The Sun Place Read online

  “Well … good night.” Cassandra lingered at her door.

  Hardin waited a moment longer, nearly leaned forward to kiss her, checked himself, and then pushed out his hand. Cassandra took it and then with another “good night” they withdrew into their separate bedrooms.

  Some things are better saved and then savored. They both knew that.

  Fourteen

  Cassandra saw Elixir for the first time the following morning from five thousand feet as the Bahamasair DC-3 banked to approach the runway built especially for Club Village. It was a smaller island than she had expected, just a scythe-shaped coral reef covered in light bush and surrounded by a wash of pale green, shallow sea. Alongside her, Hardin stared down in rapt concentration. She did not disturb him.

  The airport terminal was a white, one-room building, around which had gathered a group of local people waiting for relatives and friends. Quite separate from them stood a group of golden-tanned, pareo-wearing sophisticated natives, beautiful girls with flowers in their fair hair, and young men with garlands around their necks, holding skin drums and guitars.

  As soon as Hardin stepped down from the plane the performance began. At first it was just drumming, but then, as the guitar players joined in, the assembled group began a Tahitian welcome song, much to the amusement of the local people and their scampering children.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s an old Club Village custom,” Hardin explained. “They are saying hello to you and welcoming their new chief.”

  “Which chief?” asked Cassandra, laughing.

  Hardin walked on down the tarmac toward the advancing musicians. “I’m their new chief,” he said. “Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

  Cassandra stopped laughing. She was both surprised and impressed. By all accounts chiefs of villages were gods within their domains.

  By now the troupe of musical CVs had begun to surround Hardin and Cassandra, throwing chains of flowers around their necks. A pretty dark-haired girl in the briefest of bikinis leaned forward and kissed Hardin, open-mouthed, on the mouth.

  Hardin didn’t even look at her. His face was set in a dark cast as he surveyed the group. Finally he put up his arm. The music stopped.

  “Okay, thank you. I want this young lady driven straight to the village.” He gestured toward Cassandra.

  A couple of men broke away from the group. One put out an arm to take Cassandra’s hand luggage. The other moved toward where suitcases were being unloaded from the plane. Cassandra followed the welcoming hand toward a small, open, red Citroën.

  “I’ll see you later,” Hardin called after her.

  She smiled back. But her smile was not returned. Hardin’s expression was cold and hard.

  “How long is it since Dick Pagett died?” he asked.

  There was an embarrassed silence. No one attempted to answer.

  “Listen,” said Hardin, “I know Club Village policy is that everything carries on as normal no matter what happens … but so far as I’m concerned that’s bullshit. Keep your smiles and your hula-hula welcomes for the guests, but remember I’m here because one of your colleagues is dead, and even may have been murdered. I didn’t know Dick Pagett, but you people did. I think he deserves a little more respect.”

  With that Hardin pushed a way through the group to the CV Land Rover. At the wheel sat a fair-haired boy. As Hardin approached, the boy climbed out and loaded Hardin’s hand luggage into the back seat.

  “Hi. My name’s Sacha,” he said quietly. “Sorry about all that.”

  Hardin climbed into the vacant passenger seat. “Let’s go, shall we?” he said. “Those guys can follow on with the luggage.”

  Sacha nodded and, putting the car into gear, pulled quickly away from the airport building, leaving the welcoming committee looking at each other dismally.

  The new chief of the village was obviously a bastard.

  He had started as he meant to go on, Hardin reflected as the Land Rover charged up the dirt road toward the village. He had not known any of the CVs who had met him at the airport, but he had instantly recognized the type. They were the self-selecting beautiful group of which every village attracts its share. They would be the group with the highest profile, the ones who would have the star parts in the entertainments, who would be best known (although not necessarily best liked) by the guests, who could invariably be found looking decorative around the bar, and inevitably, considering the amount of time they devoted to looking pretty and being on display, they would be the ones who did the least work.

  Hardin looked toward the driver. “I understand Sharon Kennedy and Dick Pagett were close,” he said.

  Sacha gave a slight shrug, as if to imply that he didn’t feel that he ought to be gossiping with the new chief.

