The Lasko Tangent

Eighteen

By two the next afternoon, my airplane hovered over St. Maarten. It was green and white, surrounded by vivid blue. I wished it were winter, and vacation.

I felt the searing heat as soon as we landed. By the time I got my bags and checked through customs, I was moist and enervated. I walked toward a line of cars parked expectantly at the end of the airstrip. The nearest one was an old Oldsmobile. The driver leaned against it with elaborate casualness. I don’t give a damn for you, his face said, but you’re a living.

I didn’t give a damn either. “Give me a lift to Philipsburg?”

He nodded and tossed my bags carelessly into his trunk. I opened my own door. Welcome to friendly St. Maarten.

We drove in silence through low green brush on a choppy slash of dirt and rock, past huts of wood and corrugated metal. It wasn’t hard to see: tourists arrived each winter like migratory birds and were chauffered past the huts, chattering about the white sand and blue water. They didn’t see the stony faces or shabby huts; if they had, they wouldn’t have chattered. The ones that saw felt guilty, and went to Palm Springs next year. And the natives despised them all and took their money. And despised them more. Which was stupid, in a way. Looking at the black rock, you knew the natives needed the tourists, not the other way around. We passed another hut, with a sad skinny goat tethered to it. Like a lot of things, it was tough to get moral about it, either way. But I was probably going to Palm Springs next year.

We came up on Philipsburg. It was not a likely spot for a Lasko enterprise. The town was mostly one-story stucco, with some metal and wood signs that needed paint, scattered along a few cramped streets. It had a desultory, absent-minded look, as if it had been thrown together a little at a time. The asphalt streets were crowded by trucks, jeeps, and some cars, most of them old enough to enhance the junkyard ambiance. The streets themselves were quiet and veined with cracks and lent the parked cars and trucks an abandoned quality. A few palms stood on scattered patches of grass, along with some leafy shade trees I couldn’t identify. The main thing was the heat; it was so wet you could almost see it. It seemed to have seeped into the wood and the metal and the cracks in the sidewalk. And into the movements of the few islanders-a listless amble. I felt a little like that myself.

The driver dropped me at the Government House, where the police were. This neighborhood was better-some large two-story white frames, freshly painted. The government building had a red tiled roof and a long covered porch. I pulled back the screen door and stepped into a pale green reception room presided over by a serious young black man in gold-framed glasses. I put down my luggage and asked for Inspector De Jonge. He directed me to a wooden chair in front of his desk and picked up the phone.

I waited for about five minutes. Then a bulky man in khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt jogged down the stairway. He came up to me, and shook my hand.

“Mr. Paget, I’m Henrik De Jonge. Would you care to come to my office?” His voice was soft and lightly accented.

“Yes, thanks.”

I followed him up the stairs and around the corner, into a broad hall that had once been the second floor of someone’s home. De Jonge’s office was on the left, also light green. It was small but neat, with a large overhead fan. He had a wooden desk, very uncluttered, and one chair stuck in front of it. The fan and shade made the office bearable, no more. I took the chair and looked around. The walls were bare save for an official portrait of a much younger Queen Juliana and Prince Bernhard, pre-Lockheed. De Jonge’s age was harder to peg. He had a full thatch of dirty-blonde hair, a creased young-old face, and clear blue eyes, but he slumped tiredly in his chair. I put the slump down to the white man’s burden and guessed late thirties. I kept wondering how he got there.

De Jonge was playing with a meerschaum pipe, watching me watch him. “Well, Mr. Paget, what can we do for you?”

“It’s really no more than I explained on the telephone yesterday. As far as I know, we’re not investigating any Dutch nationals. Just the one American. William Lasko.”

He pulled a tobacco pouch from his desk drawer by feel, still looking at me. “And you want to visit Mr. Lasko’s company here.”

“That’s right.”

He carefully pinched some tobacco into his pipe. “And this relates to what, precisely?”

