Десмонд Бэгли: Wyatt's Hurricane

Wyatt stood uncertainly, waiting for Julie to make her excuses to Causton, but she said nothing, so he drew up another chair and sat down.

Causton said, ‘Miss Marlowe has been telling me all about you — and there’s one thing that puzzles me. What’s an Englishman doing working for the United States Navy?’

Wyatt glanced at Julie, then sized up Causton before answering. He was a short, stocky man with a square face, hair greying at the temples and shrewd brown eyes. He was English himself by his accent, but one could have been fooled by his Palm Beach suit.

‘To begin with, I’m not English,’ said Wyatt deliberately. ‘I’m a West Indian — we’re not all black, you know. I was born on St. Kitts, spent my early years on Grenada and was educated in England. As for the United States Navy, I don’t work for them, I work with them — there’s a bit of a difference there. I’m on loan from the Meteorological Office.’

Causton smiled pleasantly. ‘That explains it.’

Wyatt looked at Julie. ‘What about a drink before dinner?’

‘That is a good idea. What goes down well in San Fernandez?’

‘Perhaps Mr Wyatt will show us how to make the wine of the country — Planter’s Punch,’ said Causton. His eyes twinkled.

‘Oh, yes — do,’ exclaimed Julie. ‘I’ve always wanted to drink Planter’s Punch in the proper surroundings.’

‘I think it’s an overrated drink, myself,’ said Wyatt. ‘I prefer Scotch. But if you want Planter’s Punch, you shall have it.’ He called a waiter and gave the order in the bastard French that was the island patois, and soon the ingredients were on the table.

Causton produced a notebook from his breast pocket. ‘I’ll take notes, if I may. It may come in useful.’

‘No need,’ said Wyatt. ‘There’s a little rhyme for it which, once learned, is never forgotten. It goes like this:

‘It doesn’t quite scan, but it’s near enough. The sour is the juice of fresh limes, the sweet is sugar syrup, the strong is rum — Martinique rum is best — and the weak is iced water. The rhyme gives the proportions.’

As he spoke he was busy measuring the ingredients and mixing them in the big silver bowl in the middle of the table. His hands worked mechanically and he was watching Julie. She had not changed apart from becoming more attractive, but perhaps that was merely because absence had made the heart fonder. He glanced at Causton and wondered where he came in.

‘If you go down to Martinique,’ he said, ‘you can mix your own Planter’s Punch in any bar. There’s so much rum in Martinique that they don’t charge you for it — only for the limes and the syrup.’

Causton sniffed. ‘Smells interesting.’

Wyatt smiled. ‘Rum does pong a bit.’

‘Why have we never done this before, Dave?’ asked Julie. She looked interestedly at the bowl.

‘I’ve never been asked before.’ Wyatt gave one final stir. ‘That’s it. Some people put a lot of salad in it like a fruit cup, but 1 don’t like drinks I have to eat.’ He lifted out a dipperful. Julie?’

She held out her glass and he filled it. He filled the other glasses then said, ‘Welcome to the Caribbean, Mr Causton.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ said Julie. ‘So smooth.’

‘Smooth and powerful,’ said Wyatt. ‘You wouldn’t need many of these to be biting the leg of the table.’

‘This should get the evening off to a good start,’ said Julie. ‘Even the Maraca Club should look good.’ She turned to Causton. ‘Now there’s an idea — why don’t you come with us?’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Causton. ‘I was wondering what to do with myself tonight. I was hoping that Mr Wyatt, as an old island hand, could give me a few pointers on sightseeing on San Fernandez.’

Wyatt looked blankly at Julie, then said politely, ‘I’d be happy to.’ He felt depressed. He had hoped that he had been the attraction on San Fernandez, but apparently Julie was playing the field. But why the hell had she to come to San Fernandez to do it?

It turned out that Causton was foreign correspondent for a big London daily and over dinner he entertained them with a hilarious account of some of his experiences. Then they went on to the Maraca, which was the best in the way of a night-club that St Pierre had to offer. It was run by a Greek, Eumenides Papegaikos, who provided an exiguous South American atmosphere with the minimum of service at the highest price he could charge; but apart from the Officers’ Club at Cap Sarrat Base it was the only substitute for a civilized evening, and one did get bored with the Base.

As they entered the smoke-filled, dimly-lit room someone waved, and Wyatt waved back as he recognized Hansen, who was whooping it up with his crew. At the far end of the room a loud-voiced American was bellowing, and even at that distance it was easy to hear that he was retailing, blow by blow, his current exploits as a game fisherman. They found a table, and as Causton ordered drinks in perfect and fluent French which the waiter could not understand, Wyatt claimed Julie for a dance.

They had always danced well together but this time there seemed to be a stiffness and a tension between them. It was not the fault of the orchestra, poor though it was, for while the tune was weird, the rhythm was perfect. They danced in silence for a while, then Julie looked up and said softly, ‘Hello, Dave. Seen any good hurricanes lately?’

‘See one, you’ve seen them all,’ he said lightly. ‘And you?’

‘About the same. One flight is very like another. Same places, same air, same passengers. I sometimes swear that the air traveller is a different breed from the rest of us common humanity; like Dawson — that man over there.’

Wyatt listened to the raucous voice spinning its interminable fishing yarn. ‘You know him?’

‘Don’t you?’ she said in surprise. ‘That’s Dawson, the writer — Big Jim Dawson. Everyone’s heard of him. He’s one of the regulars on my flight, and a damn’ nuisance he is, too.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Wyatt. Julie was right — there could not have been a corner of the world where the name of Big Jim Dawson was not known. He was supposed to be a pretty good writer, although Wyatt did not feel himself equipped to judge; at any rate, the critics appeared to think so.

He looked down at Julie and said, ‘You don’t appear to find Causton a nuisance.’

‘I like him. He’s one of these polite, imperturbable Englishmen we’re always reading about — you know, the quiet kind with hidden depths.’

‘Is he one of your regulars?’

‘I met him for the first time on my last flight. I certainly didn’t expect to find him here in San Fernandez.’

‘You certainly went out of your way to make him feel at home,’

‘That was just hospitality — looking after a stranger in a strange land.’ Julie looked up with a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Why, Mr Wyatt, I do believe you’re jealous.’

‘I might be,’ said Wyatt bluntly. ‘If I had anything to be jealous about.’

Julie dropped her eyes and went a little pale. They danced in stiff silence until the melody was finished, then turned to go back to their table, but Julie was whirled away by the exuberant Hansen. ‘Julie Marlowe! What are you doing in this dump? I’m stealing her, Davy Boy, but I’ll return her intact.’ He swept her on to the floor in a caricatured rumba, and Wyatt returned glumly to Causton.

‘Powerful stuff,’ said Causton, holding a bottle to the light. He waved it. ‘Have one?’

Wyatt nodded. He watched Causton fill his glass, and said abruptly, ‘Here on business?’