Penny or Montefiore? The marina or the lie de France tower? I fancied the sea air and drove to the first of the two marinas. No boat called You Beaut, a name that seemed to mystify the French speakers I questioned, or maybe it was just my halting phrase-book French and bad accent. A lot of money bobbing along on the water here, and if you had enough of it yourself you could charter a luxury game fishing boat to go out and catch marlin. Pretend you were Zane Grey or Lee Marvin, Hemingway even. All as dead now as the fish they were so fond of catching.
Noumea came into its own a bit down here. The Gare Maritime des lies had a genuine working port look to it with slightly rusty, battered cargo boats loading and unloading. Apparently there was a lot of trade and cargo shifting between the islands and these ships did most of it. Somerset Maugham territory, possibly still with alcoholic doctors and tormented captains.
The second marina was across the way-more money and frolicking in the sun. I located Penny’s boat moored about halfway along it. I know nothing about boats. The You Beaut was white and big, sharp at one end and blunt at the other. It had a lot of brass railing and a high cabin mounted near the front with a long aerial waving in the light breeze. It looked very clean, almost too clean, and I remembered that Rosito had said Penny was trying to sell it. It had the same look as a house a day or two away from the auction when the owners run around picking up every scrap of paper and wiping away every spot of dirt.
I stood on the dock and hailed the boat in a tentatively loud voice. A number of other owners were working on their boats or lazing about. They took an interest in me and I was out of place as someone obviously non-nautical. ‘Hello, the You Beaut,’ I yelled, feeling silly doing it and even sillier when I had to do it again.
A man’s head followed by his body appeared from the middle of the boat. He was tall and spare and looked as if he’d been born out in the sun and never gone inside. He was the colour of teak with sun-bleached hair and long, toned muscles in all the right places. All he wore was a pair of denim shorts faded to the colour of his eyes. He held a mobile phone in his hand and he gestured for me to wait while he spoke into it. A few words, that was all.
‘Are you Hardy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Come aboard.’
I eased down onto the short gangplank; a section of the railing had been slid clear and I stepped through to the deck. Penny dropped the mobile into the back pocket of his shorts and stuck out his hand.
‘Gidday. Reg Penny.’
‘Cliff Hardy, but you know that.’ I shook a hand with more calluses on it than smooth skin. ‘Who told you? Rosito or Rivages?’
‘Both, mate. I’ve been expecting you. Gabe said you liked a beer. Want one?’
‘No, thanks. Bit early. So you know why I’m here.’
‘Sure. All about Stewie Master. We’d better get out of the sun, you’re gonna burn. Doesn’t feel that hot but it’s deceptive. Follow me and watch your head.’
Barefooted and agile, he moved forward, instinctively ducking under ropes and other nautical things I’m ignorant of. The boat was bobbing gently at its mooring. I was in deck pants, a sports shirt and sneakers and felt overdressed, again. I followed him to a hatch and down a set of steps to a tight space with a built-in bench, seats and kitchen fittings.
Both big men, we wedged ourselves in on either side of the bench. Penny gestured at the stove. ‘I could make coffee or something.’
I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. I suppose you’re just going to confirm everything Rosito said to me-you don’t know anything about Master and drugs. All news to you. Poor Stewie. Business deal fell through and you’re just here trying to sell your boat.’
He surprised me then by throwing back his head and letting out a bellow of a laugh that ended in an alarming wheeze. ‘That fuckin’ Gabe. He’s full of shit. Most of what he said’s right but I’m not selling the yacht. Yacht, not boat. No way.’
‘Why would he say that?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s Gabe. Always sorta big-noting. Him and his Caldoche widow. You heard about that?’
I nodded.
‘She’s a looker all right, but he’s got Buckley’s.’
‘What about Rivages?’
‘What about him?’
‘He fronted up to me at the hotel this morning, or rather his heavy did.’
‘Sione.’
‘Right. Sione.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all just fun and games. Pascal likes to come on as… you know.’
‘The Abe Saffron of Noumea.’
He laughed again. ‘Yeah, and it’s about as real as that. There’s no fair dinkum crime here. The lid’s on the joint real tight. Everyone’s got it too cushy.’
‘So where did Stewart Master get a couple of keys of heroin?’
‘Search me, mate. I’ve got no idea.’
I examined him closely before I spoke again. He was older than he looked, possibly in his mid-forties and keeping the years at bay with physical activity. The hair was receding a bit and on inspection the yacht wasn’t quite as spiffy downstairs as up on top. The paperback books and magazines on a shelf had a well-thumbed look and there was a flat, almost empty, small packet of cigarette tobacco. Rollies, the economic choice.
I leaned slightly towards him across the bench top. ‘I didn’t mention this to Rosito, but I’ve got some money to pay out for information.’
‘How much?’
‘Depends. Why’re you guys all so defensive and sticking together? Why did Rivages virtually threaten me? Why did Rory McCloud shoot through?’