“We suspect-we don’t know, but we suspect-that the acquisition of Carib Imports may relate to some stock market activities by Lasko, done in America and illegal under American law.” I searched for a formula that sounded safe. “All my agency really wants is information as to where at home we should look. There’s a man at the company I’d like to talk with-a Peter Martinson.”

He lit his pipe, glancing sideways at the picture, as if Juliana were watching him. “After you called, I spoke to the Governor-General’s office on Curacao. I can assist you to the extent of visiting the company and getting you the records you requested.” He sounded very cautious, like a bureaucrat. The thought must have crossed my face; his tone changed abruptly. “You understand, Mr. Paget, that these islands are very poor. We encourage foreign investment. The philosophy is-and it is not my choice-that one does not have to be a saint to do business in the Antilles.”

That was hardly a sunburst. But it was an explanation of a sort, the best he could make. I didn’t have his job and didn’t want it. “I understand, Inspector. We appreciate any assistance you can give.” I looked at my watch. “Have you time to visit the company now?”

He stood. “I can manage it. We can find a jeep and driver downstairs.”

The driver was a young black policeman named Duval, with sharp eyes and a strong grip. He steered us to a jeep and piloted us expertly through the narrow streets to the outskirts of Philipsburg. A corrugated metal warehouse stood in a patch of dirt and rock behind a scrofulous strip of cement. The warehouse was long, low, and singed with rust. A metal door was the only front entrance. We got out and approached it. Screwed next to the door was a heavy bronze sign, incongruously new, reading “Carib Imports.” I looked at the warehouse, a little amused. Pictures of this one would never grace the company bulletin.

We stepped inside, into a passageway between metal partitions. The partitions looked new and formed three offices on each side. The offices were empty. The passageway led through them to a large warehouse area, grubby bare cement half-filled with boxes and half-lit by hanging fluorescent tubes. A couple of workmen in sleeveless T-shirts were restacking boxes in a corner, clearing space. On the far wall of the warehouse a half-opened door admitted a crack of sunlight and some wet air. In one corner a wooden stall stood open, a dirty toilet visible. I craned my neck, searching for someone who looked like a Peter Martinson.

I settled for the only white face I saw, a stocky, blunt-featured man with thinning red hair. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt and leaned in a far corner idly watching the workmen. We stood at the end of the partition until he spotted us. His gaze across the warehouse seemed to flick past the two police, then settle on me, as if I were expected. He gave the workmen a last careless inspection and sauntered over with a kind of calculated aggression.

“Yes?” he asked. His tone was as expressionless as his face.

I let De Jonge do the talking. He gave the man an even stare, neither impressed nor unimpressed. “I’m Inspector De Jonge,” he began, “and this”-he nodded at me-“is Mr. Paget, who is here representing the United States government. We wish to speak to Mr. Martinson.”

The man spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. “Mr. Martinson is not here.”

“When may he be expected?”

“I don’t know.” His voice seemed to push us toward the door.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Kendrick.” Kendrick was definitely not interested in talk. Each word had a grudging quality.

“What is your position here?”

“Working. Not talking.”

De Jonge’s voice was patient. “Nonetheless, we would like to talk for a moment.”

Kendrick shrugged and led us silently to a partitioned office nearest the door. He moved behind a bare metal desk and sat. De Jonge and I took two chairs across from him. Duval stood apart, marking Kendrick with sharp eyes as if filing him away.

De Jonge was talking to Kendrick. “I think,” he said, “that Mr. Paget wishes to make some inquiries.”

I nodded. “My agency is curious as to the business of this company.” Kendrick looked back at me in silence. He didn’t ask what my agency was or why we were curious. I didn’t like that, any more than I liked Martinson’s vague absence.

“What exactly is the business of Carib Imports?” I asked.

He folded his arms. “I am not authorized to speak for the company. You’ll have to ask Mr. Martinson when he returns.”

“Hasn’t anyone told you?”

The sarcasm stirred him a little. He flushed. “It should be obvious. We import electronic chips.”

“From Yokama Electric?”

His eyes flickered. “That is not a familiar name.”

“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.