Bahama Crisis

Twenty-three

The morning brought news — bad and good.

When I got home I told Debbie what had happened because there was no way of keeping it from her; it was certain to be on the front page of the Freeport News and on the radio. She said incredulously, ‘Shot him!’

‘That’s right. Perigord shot him right there in the lobby of the Royal Palm. A hell of a way to impress the guests.’

‘And after he shot at you. Tom, you could have been killed.’

‘I haven’t a scratch on me.’ I said that lightly enough, but secretly I was pleased by Debbie’s solicitude which was more than she had shown after my encounter with Kayles in the Jumentos.

She was pale. ‘When will all this stop?’ Her voice trembled.

‘When we’ve caught up with Robinson. We’ll get there.’ I hoped I put enough conviction into my voice because right then I could not see a snowball’s chance in hell of doing it.

So I slept on it, but did not dream up any good ideas. In the morning, while shaving, I switched on the radio to listen to the news. As might have been predicted the big news was of the shooting of an unnamed man in the lobby of the Royal Palm by the gallant and heroic Deputy-Commissioner Perigord. It was intelligent of Perigord to keep Carrasco’s name out of it, but also futile; if Robinson was around to hear the story he would be shrewd enough to know who had been killed.

The bad news came with the second item on the radio. An oil tanker had blown up in Exuma Sound; an air reconnaissance found an oil slick already twenty miles long, and the betting was even on whether the oil would foul the beaches of Eleuthera or the Exuma Cays, depending on which way it drifted.

The Bahamas do not have much going for them. We have no minerals, poor agriculture because of the thin soil, and little industry. But what we do have we have made the most of in building a great tourist industry. We have the sea and sun and beaches with sand as white as snow — so we developed water sports; swimming, scuba-diving, sailing — and we needed oiled water and beaches as much as we needed Legionella pneumophila.

I could not understand what an oil tanker was doing in Exuma Sound, especially a 30,000 tonner. A ship that size could not possibly put into any port in any of the surrounding islands — she would draw far too much water. I detected the hand of Robinson somewhere; an unfounded notion to be sure, but this was another hammer blow to tourism in the Bahamas.

I dressed and breakfasted, kissed Debbie goodbye, and checked into my office before going on to see Perigord. Walker, my constant companion, had not much to say, being conscious of the fiasco of the previous night, and so he was as morose as I was depressed. At the office I gave him a job to do in order to take his mind off his supposed shortcomings. ‘Ring the Port Authority and find out all you can about the tanker that blew up last night. Say you’re enquiring on my behalf.’ Then I got down to looking at the morning mail.

At half past nine Billy Cunningham unexpectedly appeared. ‘What’s all this about a shoot-out at the OK Corral?’ he demanded without preamble.

‘How do you know about it?’

‘Steve Walker works for me,’ he said tersely. ‘He keeps me informed. Was Debbie involved in any way?’

‘Didn’t Walker tell you she wasn’t?’

‘I forgot to ask when he rang last night.’ Billy blew out his cheeks and sat down. ‘I haven’t told Jack about this, but he’s sure to find out. He’s not in good shape and bad news won’t do him any good. We’ve got to get this mess cleared up, Tom. What’s the pitch?’

‘If you’ve talked to Walker you know as much as I do. We’ve lost our only lead to Robinson.’ I held his eye. ‘Have you flown a thousand miles just to hold my hand?’

He shrugged. ‘Billy One is worried. He reckons we should get Debbie out of here, both for her own sake and Jack’s.’

‘She’s well enough protected,’ I said.

‘Protected!’ Billy snorted. ‘Steve Walker is pissed off with your cops; he tells me they’ve taken his guns. How can he protect her if his guys are unarmed?’

‘Perigord seems to be doing all right,’ I said. ‘And there’s an armed police officer at the house.’

‘Oh!’ said Billy. ‘I didn’t know that.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘How will you find Robinson now?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, and we discussed the problem for a few minutes, then I checked the time. ‘I have an appointment with Perigord and his boss. Maybe they’ll come up with something.’

It was then that Rodriguez and the good news came in. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said, and skimmed a black-and-white photograph across the desk.