  Hardin let it pass. There would be time enough to work out all the relationships and rivalries. He remembered reading a dossier in Quatre Bras’ office about someone called Sacha, a good-looking CV whom Pagett had hired that season. He had, Pagett had written, shown considerable ability and flair. No wonder Sacha had been keeping a discreet distance between himself and the golden people, thought Hardin, and silently commended Sacha for his good sense. Sacha had managed to make an immediate impression on the new chief without performing fawning capers on the runway. Pagett had obviously been a very good judge of character.

  Fifteen

  After the welcome at the airport the euphoria evaporated for Cassandra’s new companions. Driven by a surly Dutchman called Willem Brummer, the small Citroën chased up the road toward the village at an alarming speed. In the back with the cases sat Matt Hillman, a lean, lanky youth from New York. Willem looked strong and dour. Matt was wearing a pareo tied around his waist.

  “If you go to the reservations bureau someone will show you where your room is,” said Willem as the Citroën screeched to a halt. Instantly Matt began to unload Cassandra’s two suitcases.

  “You carry your own cases on a Club Village vacation,” said Matt spitefully.

  Cassandra nodded and climbed out, and immediately the Citroën skidded away down a track.

  Picking up her suitcases, she turned toward the reception area. It reminded her of a sophisticated, air-conditioned temple. Moving between two Doric columns that held up the ornate Grecian-style roof, she stepped out of the bush of a small, poor Bahamian island into a world of perfumed affluence. From hidden speakers the theme from the movie “A Man and a Woman” played quietly. On the walls, huge line drawings depicted classically beautiful men and women, naked and in repose. The entrance was large, bare, and cool. Cassandra carried her cases up a flight of low steps, and found herself in a short arcade, along the sides of which were offices, a small boutique, and a pharmacy. In the center of the arcade a dozen tanned people were discussing whether or not to go on that day’s picnic. She moved across to the reservations bureau, where an alarmingly beautiful girl sat at a low desk.

  “Can I help you?” The girl spoke with a strong French accent. Her eyes were brown and her hair was dark and razor-cut close to her head. She was stunning.

  Cassandra produced her club membership form and her reservation.

  The girl smiled. “Welcome to Club Village,” she said. “I think you will have a very happy time here. My name is Chloe. There will be a welcome by the new chef de village tomorrow evening, when everything will be explained. Most of our guests join us over the weekend. You should leave your valuables in the safe here, because there are no locks on the doors here. Also, we do not use money at the bar. Our way in Club Village is to use plastic shells. You can sign for those from the girl who sits in the large shell by the bar at any time between eight in the morning and midnight. There is another shell in the discotheque. In the boutiques you sign for everything you want and then pay on your last day. We take most credit cards.”

  “Will I be sharing with anyone?” asked Cassandra.

  “Not tonight. But I think we will be full from tomorrow onward … so I’m afraid …” Chloe shr
ugged. “I’m sure it will be no problem. All our guests are very nice people.”

  Cassandra looked doubtful.

  “It will be all right,” Chloe repeated. And then, producing a small map of the village, she pointed the way to Cassandra’s cabin.

  “You are on the top floor, overlooking the central village area. Room B23. There are many events going on today, you are still in time to go on the picnic. But perhaps you would rather stay by the pool?”

  Cassandra looked at the map, and then thanking Chloe for her help headed toward the center of the village, passing down the arcade and out into a large theater, covered like a Dutch barn so that three sides were open. Skirting around the edge of the theater she found herself walking between the pool and the bar, a large concourse area for sunbathing, talking, and drinking. Now she felt as though she were walking a tightrope, so keenly did the variously assembled men regard her arrival. And because she was pale and tired alongside so many beautifully tanned and athletically topless girls, she felt awkward and ugly. She hurried on, anxious not to be examined too closely, stunned by the number of beautiful women and the tonnage of attractive men.

  The living accommodations were made up of several discreetly disguised blocks of apartments, three stories high, and boasting long balconies which faced the sun. With little difficulty she found B Block and, carrying her suitcases with some difficulty, climbed the steps. B23 was at the far end of the balcony. Reaching it, she pushed open the door, threw her suitcases inside, and flopped down on the nearer of the two beds.

  It was a small, practical room, with a minimum of furniture and a small adjoining bathroom. She was grateful that her roommate would not be arriving until the next day. Cassandra needed time to become accustomed to this place.

  Soon her thoughts drifted to Hardin. Would he have his pick of all the CVs and lady guests? Of course he would, she thought, and reminded herself that she was a professional, here on assignment.

