Never mind the economics lecture, I said acidly. Where did Salton come in?
He was a property man through and through thats how he made his fortune in America. He got himself some nice tracts of land and started to cover them with ticky-tacky. He needed development capital, which we supplied. End of story.
It is for Salton. What about you how safe is your money now?
Reasonably safe. Salton wasnt a fly-by-nighter, and he was building for the locals, not the speculative stuff for middling-rich, middle-class immigrants who want a place in the sun to retire to. Although it wouldnt have been altogether a bad thing if hed tried that. We wouldnt have touched it, though.
Who runs things now that Salton is dead?
That is a bit worrying, admitted Costello. He was always a loner kept things very much in his own hands although he had a good manager, a man called Idle.
My God, I said. That name doesnt sound too promising.
Costello chuckled. It isnt as bad as it sounds. I took the trouble to look it up. Its from the Welsh, Ithel, meaning Lord Bountiful.
Could be worse.
He grinned. Idle, Mrs Salton and a firm of lawyers are running the show now. Theyre not doing too badly so far.
How far? When did Salton die?
The boat was discovered two weeks ago. You going out there?
The chairman insists. What fuels this economic miracle on Campanilla?
Much as I regret to say, said Costello, not looking regretful at all, its gambling. Of course, there are a lot of other angles, too. Campanilla has turned itself into an off-shore financial paradise with a set of fiscal laws that make the Cayman Islands look positively restrictive. Youve heard of Bay Street in Nassau?
The mecca of the Bahamas.
Capital is leaving there so fast that the bankers are catching pneumonia from the draught. Campanilla has its very own version: Cardew Street.
And you put three million of the companys money into Cardew Street? I said.
Safe as houses, dear boy, said Costello. As long as they were Saltons houses.
II
Eight hours later I was on a 747 taking off from Heathrow and heading for Campanilla by way of Miami. I travelled first-class, of course; it was written into my service agreement with the company. Somewhere behind me, in the back of this flying barn and jostled by the common ruck of economy flight passengers, was Owen Ogilvie, the official representative of Western and Continental Insurance Co. Ltd. To an eye untainted by suspicion, he was the company man sent out to enquire into the death of David Salton. He would do the expected and leave me to a quiet and restful anonymity.
Jolly disapproved of my service agreement; it offended his sense of the fitness of things. There was nothing he could do about it though, since I negotiated directly with the board.
During the flight I studied Saltons policies. They were all fairly standard and with no trick clauses and I couldnt see how Jolly could weasel his way out of paying. Whether Salton had died naturally, been murdered or committed suicide, the payment would have to be made. All that was at issue was the timescale and the most that Jolly could extract would be the interest on £500,000 for two years say £90,000, or thereabouts.
Not finding much there, I went up to the bar which the airline thoughtfully provides for those of the jet set who can afford first-class passage. I took with me a handbook on Campanilla, which the efficient Mrs Hadley had dug up from somewhere. It offered interesting reading over a drink.
The highlights of this Caribbean jewel appeared to be the climate, the swimming, the sailing, the fishing, the cuisine and the tax structure. Especially the tax structure. The main feature of the tax structure was that there wasnt much of it. If the United States was the Empire State Building, then Campanilla was a marquee all roof with nothing much to hold it up, and vulnerable to financial gales.
I examined the historical section. Campanilla was originally Spanish, colonised in the sixteenth century. The British took over in 1710 during one of the fast shuffles of the War of the Spanish Succession and stayed until the twentieth century, when to have colonies offended world opinion. During this period it was called Bell Island but, on attaining independence, it reverted to the Spanish name of Campanilla. Probably some public relations geek thought it a more exotic and fitting name for a tropical paradise.
The fold-out map at the back of the handbook showed that the island really was bell-shaped. The lower rim of the bell was scooped out in a huge bay and the clapper was formed by Buque Island, separated from the main island by Pascua Channel. Opposite Buque Island was the capital of San Martin. Two misshapen peninsulas on opposite coasts represented the trunnions by which the bell would be hung. Northwards, at the top of the bell, was a coral formation, almost atoll-like, forming a perfect ring called El Cerco, which represented the ring to which the bell rope would be attached. Nature was imitating art in a big way.
