The Lasko Tangent (15 page)

“Perhaps if I spelled it.”

His voice turned emphatic. “We do not deal with Yokama Electric.”

“With whom do you deal?”

“Various companies. You’ll have to ask Mr. Martinson. I just run the warehouse.”

“For how long have you done that?”

“Just a month.”

“How long has the company been in business?”

His eyes were sudden pinpoints of hate. “I told you that I’d just been here a month.”

I felt a cold returning anger, at him and at the situation. They had known I was coming. I wanted Kendrick on my ground, under oath, where I could pick him apart. But I couldn’t do that on St. Maarten and he knew it. I looked at De Jonge. He was leaning back in silent disassociation. This wasn’t his case.

I turned back to Kendrick. “Where is Mr. Martinson?”

“I don’t know.”

I felt a sudden sharp fear that I had killed Martinson, as surely as I had killed Lehman, without knowing the reason.

“Why not?” I snapped.

“He left me in charge. He said he was worn out. Mental strain. He was taking a rest. He wouldn’t tell anyone where.”

“What if you need to ask him who you do business with?”

He flushed again. “I told you I didn’t know.”

“When did he leave?”

“A few days ago,” he said vaguely.

“You mean yesterday?”

He blinked. “I don’t remember. Ask him.”

I paused. This wasn’t going anywhere. I smiled apologetically, in feigned embarrassment. “I know this is off the subject,” I said to Kendrick, “but do you have a toilet here? I’ve had a very long trip.”

He hooked a disdainful thumb at the warehouse. “Thank you,” I said. “Excuse me.”

Kendrick half-rose, as if debating whether to stick with me or the police. He chose the police and sat down.

I strode to the warehouse area, looking back to make sure I wasn’t watched. The workmen were still stacking boxes in the far corner to my left. The toilet was in the opposite corner to the right of me. Next to it lay two boxes. I walked to the stall, and glanced around. The workmen had their backs to me.

I grabbed one of the boxes and dragged it into the stall, closing the door. Then I stopped and ripped open the top. Inside were about two dozen brown paper sacks. I opened one. Black metallic fragments scattered into my cupped hand. Electronic chips. I lifted the flap of my left outside coat pocket and sprinkled the chips inside. Then I tore up the empty sack and flushed it down the toilet.

I looked out. The workmen were nowhere in sight. I hauled the box back and stacked the other box on top. Then I rejoined the others. They were still where I had left them, silent, as if frozen by my departure.

De Jonge looked up blandly from his pipe. “Do you have anything further for this man?”

“No. I think we’ve exhausted Mr. Kendrick’s usefulness.”

Kendrick stared at me in sullen relief. De Jonge stood to go. “Thank you, Mr. Kendrick.” Kendrick said nothing. We walked out of the office, opened the warehouse door, and got in the jeep. The chips rubbed silently in my pocket.

Nineteen

We went back to the Government House and waited while Duval checked on Martinson. He came back with a number and the address of a rented house in the hills above Little Bay. Did I intend a visit? De Jonge asked warily. No, I said, but if I changed my mind I would let him know. De Jonge detailed Duval to take me to my hotel. We drove off in silence.

The ride was hot and dusty under the glaring afternoon sun. I couldn’t stop worrying about Martinson. Woods hadn’t listened about McGuire, and I’d asked for St. Maarten anyway. Now Lehman might get Martinson for company. All compliments of my own vanity and stupidity.

I was an albatross, hunting men so Lasko could find them. And Lasko had always been one step ahead and out of sight, from that first day when McGuire met with Catlow, dispenser of plum appointments. When I met Lehman to see him killed. When my search for the cryptic memo turned into quiet threats and Lasko came to pick my brain. When Sam Green sprouted an expensive lawyer, who gave me next to nothing. And now Martinson had disappeared. It was a grim way to confirm his importance. I wondered what he was like, whether he had a family, what things had put him in my path.

We drove up a small hill and the view suddenly opened into salt-white beach and water bluer than azure, rich and clean looking and glinting in the sun. The hotel squatted behind the beach, three long two-story units of white stucco. Summer was well off-season and the hotel looked deserted. When we reached it, I thanked Duval and got out. He looked solemn. “I am sorry, Mr. Paget, that we did not do more.”