He screwed up his face in order to think about it and crow’s feet leapt into life around his eyes. His mouth and chin sagged a little, I noticed. He wasn’t quite the boyo he made himself out to be. The old shorts fitted the image but the oil ingrained into the pads of his fingers and the dirt under the nails suggested that he was having trouble with his engine. Eventually he made up his mind.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Hardy. I’d like to get out of here but I’m strapped for cash. The engine’s buggered and the rest of the equipment isn’t too flash for a long sail.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘What d’you reckon? Back to Australia. Beats this place to a frazzle. I need nine or ten grand. Could you run to that?’
‘Have to be good information.’
‘It would be, but I’d have to have the money real quick so I could leave pronto.’
‘What’s quick?’
‘Today. Tomorrow at the latest.’
‘That’s quick all right. Give me a taste.’
He stroked his beaky nose the way some people do when they’re trying to decide. He looked around the cabin at the faded books and the torn curtain only half covering a porthole. It occurred to me that he hadn’t made up his mind about selling the boat and didn’t want to. Maybe I was giving him an out. He stopped stroking and decided.
‘Okay. One, Rory didn’t shoot through of his own accord. He disappeared. Two, Jarrod Montefiore’s the guy you need to see. He’s got a story to tell and he’ll tell it for the right kind of dough. I know where he is or at least I can find out. Gabe and Pascal don’t.’
‘He’s not at the address I’ve got, the lie de France?’
‘Moved out like me. Similar reason.’
I thought about it while he fidgeted, scratching at some sun spots on his hands. ‘That’s why you’d have to p.o.q. Because of Rosito and Pascal?’
He made a zipping motion across his mouth. It was a bit theatrical, but there was something in his faded eyes that spoke of concern, even fear.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll go into town and get the money. I’ll give you five straight off and the rest after I talk to Montefiore. That could be whenever you can arrange it.’
‘Deal. I’ll send someone with you to get the five.’
‘How do I know five isn’t enough to get you on your way?’
‘You don’t, but it isn’t.’
‘I have to tell you I’ve had a feeling that my movements are being watched. Does that worry you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take the chance.’
I drove to the bank with a silent young Kanak whose name I never learned. On presentation of my passport, the card and keying in the PIN, I was told that I could draw on the sum of close to fourteen million Pacific francs. An image of Cagney on top of the electricity supply station flashed into my mind: I made it, Ma. A millionaire! My mother would’ve laughed and ordered a champagne cocktail instead of a Para port.
I gave the youngster the equivalent of five thousand Australian dollars and he walked away without a word as if he was a mute. Maybe he was. I was finding Noumea stranger and more interesting by the hour. I’d told Penny where I was staying and he said he’d send a message when he had the information.
I walked around until I found somewhere to have a drink and a think in that order. By chance it was the Saint Hubert, one of the places mentioned in Master’s letters. I went to the bar and bought a Heineken. The glass had a plimsoll line on it so that you could tell you were getting the right amount of beer with the froth as extra. Not something I could see catching on at home. There was a bowl of nuts on the bar, a touch long departed from the places I usually drink at, and I took a modest handful over to a seat where I could look out at the city square and the passing parade. It also gave me a chance to spot interested parties.
The place had a lot going for it-a very good-looking barmaid, reasonable lighting, cooling fans and a good semi-outdoors feel. I could see why the Aussies would choose it as their watering hole. The fact that a standard beer cost the equivalent of seven Australian dollars would keep the riffraff away but would make a round pretty expensive. I hadn’t seen any drunks about, perhaps because a good skinful would cost more than it was worth. I sipped the beer and studied everything around me, still and moving, and decided that if I was being watched, the watcher was so good I’d never spot him anyway.
I had a positive feeling about Penny. There was an edge of desperation about him that just might make his contribution valuable. But then again, I’d thought Rosito was a straight shooter and that had turned out to be wrong. I told myself you can’t expect to read all the signals correctly in a foreign place. That was worth a few nuts and a good pull on the Heineken. But you can’t afford to get them consistently wrong either. The bar overlooked the city square, which had a neat, sculptured French look like the town itself. It was something like Nice, something like Marseilles, places I’d visited briefly a long time ago. If the job panned out right maybe I could go again.
I finished the beer and drove to the lie de France to check the tenant list. No sign of Penny or Montefiore. Also no sign of my tail of the day before. Maybe Rivages thought that his warning would do the trick. Or maybe he just didn’t care. I felt that I’d made reasonable progress for the time and money expended, and decided to take it easy until I heard from Penny. I went back to the hotel, swam and lunched and slept.
Later in the afternoon I did the tourist bit. I caught a ferry to the lie aux Canards, a coral atoll a kilometre or so offshore. No jetty, you waded a couple of metres to get on the boat. The crowd was thinning out from what had evidently been a busy day, but there were still people lying on thick blankets over the spiky coral and some swimming and snorkelling in the crystal water. I had a dip, had a drink at the bar and caught the ferry back. Pricey at every point, but innocent.
I had another swim in the pool and ate dinner at the Japanese restaurant in the hotel, encouraged by the fact that several groups of Japanese tourists were there already. Nothing adventurous-miso soup and teriyaki fish and a half bottle of the good dry French plonk. Signed for it, went back to my room, watched some cable news on TV and was in bed with the Maugham stories well before midnight. Nothing had been disturbed in the room and there were no messages for me. Not a bad day, I thought as I settled down. Thanks, Lorraine. Tough luck, Stewie.