His first novel, Tarpon, was published in the year that Hemingway died. At the time he was a freelance writer concocting articles for the American sporting magazines on the glory of rainbow trout and what it feels like to have a grizzly in your sights. He had but average success at this and so was a hungry writer. When Tarpon hit the top of the best-seller lists no one was more surprised than Dawson. But knowing the fickleness of public taste he sought for ways to consolidate his success and decided that good writing was not enough – he must also be a public personality.
So he assumed the mantle that had fallen from Hemingway – he would be a man’s man. He shot elephant and lion in Africa; he game-fished in the Caribbean and off the Seychelles; he climbed a mountain in Alaska; he flew his own plane and, like Hemingway, was involved in a spectacular smash; and it was curious that there were always photographers on hand to record these events.
But he was no Hemingway. The lions he killed were poor terrified beasts imprisoned in a closing ring of beaters, and he had never killed one with a single shot. In his assault on the Alaskan mountain he was practically carried up by skilled and well-paid mountaineers, and he heartily disliked flying his plane because he was frightened of it and only flew when necessary to mend his image. But game-fishing he had actually come to like and he was not at all bad at it. And, despite everything else, he remained a good writer, although he was always afraid of losing steam and failing with his next book.
While his image was shiny, while his name made headlines in the world press, while the money poured into his bank, he was reasonably happy. It was good to be well-known in the world’s capitals, to be met at airports by pressmen and photographers, to be asked his opinion of world events. He had never yet been in a situation where the mere mention of his name had not got him out of trouble, and thus he was unperturbed at being put into a cell with Wyatt. He had been in gaol before – the world had chuckled many times at the escapades of Big Jim Dawson – but never for more than a few hours. A nominal fine, a donation to the Police Orphans’ Fund, a gracious apology and the name of Jim Dawson soon set him free. He had no reason to think it was going to be different this time.
‘I could do with a drink,’ he said grumpily. ‘Those bastards took my flask.’
Wyatt examined the cell. It was in an old building and there was none of the modernity of serried steel bars; but the walls were of thick and solid stone and the window was small and set high in the wall. By pulling up a stool and standing on it he could barely see outside, and he was a fairly tall man. He looked at the dim shapes of the buildings across the square and judged that the cell was on the second floor of the building in which the Poste de Police was housed.
He stepped down from the stool and said, ‘Why the hell were you carrying a gun?’
‘I always carry a gun,’ said Dawson. ‘A man in my position meets trouble, you know. There are always cranks who don’t like what I write, and the boys who want to prove they’re tougher than I am. I’ve got a licence for it, too. I got a batch of threatening letters a couple of years ago and there were some funny things happening round my place so I got the gun.’
‘I don’t know that that was a good idea, even in the States,’ said Wyatt. ‘But it certainly got us into trouble here. Your gun licence won’t cut any ice.’
‘Getting out will be easy,’ said Dawson angrily. ‘All I have to do is to wait until I can see someone bigger than one of those junior grade cops, tell him who I am, and we’ll both be sprung.’
Wyatt stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Sure I’m serious. Hell, man; everyone knows me. The Government of this tin-pot banana republic isn’t going to get in bad with Uncle Sam by keeping me in gaol. The fact that I’ve been picked up will make world headlines, and this Serrurier character isn’t going to let bad change to worse.’
Wyatt took a deep breath. ‘You don’t know Serrurier,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like Americans in the first place and he won’t give a damn who you are – if he’s heard of you, that is, which I doubt.’
Dawson seemed troubled by the heresy Wyatt had uttered. ‘Not heard of me? Of course he’ll have heard of me.’
‘You heard those guns,’ said Wyatt. ‘Serrurier is fighting for his life – do you understand that? If Favel wins, Serrurier is going to be very dead. Right now he doesn’t give a damn about keeping in with Uncle Sam or anyone else – he just doesn’t have the time. And, like a doctor, he buries his mistakes, so if he’s informed about us there’ll probably be a shooting party in the basement with us as guests; that’s why I hope to God no one tells him. And I hope his boys don’t have any initiative.’
‘But there’ll have to be a trial,’ said Dawson. ‘I’ll have my lawyer.’
‘For God’s sake!’ exploded Wyatt. ‘Where have you been living – on the moon? Serrurier has had twenty thousand people executed in the last seven years without trial. They just disappeared. Start praying that we don’t join them.’
‘Now that’s nonsense,’ said Dawson firmly. ‘I’ve been coming to San Fernandez for the last five years – it makes a swell fishing base – and I’ve heard nothing of this. And I’ve met a lot of government officials and a nicer bunch of boys you couldn’t wish to meet. Of course they’re black, but I think none the less of them for that.’
‘Very broad-minded of you,’ said Wyatt sarcastically. ‘Can you name any of these “nice boys”? That information might come in useful.’
‘Sure; the best of the lot was the Minister for Island Affairs – a guy called Descaix. He’s a –’
‘Oh, no!’ groaned Wyatt, sitting on the stool and putting his head in his hands.
‘What’s the matter?’
Wyatt looked up. ‘Now, listen, Dawson; I’ll try to get this over in words of one syllable. Your nice boy, Descaix, was the boss of Serrurier’s secret police. Serrurier said, “Do it,” and Descaix did it, and in the end it added up to a nice pile of murders. But Descaix slipped – one of his murders didn’t pan out and the man came back to life, the man responsible for all those guns popping off up in the hills. Favel.’
He tapped Dawson on the knee. ‘Serrurier didn’t like that, so what do you think happened to Descaix?’
Dawson was looking unhappy. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Neither would anyone else,’ said Wyatt. ‘Descaix’s gone, vanished as though he never existed – expunged. My own idea is that he’s occupying a hole in the ground up in the Tour Rambeau.’
‘But he was such a nice, friendly guy,’ said Dawson. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t see how I could have missed it. I’m a writer – I’m supposed to know something about people. I even went fishing with Descaix – surely you get to know a man you fish with?’
‘Why should you?’ asked Wyatt. ‘People like Descaix have neatly compartmented minds. If you or I killed a man it would stay with us the rest of our lives – it would leave a mark. But Descaix has a man killed and he’s forgotten about it as soon as he’s given the order. It doesn’t worry his conscience one little bit, so it doesn’t show – there’s no mark.’
‘Jesus!’ said Dawson with awe. ‘I’ve been fishing with a mass murderer.’
‘You won’t fish with him ever again,’ said Wyatt brutally. ‘You might not fish with anyone ever again if we don’t get out of here.’
Dawson gave way to petulant rage. ‘What the hell is the American Government doing? We have a base here – why wasn’t this island cleaned up long ago?’
‘You make me sick,’ said Wyatt.