2

       Spanish Cay

      It was late evening when they came into Spanish Cay and the beach was a white line of surf fringed by palm trees etched against a vivid orange sky.

      As the Grace Abounding rounded the point into Johnstown harbour, a deep-sea cruiser moved out into the channel and careless laughter drifted across the water, gay and transitory, blending into the darkness with the muted throb of the engine.

      Manning reduced speed and took the boat in towards the crumbling stone jetty that formed the east side of the harbour. A tall, handsome black in the uniform of the colonial police sat on the wall and smoked a cigarette. He got to his feet and grabbed the line Seth threw to him.

      Manning cut the engines, reached for his old reefer jacket and went out on deck where Morrison waited for him. When they climbed the rusty iron ladder to the jetty, the young policeman was sitting on the wall again.

      He smiled, showing firm white teeth. ‘Any luck, Mr Manning?’

      Manning shook his head. ‘Not a damned thing, Joe.’ He turned to Morrison. ‘Have you met Sergeant Howard yet? He stands for the Empire in these parts, or what’s left of it. Keeps us all strictly in line.’

      Morrison nodded. ‘We ran across each other when I flew in yesterday. How about joining us for a drink, sergeant?’

      ‘A little too early. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later.’

      ‘You do that,’ Morrison said and they moved away along the jetty, leaving him talking to Seth.

      They could hear the strange, pulsating rhythm of the goombay, the Nassavian version of the calypso, as they turned along the waterfront and approached the Caravel. It faced directly onto the harbour and the terrace at the front was shaded by sea-almond trees.

      Originally a cheap waterfront hotel patronized by deep-sea fishermen, sponge divers and others whose source of income was considerably more dubious, the Caravel was haunted during the season by tourists in search of atmosphere. The tariff, along with the amenities, had altered accordingly, but most of the original clientele still frequented the place.

      Except for the addition of a small casino, little of the original had been changed. Old-fashioned fans still revolved in the ceiling in preference to air conditioning and the walls contained long, illuminated tanks of tropical fish.

      The small dance floor was ringed by tightly packed tables, most of which were already occupied, for in the out-islands it was customary to dine early. A calypso band played on a small dais in one corner beside an archway which was covered by a bead curtain; several couples were dancing.

      Manning and Morrison pushed their way through the crowd and the American ordered gin slings. Jimmy Walker was sitting at the end of the bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. He wore an R.A.F. flying jacket with the insignia removed and his old uniform cap was tilted over the young, reckless face.

      He grinned at Manning. ‘Saw you anchored off Cat Cay this afternoon. Any luck?’

      Manning shook his head. ‘How’s business?’

      ‘Can’t complain. Brought in a full load from Nassau this afternoon.’

      ‘How you keep that old Walrus flying I’ll never know,’ Manning said. ‘What about another drink?’

      Walker emptied his glass and shook his head. ‘Got to refuel at the wharf, I’m taking some people over to Nassau later on to connect with the midnight flight to Miami. Tell Maria I’m sorry to miss her number.’

      ‘I’ll do that,’ Manning said gravely.

      ‘I just bet you will.’ Walker grinned impudently and turned away through the crowd.

      Manning offered Morrison a cigarette and the American said, ‘I’m not sure I care for that young man. Too cocky by half.’

      ‘A little young, that’s all,’ Manning said. ‘He thinks he’s in love.’

      ‘And isn’t he?’

      ‘Who knows? He’s at an age when you fall in love with every personable woman you meet.’

      ‘A phase I’ve never managed to grow out of, I’m happy to say.’ Morrison emptied his glass. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a bath. What about joining me for dinner later?’

      Manning shook his head. ‘Thanks all the same.’

      ‘Another time perhaps.’ Morrison opened his wallet and laid several banknotes on the bar. ‘A little something on account.’

      Manning counted the money and frowned. ‘We agreed on one-fifty a day. There’s a hundred too much here.’

      ‘I figure I owe you a new harpoon gun at least.’ Morrison grinned. ‘What time in the morning? I’m still set on getting that tuna.’

      ‘No need to be too early. I’ll meet you on the jetty at eight.’

      ‘I’ll be looking forward to it.’

      The American moved away through the crowd and Manning put the money in his hip pocket and ordered a large rum. As he lit another cigarette, the drum rolled and the dance floor cleared at once. The lights dimmed and a spot picked out the archway beside the band.

      When Maria Salas stepped through the bead curtain, there was a sudden general sigh as if the crowd had caught its breath. She was wearing black leather riding pants, a white silk shirt knotted at her waist and a black Cordoban hat tilted at an angle, shading her face.

      For a moment she stood there as if waiting for something and her fingers gently stroked the guitar and she started to sing.

      She didn’t really have a voice and yet there was something there, a touch of the night perhaps, a dying fall that caught at the back of the throat. Probably no more than half a dozen people in the room understood what she was singing about, but it didn’t matter.

      Manning remembered their first meeting that hot July afternoon. The fishing boat from Cuba packed with refugees, drifting helplessly in the gulf. It had been her tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, in spite of the situation, that had first attracted him.

      It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued, the blue-black hair tied with a scarlet ribbon and yet, in that dramatic costume, every other woman in the room faded into insignificance.

      As her song died away, there was a moment of breathless stillness followed by a roar of applause. She took it like a torero in the plaza at Mexico City, hat extended in her right hand, feet together. As Manning ordered another rum, she launched into a flamenco, dancing as she sang, stamping her high-heeled Spanish boots. She finished on a harsh, strident note that was infinitely exciting.

      This time the applause was