It was a good photograph, a damned good photograph. It showed Carrasco hopping over the bows of a dory which had its prow dug into a sandy beach. The picture was as sharp as a pin and his features showed up clearly. In the stern of the dory, holding on to the tiller bar of an outboard motor, was another man who was equally sharply delineated. I did not know him.

‘You took this last night?’ Rodriguez nodded. ‘You were crazy to use a flash. What did Carrasco do?’

‘He did nothing. And who said anything about a flash? That crazy I’m not.’

I stared at him then looked at the picture. ‘Then how...?’

He laughed and explained. The ‘gismo’ mentioned by Walker was a light amplifier, originally developed by the military for gunsights used at night but now much used by naturalists and others who wished to observe animals. ‘And for security operations,’ Rodriguez added. ‘You can take a pretty good picture using only starlight, but last night there was a new moon.’

I looked at the photograph again, then handed it to Billy. ‘All very nice, but it doesn’t get us very far. All that shows is Carrasco climbing from a boat on to a beach. We might get somewhere by looking for the man in the stern, but I doubt it. Anyway, I’ll give it to Perigord; maybe he can make something of it.’

‘I took more than one picture,’ said Rodriguez. ‘Take a look at this one — especially at the stern.’ Another photograph skimmed across the desk.

This picture showed the dory again which had turned and was heading out to sea. And it was a jackpot because, lettered across the stern, were the words: ‘Tender to Capistrano’.

‘Bingo!’ I said. ‘You might have made up for losing Carrasco last night.’ I looked at Billy. ‘That’s something for you to do while I’m with Perigord. Ring around the marinas and try to trace Capistrano.’

Five minutes later I was in Perigord’s office. Also present was Commissioner Deane, a big, white Bahamian with a face the colour of mahogany, and the authority he radiated was like a blow in the face. I knew him, but not too well. We had been at school together in Nassau, but I had been a new boy when he was in his last year. I had followed him to Cambridge and he had gone on to the Middle Temple. Returning to the Bahamas he had joined the Police Force, an odd thing for a Bahamian barrister to do, because mostly they enter politics with the House of Assembly as prime target. He was reputed to be tough and abrasive.

Now he said raspily, ‘This is a very strange business you’ve come up with, Mangan.’

‘We’d better discuss it later.’ I tossed the pictures before Perigord. ‘Carrasco probably made a rendezvous with a boat called Capistrano. Rodriguez took those last night.’

A little time was wasted while we discussed how Rodriguez could possibly have taken photographs at night without a flash, then Perigord twitched an eyebrow at Deane. ‘With your permission?’

‘Yes,’ said Deane. ‘Get busy. But you have a watching brief, that’s all.’

Perigord left, and Deane said, ‘As I started to say, you have come up with an oddity. You have suggested a crime, or a series of crimes, with no hard evidence — merely a chain of suppositions.’

‘No evidence! What about the ampoules taken from Carrasco?’

‘Those won’t be evidence until we find what is in them, and Perigord tells me that will take four days. We flew an ampoule to Nassau during the night. So far the whole affair is very misty. A lot of strange things have been happening around you, and don’t think my deputy has not kept me informed. Now, these events are subject to many interpretations, as all subjective evidence is.’

‘Subjective!’ I said incredulously. ‘My first wife disappeared and my daughter was found dead; there’s nothing bloody subjective about that. My second wife and I were kidnapped; I suppose we dreamed it up. There have been two cases of disease in hotels and that’s fact, Commissioner, bloody hard fact.’

‘What is subjective is your interpretation of these events,’ said Deane. ‘You have brought in a number of events — the breakdown of a baggage carousel at the airport, a fire, an air crash, and a number of other things, and the only connection you can offer is your interpretation. Just give me one piece of hard evidence, something I can put before a court — that’s all I ask.’

‘You’ve got it — the ampoules.’

‘I’ve got nothing, until four days from now. And what’s in the ampoules might prove to be a cough cure.’

‘You can prove it right now,’ I said. ‘Just take one of those ampoules, break it, and inhale deeply. But don’t ask me to be in the same room when you do it.’