Further study was profitless so I slept.
III
My hotel in San Martin grandly called itself the Royal Caribbean. It was new, which just goes to show that there is no one more royalist than a good republican. The foyer was lined with one-armed bandits which, on inspection, proved to be fuelled by silver dollars. All around could be heard the cadences of American speech from the guests and the slurred English of the Campanillans who worked there.
On my way in from Benning, the islands international airport, two things had struck me: the smell of prosperity and the oppression of the heat. Both were almost tangible. San Martin, a clean and well-scrubbed town, was fringed on the skyline with cranes as new high-rise buildings went up. The traffic in the streets was heavy flashy American cars driving incongruously on the left, British-style. The shops in the main streets were opulent and the crowds thronging the pavements were, on the whole, well-dressed. As for the heat, it had hit me like a wall as soon as I stepped off the plane. Even at this time of year, it was enough to make a pallid Englishman gasp.
I checked in at the hotel, showered off the stickiness, and went down again to sniff some more atmosphere. On the way out I stopped at the desk, and asked, I suppose you have a newspaper here?
Yes, sir; the Chronicle. You can buy a copy at the news stand there.
Where is the Chronicle office?
Cardew Street, sir. Two blocks along and turn right.
There is nothing like reading the local paper for picking up a quick feel of a place. A newspaper is a tribal noticeboard which tells you what people are doing and, to a certain extent, thinking and saying. Im a behaviourist myself and take more notice of what people do rather than what they say. The old saw actions speak louder than words is truer than most proverbs, and I wanted to find out what people had been doing round about the time Salton had died.
I walked along the street in the hot sun and stopped at the first mens outfitters I came to. I bought a light, linen suit more in tune with the climate than the one I was wearing, and paid for it by credit card, which was accepted without question. I wore the new suit and asked that the old one be sent to the hotel. Then I carried on towards the Chronicle office.
I walked along the street in the hot sun and stopped at the first mens outfitters I came to. I bought a light, linen suit more in tune with the climate than the one I was wearing, and paid for it by credit card, which was accepted without question. I wore the new suit and asked that the old one be sent to the hotel. Then I carried on towards the Chronicle office.
It looked and smelled like newspaper offices all over the world, a composite of library paste, newsprint, ink and suppressed tension. A press rumbled somewhere in the bowels of the building. When I asked to see the back file for the previous month, I was shown into a glass-walled office and seated in front of a scarred deal table. Presently the file was put before me. On its front was a pasted notice promising unimaginable punishments for anyone criminal enough to clip items from the pages.
I opened it and took a random sampling. Prices were high generally and food prices exceptionally so. The price of housing made me blink a little. Cigarettes, liquor and petrol were cheaper than in England but clothing was more expensive. That I already knew; the cost of my linen suit had been damn near the Savile Row level and the quality not a tenth as good.
I turned to the employment columns and did a quick rundown of wage levels. What I found didnt look good: while prices rose above North American levels, wages were lower than European, which didnt leave much scope for gracious living on the part of the working populace.
This was reflected in the political pages. It seemed there was an election coming up in a month or so and the government party appeared beleaguered. A small extreme left-wing party made up for shortage of numbers by a lot of noise, and a larger and more central opposition party threatened reform when it came to power. Meanwhile the Prime Minister made soothing sounds and concessions.
Pretty soon the name of Salton popped up, making a pugnacious speech against the ruling party:
This toadying government must stop licking the boots of foreigners for the sake of private profit. There must be an end to cheap concessions by which foreign gangsters can make their fortunes while our schools are understaffed. There must be an end to the pernicious system whereby foreign companies can filter untold millions of dollars through our country at no cost to themselves, while our own hospitals are neglected. There must be an end to the continual rise in prices at a time when the wage structure is depressed. I promise the Prime Minister that he will know the true mind of Campanilla during the forthcoming election, despite the activities of his hired bully boys.