I realized that the silence had been embarrassment. I tried a smile which almost took. “Then do me a favor sometime. Beat on Kendrick for me.”

Duval grinned back. “I have that one marked.” He pointed to his skull.

I laughed. “I noticed that.” We shook hands. “Good luck,” I said.

“Thank you, sir.” The jeep rumbled off, and I walked into the hotel.

The lobby was bright, modern, and deathly quiet. A heavy Dutchman checked me in with grave courtesy, tips on restaurants, and a few ponderous quips. I wasn’t in the mood. Did he have an envelope and a safe, I asked. He nodded. I threw the chips in the envelope and watched while he put them away. I got a key and went to my room.

I had a top floor room with an ocean view, and a sliding door which opened onto a cement deck. The beach stretched for miles to my right, below green hills. It was bleach-white and sheltered by low palms. We were on a bay; the far hills curled back out to reach for the sea. A tame surf crept in, lulling and regular, with a deep satisfied sound. Out beyond, the sun caught jets of white in the dark azure, glistening like mica. I watched it for a while. Then I shook myself, showered, and put on a fresh suit.

The phone was next to my bed. I lay down, leaning on my elbows, and thought for a long time. I started to reach for the phone, then stopped, thinking of Lehman. Then I stretched for the phone and had the switchboard place the call. I could hear the phone ring, a shocking metallic rattle that made me start.

Then it stopped. “Hello.” It was a woman’s voice, American I thought.

“Mrs. Martinson?”

“Yes. Who is this?” Her voice sounded timorous, as if she feared bad news.

“I’m Christopher Paget. I’m an American, a government lawyer. I’m trying to locate your husband.”

“What do you want from Peter?” The question was both edgy and hopeful.

“Just to talk with him. I think he could help me.” I tried to make my voice suggest that helping me conferred honor on the helper. Lehman knew better, but he wasn’t talking.

“What do you want to talk about? I mean, why can Peter help you?”

“I’m doing a government investigation of an American company. Lasko Devices.”

Her voice went flat. “Then Peter can’t help you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“He can’t help you,” she insisted.

There was trouble in the words. I decided to push. “Mrs. Martinson, is your husband home?”

Silence. “No.”

“Is he in some sort of difficulty?”

“What do you mean?”

I forced myself to speak with cold precision. “I’ll put it another way. Do you even know where he is?”

“I—don’t—know.” The crying broke then, as if my question had pulled the plug on her self-control.

My hand squeezed the phone, trying to hold her on. “Mrs. Martinson?” I tried.

“Yes.”

“Can I see you?”

She caught her voice. “Yes.”

“Let me think.” I hesitated. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“No.” The answer was delayed, as if she had shaken her head, then remembered I couldn’t see her. I understood. Her voice on the phone was more real than the room around me.

“I don’t want to be seen going into your place. Do you know La Porte?”

“Yes.”

“Can you meet me there in an hour?” There was a long silence. “Mrs. Martinson, please come. It could be very important.”

She sounded drained. “All right, Mr. Paget. I’ll meet you.”

“Thank you,” I said. She hung up abruptly.

I rented a car and got to La Porte a little early, about 7:15. A slight Frenchman led me in with elaborate politeness. He seated me by the window at the end of the small room. I told him that I was expecting a lady. He scurried away, looking pleased. Through the window, the sea looked rich blue in the waning sun. The decor around me was dark and simple—French rustic, graced with white linen and pewter. I liked it. And I hoped Martinson was alive.

The Frenchman reappeared, leading a tall blonde girl dressed in white slacks and turquoise silk blouse. I stood, surprised.

“Mrs. Martinson?” She nodded, eyes resting on me. “I’m Chris Paget. Please sit down.” The Frenchman whisked out a chair and deftly steered her to it. I took a second look. The girl was a woman, maybe thirty-five, though age had only touched her eyes. The rest of her was girl—pretty cheerleader face and slim body that moved with the carelessness young girls have before life becomes a harness. She looked back across the table. The sad puff around her eyes rebuked me. Being glad she was pretty was more than pointless. I wondered where Martinson was while I dined with his wife.

“You’re very young,” she said.