Deane smiled unexpectedly. ‘You’re a stubborn man. No, I won’t do that because you may be right. In fact, I think you are right.’ He stood up and began to pace the room. ‘Your interpretation of events dovetails with a number of mysteries which have been occupying my mind lately.’

I sighed. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘A lot of telephoning was done during the night. We now know that Dr Luis Carrasco is unknown at 226 Avenida Bolivar in Caracas.’

That was disappointing. ‘Another lead gone,’ I said dejectedly.

‘Negative findings can be useful,’ observed Deane. ‘It tells us, for instance, that he was bent, that he had something to hide.’ He added casually, ‘Of course, now we know his real name all becomes clear.’

I sat up. ‘You know who he is?’

‘When you sealed his hotel room you did well. We could make nothing of the fingerprints so we passed them on to the Americans, and their report came on that telephone just before you arrived here. Carrasco turns out to be one Serafin Perez.’

That meant nothing to me. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Not many people have,’ said Deane. ‘He liked his anonymity. Perez is — was — a Cuban, a hardline communist and Moscow-trained. He was with Che Guevara when Guevara tried to export the revolution, but he broke with Guevara because he thought Guevara was mishandling the business. As it turned out Perez proved to be right and Guevara wrong. Since then he’s been busy and a damn sight more successful than Che. He’s been pitching up all over the place — Grenada, Nicaragua, Martinique, Jamaica. Notice anything about that list?’

‘The hot spots,’ I said. ‘Grenada has gone left, so has Nicaragua. Jamaica is going, and the French are holding on to Martinique with their finger tips.’

‘I believe Perez was here during the riots in Nassau. There was a certain amount of justification for that trouble, but not to the length of riot. Many of the rioters had no direct connection and I smelled a rent-a-mob. Now I know who rented it.’

‘So much for Carrasco-Perez,’ I said. ‘A white ant.’

Deane looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When I was at Cambridge I knew a South African. He once said something which had me baffled and I asked him to explain it. He said he had been white-anted; apparently it’s a common South African idiom. A white ant is what we would call a termite, Commissioner.’

Deane grunted. ‘Don’t talk to me about termites,’ he said sourly. ‘I’ve just discovered that my house is infested. It’s going to cost me five thousand dollars — probably more.’

I said, ‘You take a wooden post or a beam in a house. It looks good and solid until you hit it, then it collapses into a heap of powder — the termites have got into it. When the South African said he’d been white-anted he meant he’d been undermined without his knowledge. In his case it was student politics — something to do with the student union. Commissioner, the Bahamas are being white-anted. We’re being attacked at our most vulnerable point — tourism.’

‘A good analogy,’ said Deane thoughtfully. ‘It’s true that the Ministry of Tourism is perturbed about the fall in the number of visitors lately. So is the Prime Minister — there was a special Cabinet meeting last week. And there’s more political unrest. Fewer tourists means more unemployment, and that is being exploited. But we need evidence — the Prime Minister demands it. Any crack-down without evidence would lead to accusations of police interference in political matters. The Prime Minister doesn’t want the Bahamas to have the reputation of being a police state — that wouldn’t do much for tourism, either.’

‘Then investigate the sinking of that tanker in Exuma Sound last night. The report mentioned a twenty-mile oil slick only eight hours after she went down. If that’s true the oil came out awfully fast. If I were you I’d question the skipper closely — if he’s still around. Don’t wait for the official inquiry; regard it as a police matter.’

‘By God!’ said Deane. ‘I hadn’t made that connection.’

‘And find Robinson,’ I said. ‘What do you know about him?’

‘Nothing at all. Your Mr Robinson is an unknown quantity.’

Perigord came in. ‘Capistrano just left Running Mon marina, heading east along the coast.’

East! ‘Making for the Grand Lucayan Waterway and the north coast,’ I said. ‘Florida next stop.’

‘What kind of a boat is she?’ asked Deane.

‘Sixty-foot motor yacht, white hull,’ said Perigord. ‘I don’t think she’s all that fast, she’s a displacement type according to the management of Running Mon. She put into the marina during the night with engine trouble. Had it fixed this morning.’

