Hawke

25

“Christ, it’s hot,” Congreve said to Sutherland. “Hotter than the bloody Exumas, if that’s not a physical impossibility.”

“You could probably take off that blue blazer without offending the local citizenry,” Ross said.

Ross wasn’t exactly sure what an actual “harrumph” sounded like, but it had to be something similar to what emerged from Congreve’s direction.

It was ten o’clock Saturday morning. The temperature had already climbed into the nineties.

They were in Nassau. And time had not been kind to Nassau.

An invasion of giant cruise ships, disgorging their legions of T-shirt shoppers, had laid waste to old Nassau Town. Straw markets and lazy little shops on Bay Street had been replaced with cheap souvenir emporiums full of worthless gewgaws. American fast food outlets had replaced the dubby little Bahamian restaurants. Everywhere he looked, Ross saw to his dismay that the island had succumbed completely to the dollar.

“Well, Ross, you were quite right. This is a lovely spot,” Congreve said, straining to be heard over the angry buzz of motorbikes careening through the crowded streets. He and Ross were negotiating their way along Bay Street, dodging the hordes of invading Americans as best they could.

Inspector Sutherland had flown them up at first light in Hawke’s little seaplane. Mechanics aboard Blackhawke had worked through the night to repair the damage done by the missile and the ensuing fire. Ross had risen at dawn, gone to the hangar for an inspection, and pronounced Kittyhawke airworthy.

“Must you fly so bloody low over the water, Ross?” Ambrose had asked, once they were airborne. “We’re not exactly a pair of jet jockeys sneaking in under the radar screen, after all.”

“Sorry, Chief,” Ross had said, pulling back on the stick and gaining altitude. “I thought you might actually think it was fun.”

Fun? There was nothing remotely fun about being sealed in an aluminum tube that might plunge from the heavens into the briny depths at any moment.

Now, having made it to Nassau alive, the two Scotland Yard detectives were decidedly lost. The house they were looking for was supposedly on this small street. They’d turned right off of Bay Street onto Whitehall Road as directed. After the blistering sun and crowded sidewalks of Bay Street, they found themselves plunged into shade. The road was choked with overhanging banyan trees. Birds of every hue sang from the branches. Multicolored oleanders and orchids and falling blossoms of frangipani filled the air with narcotic fragrances.

“I’ve never ventured into an actual South American rainforest, Sutherland,” Congreve a

The trip to Nassau had been pla

The CID files had yielded a few names of officers and detectives who’d worked the case here in Nassau, but all of them seemed to be either dead or retired. Endless phone calls, countless dead ends. They’d almost given up the angle when Ross had noticed a faded signature at the bottom of the police report.

“Hold on, what’s this?” Ross asked.

Congreve leaned over to take a look. “Just some ordinary policeman by the looks of it. The signature is so smudged and faded, you can’t even make it out. Believe me, I’ve been over it with a magnifying glass a thousand times.”

“Well, it’s our last shot. Let’s see if we can’t enhance it enough to get something out of it.”

Ross sca

Officer Stubbs Witherspoon.

The signature belonged to an obscure member of the Nassau Constabulary, probably now dead or long retired.

“Here’s a thought, Ross. Why don’t we just ring Nassau directory information? Maybe the old fellow still has a listing.” In short order, they had Witherspoon’s home number from Bahamian information. Both holding their breath, they dialed the number on the sat phone.

Someone picked up the phone on the first ring and said, “Stubbs Witherspoon.”

Mr. Stubbs Witherspoon, upon hearing what the English detective was interested in, had immediately invited them to Nassau. He had told Congreve to look for number 37 Whitehall Road. He had said it was a pale pink house, with blue shutters and that he’d find an arched gate covered with white bougainvillea. It had all sounded simple enough when Congreve had been standing on the bridge of Blackhawke writing it down.

Now he and Ross had been up one side of the street and down the other three times.

“If you wish to pay a visit to someone in this road, you’d better arrive armed with a machete,” Congreve said, using his sodden handkerchief to mop his brow.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere and ring him up, Chief,” Ross said. “It’s already gone half past ten.”

And that’s when a woman magically appeared from the dense shrubbery pushing a baby carriage.

“I wonder if you might help us,” Congreve said. “We’re in a bit of a fog here, you see. We’re looking for number 37 Whitehall Road. Can you possibly steer us in that direction?”

“Why, number 37 is right here,” she said, smiling. “You standing right in front of it! See? Here’s the gate!” With a great laugh, she pulled back a massive portion of green shrubbery and revealed an ancient arch covered in white bougainvillea. “Mr. Stubbs, he live in dere. Always has.”

“Most kind of you, madam,” Congreve said, tipping his hat once more. “You’ve been most helpful. I wish you a pleasant morning.”

Ambrose and Ross pressed through the thick foliage and emerged into a lovely, well-tended garden. At the end of a short pathway stood a small pink house with blue shutters. There was an ancient white-haired man sitting on the covered porch in a rocking chair. A sleeping dog of no recognizable breed was at his feet.

“Scotland Yard!” the old fellow shouted as they made their way up his walkway. “Always get your man! Even if you do it half an hour late! Ha!”

He laughed and rose a bit unsteadily from his chair.

“I believe it’s the Mounties who always get their man,” Congreve said, climbing the steps and shaking the frail brown hand of Stubbs Witherspoon. The man had extended his left hand. Congreve saw that the right sleeve of his simple linen shirt hung empty from his shoulder. Somehow, the poor fellow had lost his right arm.

“My apologies for the lateness of our arrival. I’m afraid we were unable to locate your gate. May I present Inspector Sutherland, also of Special Branch at New Scotland Yard.”

“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Witherspoon,” Ross said, shaking hands. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Well,” Witherspoon said, “you know, I thought about that after we hung up the phone. And then I thought, good Lord, if Scotland Yard can’t find me, no one can!” He laughed again, almost doubling over. “Why don’t we just step inside?” Witherspoon asked. “I’ve made some iced lemonade and the fans in there keep it nice and breezy.”

They followed Witherspoon inside and he disappeared through a swinging door, presumably leading to the kitchen. The shuttered living room windows were all thrown open and yellow hibiscus branches were drooping inside at every window. You could hear the trills of songbirds in the trees outside as well as the yellow canary in the cage standing in the corner. Witherspoon returned from the kitchen carrying a large frosted pitcher.

“Let’s all take a seat,” the old man said, pouring lemonade. “This is my rocking chair. I like to rock.”