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“This man said,” pursued McCready quietly, “that the Drake W. they had listed had been a sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps. Served two tours in Vietnam. Came back with a Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts. I wonder what happened to him?”
The big pastor lumbered to his feet, crossed the room, and stared out at the clapboard houses up and down the street where he lived.
“Another man,” he growled, “another time, another place. I do only God’s work now.”
“Don’t you think what I ask of you might qualify?”
The big man considered, then nodded. “Possibly.”
“I think so, too,” said McCready. “I hope I’ll see you there. I need all the help I can get. Ten o’clock, tomorrow morning, Government House.”
He left and strolled down through the town to the harbor. Jimmy Dobbs was working on the Gulf Lady. McCready spent thirty minutes with him, and they agreed on a charter voyage for the following day.
He was hot and sticky when he arrived at Government House just before five that afternoon. Jefferson served him an iced tea while he waited for Lieutenant Jeremy Haverstock to return. The young officer had been playing tennis with some other expatriates at a villa in the hills.
McCready’s question to him was simple: “Will you be here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”
Haverstock thought it over. “Yes, I suppose so,” he said.
“Good,” said McCready. “Do you have your full tropical dress uniform with you?”
“Yes,” said the cavalryman. “Only got to wear it once. A state ball in Nassau six months ago.”
“Excellent,” said McCready. “Ask Jefferson to press it and polish up the leather and brasses.”
A mystified Haverstock escorted him to the front hall. “I suppose you’ve heard the good news?” he asked. “That detective chappie from Scotland Yard. Found the bullet yesterday in the garden. Absolutely intact. Parker’s on his way to London with it.”
“Good show,” said McCready. “Spiffing news.”
He had dinner with Eddie Favaro at the hotel at eight. Over coffee he asked, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Going home,” said Favaro. “I only took a week off. Have to be back on the job Tuesday morning.”
“Ah, yes. What time’s your plane?”
“Booked an air taxi for midday.”
“Couldn’t delay it until four o’clock, could you?”
“I suppose so. Why?”
“Because I could do with your help. Say, Government House, ten o’clock? Thanks, see you then. Don’t be late. Monday is going to be a very busy day.”
McCready rose at six. A pink dawn, herald of another balmy day, was touching the tips of the palm trees out in Parliament Square. It was delightfully cool. He washed and shaved and went out into the square, where the taxi he had ordered awaited him. His first duty was to say good-bye to an old lady.
He spent an hour with her, between seven and eight, took coffee and hot rolls, and made his farewells.
“Now, don’t forget, Lady Coltrane,” he said as he rose to leave.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. And it’s Missy.”
She held out her hand. He stooped to take it.
At half-past eight, he was back in Parliament Square and dropped in on Chief Inspector Jones. He showed the chief of police his Foreign Office letter.
“Please be at Government House at ten o’clock,” he said. “Bring with you your two sergeants, four constables, your personal Land-Rover, and two plain vans. Do you have a service revolver?”
“Yes, sir.”