I looked at Deane who was sitting immobile. ‘What are we waiting for? You have a fast police launch, and Capistrano is still in Bahamian waters.’

‘So we put men aboard, search her, and find nothing. Then what?’ Deane stood up. ‘I’ll tell you what would happen next. We’d have to let her go — with profuse apologies. If your Mr Robinson is as clever as you say we would certainly not find anything because there would be nothing to be found.’

‘But you might find Robinson,’ I said. ‘He could be aboard and he’s wanted for kidnapping in Texas.’

‘Not so,’ contradicted Deane. ‘A man calling himself Robinson is wanted for questioning concerning a kidnapping in Texas. He cannot possibly be extradited merely for questioning. We would have to let him go. He has committed no crime in the Bahamas for which we have evidence — as yet.’

‘Robinson might not be on board, anyway,’ said Perigord.

‘Then aren’t you going to do anything?’ I demanded desperately.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Deane blandly. He lifted his eyebrows interrogatively at Perigord. ‘I hope your contingency planning is working well.’

‘It is. A fast Customs boat will pass Capistrano and enter the Lucayan Waterway ahead of her. There’ll be another behind. Once she’s in the Waterway she’s bottled up. Then we put the Customs officers aboard her.’

‘But I thought you said...’ I was bewildered.

‘We might as well try,’ said Deane smoothly. ‘Who knows what the Customs officers might find if they search thoroughly enough. Cocaine, perhaps?’

I opened my mouth again, then shut it firmly. If this pair was about to frame Robinson by planting cocaine on his boat they would certainly not admit it to me, but it seemed that Deane was a hard case who was not above providing his own evidence. After all, all he had to do was to keep Robinson in the Bahamas for four days.

‘We had better be on hand,’ Deane said casually. ‘You’ll come, too — you can identify Robinson.’ He picked up the photograph of Carrasco-Perez. ‘And I shall certainly want to question those on board about their association with Perez. We rendezvous at the Casuarina Bridge in thirty minutes.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

Hoping and praying that Robinson would be aboard Capistrano I drove the few hundred yards to the Royal Palm knowing that Billy Cunningham would want to be in at the kill. As soon as he saw me he said, ‘Capistrano was in a marina called Running Mon, but she’s gone now.’

I said, ‘I know. The police are going to pick her up.’

‘Is Robinson on board?’

‘I hope so. I’m joining Perigord and Deane. They want me to identify Robinson. Want to come along?’

‘Try stopping me,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting that son of a bitch.’

I made a decision. ‘We’ll go by boat. Let’s go down to the marina.’

We found Joe Cartwright in the marina office. I popped my head around the door, and said, ‘I want the rescue boat, Joe; with a full tank.’

Cartwright looked up. ‘Can’t be done, Mr Mangan. Got the engine out of her. Tuning her up for the BASRA Marathon next month.’

‘Damn! What else have we that’s fast and seaworthy?’

‘What about the inflatable?’ he suggested. ‘She’s not bad.’

‘Get her ready.’

Within minutes we were at sea, roaring east along the south coast towards the Lucayan Waterway. Some people feel uncomfortable about being in a blow-up boat but they are very good. They are unsinkable, and the British even use them as lifeboats for inshore rescue. And they are damned fast even if they do tend to skitter a bit on the surface of the water.

I told Billy about the plan of attack, and presently I pointed. ‘There’s the Waterway, and that’s the Customs launch just turning in. We’ve got Capistrano trapped.’

I slowed as we entered the Waterway. The Casuarina Bridge was nearly two miles ahead, and in the distance I could see the Customs launch lying next to a white-hulled boat. ‘They’ve got her.’ We motored on and drew alongside the Customs launch where I tossed the painter to a seaman and cut the engine. ‘Let’s go aboard.’

As we stepped on to Capistrano’s deck I was accosted by a Customs officer. ‘Who are you?’

‘Tom Mangan.’ I looked up at the bridge and saw Perigord and Deane looking down. ‘I’m with Commissioner Deane.’ Three men stood on the after deck. None of them was Robinson. ‘That the crew?’

