunched at roadside stands. The local residents were universally delightful and friendly. Both the French and Dutch administrations ran a tight ship, but the “natives” — Scarne hated the term but did not know what else to call them — seemed to thrive under both. And he sensed that they were not being merely nice because they depended on tourists. The island was really a paradise. Food either fell from trees or swam up to you on the beach!

Back at the hotel, he took long runs along the shore, cooled off in the Caribbean and ate late, light dinners under the stars. He felt refreshed and, of course, wondered why he had not taken more breaks like this in the past. But he was happy to get the call from Bastian. His blood was up; for a man of action, there is nothing as satisfying as a break in a case.

Casino Royale! Maybe he could call “M” or rent an Aston Martin for the night!      

***

Scarne and Bastian were sitting at the bar in the casino. Both were drinking Jack Daniels, which the French detective found “interesting”. Scarne had explained that it was not really bourbon, but rather sour mash, and promised to send Bastian some bottles of Makers Mark or Buffalo Trace.

Bastian was filling Scarne in on what had transpired over the past two days. It seemed that Brandeford had spread money around liberally, and some of it went to ensure that people kept their mouths shut.

“But I have worked on this island for many years and have also put money in people’s pockets,” Bastian said. “Some of them are paid to tell me when they are paid by someone else not to tell me something.”

“It sounds as if they are making a good living,” Scarne observed. “Why were you so circumspect on the phone?”

“An old habit. The closer one gets to the prey, the quieter one must be, n’est pas?”

“So, how did you locate them?”

“Monsieur Brandeford likes to gamble and dive, and the lady likes to shop. It was not difficult to find one, then the other. The photos helped, of course. But it was a little harder locating where they lived. Their villa is isolated, off Topaz Road but down an unnamed secondary road that branches off into several long driveways as it approaches the beach at Cole Bay.”

Bastian handed Scarne a piece of paper.

“Here is the address and some rudimentary directions. It is not hard to find. I followed them home one evening, at a distance, and know what their driveway is, but I did not want to follow them further. Fortunately, there is an election coming up in the fall. I went to one of the campaign headquarters, some labor party I believe, and picked up some literature. I also hired a couple of street urchins to go with me. I drove back, making sure to stop at every villa and had the children drop off the brochures. I stayed in the driver’s seat, looking bored and occasionally yelling at the kids to hurry up. Of course, I was observing the security of the villa we are interested in. The big ones all have names. Brandeford’s is called Villa Amaryllis. It is one of the nicest on the island. It rents for $5,000 a week now. In season, they will ask three times that.”

“Where would I be able to get a floor plan?”

Bastian looked at Scarne and smiled.

“There is only one reason you would want a floor plan, my friend. Some sort of snatch or commando operation. Hopefully legal, not that I care. But it won’t be easy. The entire property is surrounded by a fence, and it is alarmed. It says so right in the rental information on the Internet. There is a gatehouse, which we can assume is manned around the clock. The house is also alarmed. The private beach is also well-protected on both sides by promontories that go far out into the water. It is both a villa and a fortress. You can get a floor plan off a real estate website.”

“One can certainly land on the beach.”

“Of course. And that is where you probably will be spotted by one of the bodyguards not in the gatehouse.

“How many are there?”

“Three, and they are all armed. Brandeford apparently hired them soon after coming to the island. That is not unusual. We get many visitors who are paranoid, because they have reason to be.”

“Are they any good?”

“The head bodyguard is a man named Jobert. Emile Jobert. A homosexual. A native of Sint Maarten and a former policeman. Dismissed from the force three years ago.”

“For being gay?”

“No, no. The Dutch don’t care about that sort of thing. They cannot understand why Americans are so concerned about a person’s sexual orientation. Nor can I. The entire contretemps about gay marriage is a mystery to me. Gay people have every right to be as miserable as the rest of us. As for Jobert, a man died in his custody. It might even have been an accident. But they needed a scapegoat. Too bad. I knew him slightly and understand he was a good police officer. But he probably makes much more money now. He is the one I would worry about. The one I saw in the gatehouse I do not know. Asian. The other one is a white man. I have only seen him at a distance. My guess is that they are just muscle, and fairly stupid. Jobert probably recruited them from among the riff-raff in one of the waterfront bars. But you don’t have to be smart to shoot a gun, my friend.”

Bastian looked at his watch.

“The card game should have started. Why don’t we finish our drinks and go have a look at your quarry?”

***

The Texas Hold ‘Em tournament was being held in a roped off room off the main floor of the casino. Spectators were directed up two flights of stairs where they could watch from balconies. Bastian and Scarne walked toward a man wearing a tuxedo standing next to a podium. There were two couples ahead of them. The man at the podium spoke to the first couple and then looked down at a list in front of him. He smiled and then motioned to another man, who unhooked one end of the velvet rope and let the couple through. The next couple, a grossly overweight pair, was apparently not on the list, because the man at the podium politely pointed toward the stairways. The woman protested and her partner reached into his pocket. Scarne saw a flash of money. It didn’t work. After more argument the couple took the stairs. Scarne could hear the woman.

“Why are you always so cheap, Fred?”

“Cheap! I offered him 20 bucks. Come on, we can see just as good from up there.”

