The Lasko Tangent

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.”

“I can imagine.” I could-but not the way she thought.

She read it. “Mr. Paget, what’s going to happen to Peter?”

“Nothing. But I need to find him. Have you any idea where he is?”

Her voice shrunk. “He wasn’t to tell me,” she hesitated.

“Damn it, Mrs. Martinson, help me out.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not the same, but I’m involved in this thing too.” Lehman’s unspoken presence thickened my speech. “You’ll help your husband best by telling me everything. Especially that.”

She gave me a candid gaze. I decided that her eyes were very nice. “Mr. Paget, I love Peter very much.”

“I won’t forget that,” I said quietly.

She touched my hand. “All I know is that Peter said he would be somewhere safe. Near Boston.”

It figured.

The Frenchman brought us dinner. She picked at it. I encouraged her, pointing out things that looked good. I asked a few more questions and turned up nothing. She was not a stupid woman, not at all. But she had abdicated responsibility for the world of men. Or, more accurately, had never presumed to have any. She was all victim, hurt and hopeful at once. And I liked her.

We finished dinner. “Do you have a picture of your husband?” I asked.

She fumbled in her purse and produced a wallet-size snapshot. “This is Peter,” she said. The warmth in her voice was crossed with fear, as if Peter might be only the picture.

The picture showed a lean man with sharp features and dark curly hair. He had all the elements of good looks. What stopped me was a sort of spurious winner’s smile. Somehow he reminded me of a guy who would show up for tennis with a graphite racket and a $100 outfit, and flash all the strokes you wish you had. And then leave you wondering why he lost.

“Can I keep it?” I asked. She nodded. I placed it carefully in an inside pocket.

The Frenchman returned, casting a doleful eye on the woman’s picked-over plate. It had a messy, abandoned look, as if someone had begun surgery and then decided to quit. It affronted his sensibilities. I cheered him up by saying that duck l’orange this fine was tough to come by. She watched the byplay with empty eyes, as if it were no more or less significant than the rest of her day. I flashed on Valerie Lehman, staring in pretty bewilderment at her nice furniture. We passed on dessert. I took her arm and steered her out the door.

The night was a dark cocoon of privacy. We walked across the street to her car. There were no buildings or people near us.

We stood by the car. “You know,” I told her, “I don’t know your name.”

It took her a second to understand. “Oh,” she answered, “it’s Tracy.”

I smiled. “I’m a believer in the importance of names. Tracy Martinson is a fine name.”

She put her hands on my lapels, half-leaning. “Please find Peter for me.”

“I’ll try not to let you down,” I said quietly. She looked up at me as if she knew what I meant. Someone else had let her down. A soft breeze blew her hair against my shoulder. I brushed it away, across her cheek. She shivered and clung to me. But this wasn’t my kind of occasion. Or hers. I waited. She pulled back.

I asked her to wait. I scribbled my hotel, office, and home numbers on a scrap of paper. I pressed it in her hand. “Will you be all right alone?”

She answered slowly. “Yes.” But she wouldn’t, at all.

I was looking at her, thinking that, when the headlights cut across her face. I turned toward the harsh glare and sudden roar of an accelerating car, racing toward us from the once-quiet street, maybe fifty feet away. In the dark it looked like a huge malevolent bug. Tracy screamed in my ear. I froze. The crazy thought bolted through my brain: “Just like Lehman.” Twenty feet. I wrenched out of it, grabbed Tracy, and hurtled sideways onto the hood of her car, feet trailing. The car squealed past as we kept rolling, off the hood and onto the grass on the other side. I held her there, face down in the grass. We heard the growl of the motor as it sped down the choppy road.

I pulled her up, and dragged her by the hand across the road. We got to the restaurant and then she leaned on my shoulder, crying softly. The Frenchman scurried up, alarmed and sympathetic. There had been an accident, I said. He sat Tracy down and steered me to the phone. I reached Duval at the Government House. I was glad of that.

He arrived in two minutes, wondering what he could do. I glanced at Tracy, sitting at the table.

“Can you watch her house?”

He nodded. “Surely. But what of you?”

“I’ll be all right. This was a warning, I think. If they had wanted to kill us, there are better ways, like two bullets in the head. But I’m not quite dangerous enough for killing. I think what they want is for her to shut up, and for me to lay off.”

“This is to do with her husband then.”

“Yes. He’s missing.”

“And you saw nothing?”

“Nothing except the car.”

We talked another moment, while I explained as much as I could. Then we retrieved Tracy. She was still white and dazed.

“It’s all right,” I told her. “The Inspector will guard your house.”

She nodded distractedly and started with Duval through the door. She stopped and turned suddenly, as if she had forgotten something.

“Thank you, Mr. Paget.”

It was a thanks I didn’t rate. I could have left her safe at home. “I’ll try to find your husband,” I promised. But I wondered if I would.

She turned and walked with Duval to his jeep. She got in and gave me a last quiet look. Then they drove away. I watched until I couldn’t see her any more. Then I drove back to the hotel.