‘Yes; skipper, engineer and seaman-cum-cook.’

‘No one else?’

‘We’re still looking. I’ve got men searching below.’

One of the three men approached us. ‘Hell, Captain, this is crazy. We’re not carrying anything illegal. We’re just on a cruise.’ He was an American.

‘Then you have nothing to worry about,’ said the Customs man.

‘Well, I’ve gotta get back before the bad weather blows up. Did you hear the weather report? If you don’t let me go I’ll have to see the American consul here.’

‘I’ll give you his address,’ said the officer blandly.

Another Customs man emerged from a hatch. ‘No one below,’ he reported.

‘Are you sure?’ I said.

‘We opened up every compartment big enough to hold a man.’

‘It’s a bust,’ said Billy disgustedly.

Deane and Perigord had come down from the bridge and were picking their way along the shore towards us. I looked around the deck of Capistrano and stiffened as I noticed that the stern davits were empty. I swung around to face the skipper. ‘Where’s the dory — your tender?’

‘Mr Brown took it.’

‘Brown? Who’s he?’

‘The guy who chartered this boat back in Fort Lauderdale.’

‘When was this?’

‘Just as soon as we entered this canal. He said he’d have a final spin and he’d meet us at the other end at the north shore.’

‘Christ, he’s given us the slip.’ I looked at the Customs man. ‘You must have been following him too closely and he took fright — or an insurance policy. If you weren’t going to stop Capistrano there’d be no harm done and he’d rejoin her on the north shore. But you did and his insurance has paid off.’

‘He won’t get far. He’ll run into the boat at the other end.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Billy. ‘This guy plays real cute.’ He gave an exasperated snort. ‘Brown, for God’s sake!’

The skipper said, ‘Will someone tell me what the hell’s going on?’

I turned and stepped on to the Customs launch. ‘Come on. Let’s go after him.’ Billy followed me.

We dropped down into the inflatable, and just before I started the engine I heard Deane bellow, ‘Mangan, come back!’ I ignored him and drowned his voice in a staccato roar as I twisted the throttle. We shot under the bridge and I looked back to see Deane on the deck of Capistrano. He was waving frantically.

Billy chuckled. ‘I guess he’s wondering what will happen to Robinson if we get to him first.’ He suddenly had an automatic pistol in his hand.

‘Put that damn thing away,’ I said. ‘If Deane knows you have it you’re for the chop. And we don’t want murder.’

‘Not murder,’ said Billy. ‘Execution.’ But he put the gun back into its holster.

The Lucayan Waterway stretched ahead of us and there was nothing to be seen on its surface. On either side there were occasional inlets leading to the proposed residential estates on which no houses had yet been built — the water maze. It all went by in a blur as I cranked up to top speed.

‘Something ahead — coming this way,’ said Billy.

It was a small dot in the middle of the Waterway which rapidly grew in size under the influence of our combined speeds. ‘The dory!’ I said.

‘And something coming up behind it,’ said Billy. ‘The other Customs launch?’

‘I hope not,’ I said.

There was no time to explain why because I was busy trying to ram the approaching boat. I pulled on the tiller but the dory went the other way in an evading manoeuvre, and as it flashed past I saw the man at the wheel pointing at me. Something hit the side with a thwack and there was the hiss of escaping air.

‘Goddamn!’ said Billy.

I twisted the boat in the water and cut speed. ‘This boat is compartmented. One hole won’t make much difference.’ I looked around. There was no sign of the dory.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Billy. ‘But if I’m shot at I’m going to shoot back and to hell with Deane.’ The gun was in his hand again.

I could not argue with that. ‘It was Robinson; I saw him. Where did he go?’

Billy pointed to an inlet on the port side. ‘He shot down that rabbit hole.’

The boat that had chased Robinson from the north shore was almost upon us. I stood up and waved with both hands, and as it approached it slowed. A Customs officer leaned from the wheelhouse, and I yelled, ‘Get back to the north shore, you damn fool. Keep the cork in the bloody bottle. If he gets past he can lose you.’

‘Who are you to give orders?’

‘If you want to argue do it with Commissioner Deane. Now, get the hell back and guard that bloody entrance.’