Evidently Salton had caught it from both sides. The Prime Minster, the Honourable Walden P. Conyers, responded smoothly: It has been brought to my notice by the Department of Immigration that Mr Salton has not given up his American citizenship. He would be advised to do so before complaining about those enlightened foreign companies who have done so much to bring prosperity to this island.
On the other side, a left-winger snarled acidly about two-faced millionaires who wrote wishy-washy liberal speeches while sipping martinis on the terraces of their expensive villas as their well-paid overseers were grinding the faces of the native poor. That sounded familiar, as did the call for instant revolution by the down-trodden proletariat.
I flicked through some more recent editions and came to a big splash story, emblazoned with a full-page picture of Salton. He must have been a really big wheel for his death to have made the commotion it did. The first thing I felt was the sense of shock that permeated the initial accounts; it seemed as though the reporter couldnt really believe what he was writing. Then the accusations began to fly, each wilder than the last, while riots broke out on the streets and the police had their hands full.
It was hard to reconcile these accounts of civil unrest with the well-oiled gentility Id seen outside on Cardew Street, but I soon found out the reason. The inquest had quietened things down considerably and the rioting stopped on the day that Dr Winstanley stood in the witness box and announced that Salton had died of natural causes. When asked if he was sure about that, he replied stiffly that he had performed the post-mortem examination himself and he was quite certain.
Mrs Salton gave evidence that her husband had had heart trouble six months earlier. This was corroborated by Dr Collins, his personal physician. When Mrs Salton was asked if her husband habitually went out by himself in a small dinghy, she replied that after his heart attack she had asked him not to continue this practice, but that he had not given up sailing alone.
The verdict, as Jolly had informed me back in London, was death by natural causes.
Saltons funeral was attended by all the island dignitaries and a few thousand of the common people. Conyers made a speech, sickening in its hypocrisy, in which he mourned the loss of a noble fellow-countryman. After that, Salton pretty much dropped out of the news except for an occasional reference, usually in the financial pages, concerning the activities of his companies. No one can be forgotten quicker than a dead man.
I turned back to the obituary and was making a few notes when I became aware that someone had come into the room. I looked up and saw a podgy, balding man watching me intently. He blinked rapidly behind thick-rimmed glasses and said, Interesting reading?
For those who find it interesting, I said. A tautology is a good way of evading an issue; thats something Ive learned from listening to too many politicians.
Youre an off-islander, he said abruptly. Youve not been here long.
I leaned back in the chair. How do you know?
No tan. Just out from England?
I looked at him thoughtfully. Yes. Im interested in local conditions.
By reading about a dead man? His voice was flat but the irony was not lost. Taking notes, too.
Is it illegal?
He suddenly smiled. I guess not. My names Jackson. He waved his hand. I get into the habit of asking too many questions. I work here.
A reporter?
Sort of. He gestured at Saltons obituary. I wrote that.
You write well, I said politely.
Youre a liar, said Jackson without rancour. If I did I wouldnt be in this crummy place. Whats the interest in Salton?
You do ask questions, I said.
Unapologetically he said, Its my job. You dont have to answer. I can find out another way if I have to.
You didnt come in by accident and find me here.
He grinned. Mary Josephine tipped me off. The girl at the desk. We like to know who checks our files. Its routine. He paused. Sometimes it even pays off. Not often, though.
All that was quite possibly true. I said cautiously, Well, Mr Jackson, if you were interested in the future of the late Mr Saltons companies, wouldnt you be interested in knowing how he died?
I guess so. He looked at my notebook. You dont have to take notes. Ill give you a copy of anything you want.
In exchange for what?
No strings, he said. Its in the public domain. But if you turn anything up anything unusual Id be glad to know.
I smiled at him. I dont think my principals would like publicity. Is anything unusual likely to turn up?