“Cheap bastard,” the fat woman hissed as she struggled up the stairs

Bastian was not on the list, and he didn’t offer any money. The man at the podium looked at him and the rope opened.

“A former policeman,” Bastian explained when they were through.

There were six oblong, double-pedestaled mahogany tables set up in the room, all numbered, with nine seats and cup holders at each position. The center at one side of each table was indented, where a dealer could stand and monitor play, identify winning hands, and award chips. It was early, so most of the seats were still filled with players. Scarne assumed it was an elimination tournament. Each table had its own game. No one could leave a table until he, or she, (there were many women playing) went broke. Eventually, only one player would be left with all the chips at a table. Finally, there would be six players left, and they would move to one table for the championship. Scarne presumed that the winner at each table would be rewarded with something, perhaps the original stake. That way, a table winner would not go home a loser. But the last player standing at the final table, could take home a small fortune, minus the casino’s cut. Of course, the amount of the winnings depended on the initial stakes, or “buy ins”.

Scarne grabbed a passing casino employee.

“What is the buy in?”

“Each player must put up 2,000 Euros, sir, or the dollar or guilder equivalent.”

At current exchange rates, Scarne calculated that whoever won the tournament could win almost $100,000. He wondered if the action here, much smaller than the million-dollar tournaments in Vegas or Atlantic City, would attract the pros who liked to feed off sun-baked tourists. Probably. Everyone needs a vacation, and why not combine pleasure with work. He almost immediately spotted a couple of card sharks who were trying too hard not to look the part. But he took some comfort in the fact gifted amateurs often prevailed in Texas Hold ‘Em tournaments, where a premium was placed on bluffing and luck over card sense. Scarne, who loved poker and was good at it, even considered the possibility that a return trip to Sint Maarten’s Casino Royale might be worthwhile at some time in the future.

Bastian gripped his arm and brought him out of his reverie.

“There’s your man. At Table 6.”

Both men walked over and joined the small group of spectators at Table 6. Scarne recognized Brandeford easily. Still clean-shaven and with a nice tan, he was sitting two seats down on the dealer’s right. He was wearing a white suit, black shirt and silver tie and, judging by the size of the pile of plaques and chips in front of him, appeared to be winning. He was flanked by two men, a tall black man and a wiry Asian with bad skin.

“As you may have surmised, the big fellow is Jobert, with the earring,” Bastian whispered. “They probably left the other bodyguard back at the house. These are careful people.”    

“Where’s the girl? Perhaps you were wrong about her coming.”

“I am surprised, my friend. It was my understanding that Jobert is always nearby when she goes out. Since he does not like women, for sex anyway, Brandeford probably approves.”

He had no sooner said it than Alana Dallas appeared, walking languidly up behind Brandeford, smoking a cigarette. Scarne looked at her, as did everyone at the table. She was even more stunning in person than in her photos. She was wearing a shimmering blue satin sheath dress with a slit that went halfway up her right leg. Her long blond hair flowed down well past her shoulders. Her arms were bare and a double string of pearls hung loosely around her neck. She bent down to say something in Brandeford’s ear and the pearls piled on his shoulder. He smiled and she stood back up.

This Alana looked nothing like a college student. In a room filled with many attractive women, she stood alone. Scarne could not take his eyes off her, and hers soon rose to meet his. She smiled, a woman used to men staring at her. He smiled back. Brandeford must have sensed something, because he, too, looked over at Scarne across the baize. His expression was less friendly. Scarne had an urge to stare Brandeford down, but that might give a man on the run something to worry about. And he didn’t want that. So, he turned to Bastian and said, “Let’s get a drink.” As he walked away, he glanced back. Alana Dallas was still watching him.

The room had its own bar, from which waiters served players and spectators constantly. Scarne and Bastian had barely started on their drinks when Alana Dallas moved to a spot next to them.

“A very dry martini, Hendricks gin, two small olives, please.”

“Yes, miss,” the bartender said.

She turned to Scarne.

“Do you have a match?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But I think I can arrange one. Bartender, let me have a book of matches.”

When they were provided, Scarne lighted her cigarette. As Alana bent forward, her blue eyes bore into his.

“Thank you,” she said, as her drink arrived. “I haven’t seen you around. Have you just arrived?”

“Yes. I’m looking for properties. This is my real estate adviser, Monsieur Poirot.”

“Charmed,” Bastian said, and kissed her proffered hand. “And if I may be so bold, you are exquisite, mademoiselle.”

“You are very kind. May I ask where you have been looking?”

Bastian came through. His knowledge of the island was extensive. He rattled off a list of properties, all with exotic names: Villa Jasmine, Villa Daffodil, Villa Waterloo, Villa Marchant.

“Those are certainly nice properties,” Alana said. “I did not realize they were for sale.”

“Some are on the market,” Bastian said smoothly. “Some are not. Yet. Often, it is a question of merely suggesting a price.”

“Have you thought about renting, Mr. …?”

“Scarne. Jake Scarne.”

“You should consider it,” she said. “That’s what we are doing. We did not know how we would like it here. But it looks like we will now buy our villa. It is magnificent. And so is Sint Maarten.”