The officer withdrew and the launch began to turn in the water. There was a metallic click as Billy put a round into the breech of his pistol. ‘How to make friends and influence people.’ He snapped off the safety catch. ‘What do we do now?’

‘I don’t know.’ I wished I had a map. ‘Winkling him out of there won’t be easy, but if we don’t he can ditch the dory and make an escape overland. He could lose himself in the pine barrens to the east, and it would take a damned army to find him.’

Billy pointed down the Waterway. ‘A boat’s coming. Your friend the Commissioner, no doubt.’

I slipped the clutch on the idling engine and we began to move slowly. ‘We’re going in — but easy.’

I took the boat into the inlet, the engine putt-putting quietly, and we immediately came to a cross canal. ‘Which way?’ said Billy.

I tossed a mental coin. ‘To starboard,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’ We turned to the right and went on for about a hundred yards and came to another junction. Straight on or turn to the left? This was impossible — worse than Hampton Court Maze — and there were forty-five miles of it.

From behind came the noise of a rapidly accelerating engine, and Billy shouted, ‘We went the wrong way! Go back!’

I spun the throttle and slammed over the tiller, and I was in time to see Robinson’s dory shooting across the canal and into the main artery of the Waterway. As it went Billy popped off a shot and then was thrown back as the boat picked up speed and the bow rose into the air.

We slalomed round the corner and nearly ran into a Customs boat in the Waterway, scooting under its stern and missing by the thickness of a playing card. I twisted the throttle to slow, and kicked over the tiller so as to avoid hitting the opposite bank, then I looked around. The damned dory had disappeared again so I hailed the launch. ‘Where did he go?’

Deane was on deck. ‘Mangan, get out of here, and take your friend. This is no place for heroics from civilians.’

I repeated, ‘Where did he go?’

The launch moved so as to be between me and an inlet. ‘He moved in here — but it’s no business of yours. Perigord is organizing reinforcements. Is he Robinson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s your friend?’

‘If you want to know, why don’t you ask me?’ said Billy. ‘I’m Billy Cunningham and I want that bastard, Robinson.’

‘Mr Cunningham, I see you’re holding a gun. You’d better not have it on your person when we meet again. You’d better drop it over the side.’

‘In a pig’s eye,’ said Billy. He pointed to the hole in the rubber and fabric side of the boat. ‘Robinson came out shooting.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Deane. ‘We have excellent jails. Mangan, go away. I want to see you going back down the Waterway.’

‘Let’s go,’ I said quietly, and turned the boat away.

‘Your goddamn cops!’ said Billy disgustedly. ‘You’d think he’d want our help, even thank us for it.’

‘Be quiet!’ I said. ‘I’m thinking.’

Again I wished I had a map. I had used the Waterway many times when I had Lucayan Girl, but I had always stuck to the main channel and had not bothered to explore the maze. Now I wished I had. I had a map of Freeport-Lucaya in my office and I tried to visualize the layout of the Waterway.

We went on a mile down the Waterway and came to another inlet on the same side as the one blocked by the Customs launch. I said, ‘We’re going in here.’

‘Is there a through connection?’

‘No.’

‘Then what’s the use?’

I said, ‘Billy, every section of this water-riddled bit of real estate has but one connection with the main channel, like the one we’re in now. Deane knows that and he’s sitting there like a terrier outside a rabbit hole waiting for Robinson to come out. Robinson may not know that and if he doesn’t he’ll be looking for another way out. So what happens when he can’t find one?’

‘He’ll leave the boat and take to land.’

‘Yes. And he’s on the town side this time. It wouldn’t be too hard for him to steal a car, and he stands a sporting chance of getting away. I think Deane is counting on Robinson wasting enough time looking for an exit to allow Perigord to bring up his reinforcements, and I think he’s taking a hell of a chance.’

‘So?’

‘So we’re going in to chase him into Deane’s arms.’

‘How in hell are we going to do that if there’s no interconnection?’

‘Portage,’ I said. ‘Now I’m glad we came in this boat and not the other.’

