Holly didn’t speak for the rest of the way back to the inn.
50
Captain duBois sat at his desk the following morning and disconsolately went through a large stack of files containing all the information the police had on visitors to the island. The primary objects of his investigation had simply melted away as suspects: the Pepper couple were in custody at the time of the shooting; Pemberton and Weatherby appeared to be off the island, though he could find no record of their departure; Irene Foster’s friend’s alibi had been confirmed by Thomas Hardy; he was at the marina every day; plus Barrington’s and Heller’s backgrounds checked out in every detail, and they had been dismissed as suspects by no less an authority than the prime minister. He wished there were an underground political opposition, so he could arrest and torture them. He began casting around for some plausible theory of the assassination, and gradually an idea began to grow.
He picked up the phone, rang the prime minister’s office and requested an immediate appointment, in connection with Croft’s assassination. After a brief wait, he was told to come immediately. He put on a freshly pressed uniform and walked out of the building to his waiting, hated Land Rover, still formulating the presentation of his idea.
The prime minister sat, silent, behind his large mahogany desk and seemed
to be reading and signing papers, while duBois stood at attention, his hat tucked under his arm, and waited.
Finally, the PM spoke. “Tell me who murdered Colonel Croft,” he said.
“Prime Minister, after a thorough review of all the existing evidence, and after investigating and/or interrogating all the foreign visitors, I believe I can say that Colonel Croft’s assassin arrived on the island surreptitiously by boat, probably from St. Martin, did his work and left immediately by the same means. And, by this time, he is back whence he came, beyond our reach.”
“And how did you come to that conclusion?” Sutherland asked.
“First, by a process of elimination of suspects and by deduction; second, by my knowledge of certain elements remaining in Haiti.”
“Tell me about your deductive process.”
“First, there is no political opposition of a violent nature on the island, and if there were, they would have no way of obtaining the weapon used-namely, a high-powered sniper’s rifle of great accuracy, fitted with a silencer; second, there is no foreign visitor on the island who possesses the motive, means and opportunity of accomplishing such a deed, and who has any background consistent with the shooting skills required to make that kill with a single bullet.”
“Now, tell me who in Haiti would go to the trouble of eliminating Croft.”
“Numerous people, Prime Minister. When Colonel Croft and I made our escape from Haiti, we only narrowly avoided assassination squads, and for more than a year afterward we had to exercise the greatest caution in our movements, because they were known to still be hunting us. It was only when we arrived at St. Marks, and after Colonel Croft made your acquaintance, that we began to feel safe.”
“Captain,” the prime minister said, “I am impressed with your deduction and your theory of the assassination, and I am pleased to see that you have the mental acuity to come to the same conclusions that I, myself, have.”
“Thank you, sir,” duBois said. “That being the case, I believe we can now reopen the country to free travel, and I think we should do so as a matter of urgency; the police have had many complaints from tourists and those in the hospitality industry.”
“You may give the order immediately, Captain, and you may also prepare a public announcement for my review explaining the circumstances of the death of Colonel Croft.”
“Of course, Prime Minister. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Yes, Marcel, you may reinstate yourself to the rank of colonel and resume the rank, duties and perquisites of Colonel Croft. Good day, Colonel duBois.”
“Thank you for your confidence, Prime Minister.” DuBois saluted smartly, executed an about-face and marched out of the office. When he departed through the front entrance of Government House, he found the white Mercedes sedan waiting for him, his driver at the wheel. It was remarkable, he reflected, how much could be accomplished, and how quickly, by telling those in power what they wished to hear.
“Where to, Colonel?” the driver asked.
“Back to my office,” duBois said. On the return trip he busied himself with replacing his captain’s bars with colonel’s eagles.
Lance Cabot sat in his office, working on a Saturday morning, and watched Hugh English’s secretary supervising the removal of her boss’s personal effects from his office. When she seemed to be done he got up and walked down the corridor to the room, carrying a legal pad and a tape measure. Quickly, he made a sketch of the bookcases and computer station he would order to be constructed. He would not have a desk, he thought; instead, he would have a large, low table with comfortable chairs arrayed about it, a less formal arrangement than his predecessor had employed. He made a note of the chairs to be ordered.
Hugh English’s secretary came back into the room and cleared her throat.
Lance turned and gave her a little smile. “Yes, Carolyn?”
The woman looked stonily at him. “Have you seen the Drudge Report this morning?” she asked, referring to an Internet website that many thought scurrilous, but that had a record of picking up good gossip, especially from right-wing sources.
“I’m afraid the Drudge Report is not part of my regular reading.”
“Well, it says that Mr. English is leaving the agency because he has Alzheimer’s disease.”
Lance was surprised. “That’s an outrageous assertion,” he said. “I have never noted the slightest indication of that in any of my dealings with Hugh.”
“I rather thought that the assertion might have come from you,” she said. The woman was retiring, along with her boss, so she had nothing to lose by annoying him.