I smiled. “Old enough. Can I get you a drink?” She hesitated. “You could probably do with one.”

“All right. Thank you. Whatever you’re having.” Her natural tone was high, a girl’s voice.

I ordered two rum and tonics and turned back to her troubled gaze.

“Let me explain why I’m here.” I spoke carefully, trying to feed some confidence into her eyes. “I’m a lawyer with an agency in Washington, the ECC.” I took out my ID card and laid it in front of her. “One of our jobs is to investigate fraud in companies that sell stock in the United States. I’m working on a case involving Lasko Devices. I flew here this morning to talk with your husband. I visited the company and saw a man named Kendrick. He said that your husband had gone on vacation because of some sort of mental strain. He wouldn’t tell me when he had left, where he had gone, or when he would come back. My guess is that he disappeared within the last twenty-four hours, and that he’s not on the island.”

She shook her head, the blonde shag grazing her shoulders. “No.”

“No what?”

Her voice quavered as if someone was shaking her. “No, he’s not crazy. He went away because they told him.”

“Who told him?”

“I don’t know. Someone from the company. He called me this morning. He said he had to go away for a while, right away, that someone was looking for him.” The two thoughts collided in her eyes. “It was you.” Her voice accused me. It made as much sense as anything else.

“Probably. Why did he go?”

“They told him to. He was afraid. He’s never been afraid before, of anything. I asked him please not to go. He kept telling me that he had to. Then he hung up. It was so frightening. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” Her shoulders drew in. It gave her a breakable look.

“What else did he tell you?”

“That I shouldn’t tell anyone—but I’m afraid for him.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“Because Peter’s afraid.” The words had strange echoes, as if she had lived for years on her husband’s reactions. But I was afraid too.

“Did he tell you why?”

“No.”

I could feel her trust slipping from me in the sterile inquisition. I sensed that she hadn’t decided who to be afraid of. Our drinks arrived. She sipped listlessly, watching me over the rim.

I tried something else. “Mrs. Martinson, this case seems to be very important to someone. I want your husband safe. Anything that you can tell me about his business here would help.”

Her eyes clouded with doubt, then tears. She stared at her lap. I waited. “Can you help protect Peter?” she asked after a time.

“I hope so.”

She looked up at me. “All right,” she said quietly.

“Let’s start with how your husband got here.”

“Well, I guess the thing was that nothing quite worked out. Peter—well, it’s not that Peter isn’t smart, he’s very clever, really—he just hadn’t found the right spot.” The words had a pat, formula sound, as if she had repeated them to herself until memorized. “When we finished college, Peter wanted to go to Europe. I couldn’t have children—” Her voice caught; perhaps children would have made her husband a grown-up. “Anyhow, Peter is a manufacturer’s representative for international companies. We’ve been everywhere the last twelve years. I’ve got beautiful memories. And Peter speaks three languages.” The tumble of words stopped abruptly. I thought of a cheerleader again, turned older. She was still leading cheers, but the team was behind and would never catch up. The knowledge showed in her eyes. They moved between innocence and hurt. “I’m not helping, am I?” she asked.

I tried to look encouraging. “Just keep on talking. Where did Peter work last?”

“Japan.”

“For Yokama Electric?”

“That’s right. How did you know that?”

“I’m beginning to put some things together. About when did you come to St. Maarten?”

“July.” She stopped. “Just last month.” It seemed to surprise her, as if it felt longer now.

The Frenchman arrived to take our order. She looked distracted. I asked some questions and ordered for her. It felt strange. Perhaps her husband did that too.

“Why St. Maarten?” I asked when we had ordered.

“Peter was asked. He did a lot of his business in Japan with Lasko Devices. They liked him. Peter told me that. William Lasko asked him to come here personally.”

“What was your husband supposed to do?”

“Mr. Lasko wanted Peter to run his new company for him. Carib Imports.”

“Does your husband own any part of Carib Imports?”

She shook her head. “No. Peter is just running it for him.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“We didn’t have the money to own a company. This was really a break for Peter.” The sentence started in pride and trailed off in embarrassment.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what is he paid?”

“Well, it seemed fantastic. He got a $100,000 bonus and $75,000 a year for two years. We’re renting a beautiful home in the hills.”