I had timed the minutes we had taken to get from one inlet to the other, and had kept a constant speed. Now we were going back, parallelling the Waterway on a minor canal. I reckoned that when we got half-way that would be the place to go overland. Presently I said, ‘This should be it. We put ashore straight ahead.’

I cut the engine and we drifted until the boat nosed the bank. ‘Keep your voice down,’ I said. ‘Robinson could very well be just on the other side of here.’

We went ashore and hauled out the inflatable. ‘We’ll take a look across there before carrying the boat over. And keep your head down.’ We walked over limestone rubble and then over an unused paved road, built for the traffic that had never come. On the other side of the road I dropped into a crouch and then on to my belly as I neared the edge of the next canal.

I peered over the bank and everything was peaceful. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the water and there was no sign of Robinson’s dory. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and looked to the left. In the middle distance I was a half-constructed house, and a man was working on the roof. I returned my attention to the canal. ‘Okay. Let’s bring up the boat.’

Billy looked back. ‘A long haul,’ he said. ‘Nearly two hundred yards.’

‘We’ll unship the engine,’ I said. ‘And the inflatable has carrying straps.’

It was hot and heavy work but we finally made the portage and were sitting in the boat with the engine resecured on the transom. I was about to start up when Billy said, ‘Listen!’

Someone in the half-built house was using a hammer, but under the rhythmic knocking I heard the faraway growl of an outboard engine. It grew louder, and I said, ‘He’s coming this way. Let’s move it.’

I started the engine, hoping that Robinson would not hear it over the noise of his own, and we moved off. I kept the pace slow and, when we had gone about 200 yards and come to a junction, I killed the engine. Again we heard the sound of another outboard motor, this time distinctly louder. Billy was moving his head from side to side to locate the direction. ‘To the left,’ he said, and took out his gun.

I restarted the engine and pushed over the tiller, and we moved to the left and towards the house in the distance.There was a bend ahead and I moved to the inside curve, still travelling slowly because I wanted to keep quiet. Over the sound of our own engine I heard the noise of another.

‘There he is,’ said Billy, and I saw the dory coming towards us on the other side of the canal on the outside of the bend. I twisted the throttle and the boat bucked at the sudden application of power. Then we were on to him and Billy was shooting, but so was Robinson. Even as Billy fired, a bullet impacted inboard close to my hand and again there was the hiss of escaping air. Robinson was too damn good with his shooting; he had fired but two shots and had hit us both times, and although I had told Billy the inflatable was compartmented Robinson had punctured two air chambers out of the five.

Then he was past us and I slammed over the tiller, already feeling the difference in the behaviour of the boat; she was slow to come about and not as easily controlled. But Billy shouted, ‘He’s stopped. I hit his engine.’

I twisted and looked back. The dory was drifting into the bank and, as it touched, Robinson leapt ashore and began to run. He paused and snapped one shot at us before disappearing behind one of the heaps of grey limestone rubble, the spoil left from the dredging of the canal.

‘Let’s get after him,’ urged Billy.

I needed no urging. Already I was heading for the bank and standing, ready to jump. Our feet hit the ground simultaneously, and Billy said, ‘We’ll tackle him from two sides.’ He gestured with his pistol. ‘You go that way and keep your head down.’ He ran in the other direction.

I ran to the nearest heap of limestone and dropped flat before peering around it cautiously. There was no sign of Robinson. From behind I heard the sound of engines so I looked back to see the Customs launch coming up the canal, fairly boiling along at top speed. Deane must have heard the shots and decided to come in.

I ignored it and turned again to look for Robinson. We were quite close to the house and there were now two men on the roof, and one of them was pointing at something. I followed the direction of his arm, got to my feet, and began to run. Skidding around another heap of rubble I came across Robinson about ten yards away. He had his back to me, and beyond him I saw Billy come into sight.

I was late in the tackle. Before I could get to him Robinson fired and Billy dropped in his tracks. But then I was on to him and I had no mercy. His pistol went flying and it took Deane and two of his men to prise my hands from Robinson’s neck.

Deane hauled me to my feet and pushed me away, standing between me and Robinson. ‘That’s enough!’ he said curtly.

I heard a car door slam and saw Perigord walking over from a police car near the house. I regained my breath, and said, ‘Then get the bastard out of my sight before I kill him.’ I turned and walked towards Billy.

He was sitting up, his hand to his head, and when he took it away it was red with blood. ‘He creased me!’ he said blankly. ‘Jesus, but it hurts!’ There was an unfocused look to his eyes, a sign of concussion. I stooped, picked up his gun, and walked to the water’s edge and tossed it into the canal. Then I went back and helped him to his feet.

‘You’re lucky you’re not dead,’ I said. ‘Be glad it hurts; it means you’ll live.’

Already he was looking better. He glanced across at Deane and saw Robinson still prostrate on the ground. ‘Well, we’ve got him.’

‘Yes,’ I said shortly. Deane would not now need any excuse for holding Robinson. Any man who popped off a gun was automatically his prey — including Billy. Still, Deane had not seen Billy shoot, so, as we walked towards him, I said, ‘I ditched your gun in the canal.’

‘Thanks.’

Robinson sat up and Deane was addressing him in fast, fluent Spanish. Among the spate of words I heard the name Perez, repeated several times. Robinson shook his head and replied in Spanish, and then switched into English, with the same plummy accent I had come to know in Texas. ‘I’m a soldier of the revolution,’ he said pompously. ‘And now a prisoner of war. I will answer no questions.’ He got to his feet.

‘Prisoner of war?’ said Billy unbelievingly. ‘The guy’s nuts!’

‘He’s a bloody murderer,’ I said.

‘But that’s for a court to decide, Mr Mangan,’ said Perigord.

Deane took out handcuffs and then paused, looking at Billy expressionlessly. ‘Search this man,’ he said.

Billy grinned widely as Perigord’s hands expertly patted his body. ‘What gun?’ he said. ‘I took your advice. It was good.’

It was then that Robinson made his break. He thumped the nearest Customs officer in the gut, sending him to the ground writhing and retching, and took off, running towards the house. He took us all by surprise. Deane dropped the handcuffs and broke into a run, with me at his heels.

The builders at the house had stopped work and were now all on the roof, a good vantage point to view the morning’s unexpected entertainment. The sole exception was the driver of a truck which had just arrived. He had got out, leaving the door open and the engine idling, and was calling to the men on the roof. Robinson clouted him in passing and he staggered back to collide with Deane and they both went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

By that time Robinson was in the cab and the engine of the truck roared. I leaped over the sprawled bodies of Deane and the driver and jumped for the cab, but it was too late and the truck was moving. I missed and fell to the ground. By the time I had picked myself up the truck was speeding up the road.

I saw Perigord getting into his car so I ran and piled in next to him just as he drove off with a squeal of rubber and a lot of wheel spin. He drove with one hand while unhooking the microphone of his radio from its bracket. He began to give brief but precise instructions, and I gathered that he was remarshalling his forces.

The truck was still in sight and we were gaining on it. It turned left on to East Sunrise Highway, and I said, ‘He’ll be going on to Midshipman Road, by the Garden of the Groves.’

‘Yes,’ said Perigord, and spoke into the microphone again.

The Garden of the Groves is one of the more sedate of our tourist attractions, the name being a punning one because the 100-acre gardens are dedicated to the memory of Wallace Groves, the founder of Freeport. There were always tourists wandering about that area and the chances were that Robinson could kill someone, travelling at the speed he was.

We sped down East Sunrise and turned on to Midshipman, and by then we were within fifty yards of the truck. A car shot out of a side road and hit the truck a glancing blow and Perigord braked hard as it crashed into a palm tree. I fumbled for the door handle as I saw Robinson jump from the cab and run towards the Garden.

Perigord was out before me, and he did something surprising — he threw his swagger stick at Robinson. It flew straight as an arrow and hit Robinson at the nape of the neck and he fell in a tumbled heap in the road.

Perigord was about to go to him but jumped back as a big double-decker London bus came around the corner. The driver swerved to avoid the crashed truck and his brakes squealed, but it was too late. The bus brushed past Perigord but one wheel went over Robinson’s head.