  Sixteen

  Hardin could hardly have been kinder to Sharon Kennedy. He had been sent out from Paris to clean up Elixir, but nothing in the personnel dossier he had read on Sharon suggested that she was anything other than a good, hard-working, willing employee, loyal to the club, and a woman whose only failing was that she was just inclined to let her latest lover hold too much sway over her. In many ways Hardin saw her as a casualty of the club. She had risen through the ranks as far as she was ever likely to go, and now faced a long slide downhill to where she would once again be a regular CV, before her fading smile prompted someone in Paris to suggest that she look elsewhere for employment.

  “It must have been very difficult for you, Sharon,” said Hardin as soon as the two were alone in his office. “I didn’t know Dick, but I heard a lot of nice things about him.”

  “If you heard he pushed dope it wasn’t true,” said Sharon defensively.

  “No one in Paris believed those rumors,” said Hardin soothingly. “Anyone who runs a village in this part of the world is certain to have that kind of allegation made against him.”

  Sharon looked at Hardin, wondering whether to believe that this quietly spoken man could be the same tyrant who had bawled out the welcoming group at the airport earlier that morning.

  “I believe the … the remains are being flown back to Delaware for burial,” Hardin found himself stammering. Sharon nodded.

  “If you feel you’d like to take a vacation … just get away for a while … take a rest … that’s okay. Maybe you’d like to go home or to one of the other villages.…”

  Sharon shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll stay. This is my home until my next posting comes along. I’d be like a fish out of water back in Louisville, Kentucky. I’ve been with the club a long time now.”

  Hardin smiled. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I hope we get along very well, Sharon. There are certain to be some changes, and some of the things I want to say to the CVs tonight may sound like criticisms of the way Dick was running this village. But believe me, it isn’t intended to be that way. You know as well as I do that Elixir has had more than its share of trouble, and I’ve been sent out here to try to sort it out.”

  “And to find out what happened to Dick?”

  “Yes, if possible. But that’s really a police job.”

  “But you will try to find out?”

  “Of course.”

  “Than I want to stay and help you.”

  “Thank you,” said Hardin. “And now, if it’s okay with you, perhaps we could go on a tour of the club and see what everyone does here.”

  “Sure,” said Sharon, and led the way from the office.

  The village was one of the most luxurious Hardin had ever seen, partly because it was so new, but also because it was aimed almost exclusively at the North American market—and Americans insisted on creature comforts that Europeans could live without. In the Mediterranean villages guests made jokes about the bugs that fell out of the straw-roofed huts, and the primitive washing conditions. Americans would never have stood for that.

  On this first tour of the village Hardin did no more than note where everything was and how efficiently the facilities were being used. He was pleased to see all twelve tennis courts in use and a couple of enthusiastic coaches handling beginners and intermediate lessons. Alongside the courts a dozen guests were doing calisthenics, while on the dance floor in front of the open theater the rudiments of modern ballet were being impressed on a most unlikely group of students. At all these places, Hardin was certain that he was being observed as much as he was the observer. He was, as the saying goes, putting his mark on the village.

  There was no doubt that on Elixir the CVs enjoyed themselves thoroughly. There were as many employees around the bar as there were guests—even during the daytime. Dick Pagett, popular chief that he was, had obviously not been firm enough with his staff.

  Seventeen

  Willem Brummer and Matt Hillman sat thoughtfully in the front seats of the red Citroën. Nominally, they were CVs, but everything they did showed contempt for the sunshine fellows. They had been at the airport that morning for one good reason—to get a good look at the new chief. Once they had seen Hardin, and his anger, they had taken the first opportunity to absent themselves from the scene.

  Willem and Matt were men apart. To them the village was no vacation but part of a rich vein to be mined and then abandoned. They worked hard, twice as hard as anyone else in the village. But then, their rewards were high, too. A hundred, maybe a thousand times as high as the other CVs … providing they never got caught.

  Unlike the rest of the village staff, neither had worked in other villages. They had joined the club when the Elixir village was in the construction stage. Matt had been loafing in Miami, occasionally working for small airline companies. Willem had, after ten years in the Dutch merchant navy, been a common sight around the marinas of the Bahamas and the West Indies. When a skipper wanted an extra crew hand, Willem had been available.

  The shortage of manpower on Elixir brought in all kinds of specialist creatures from Florida and the islands, including Matt and Willem. They knew everything there was to know about sea and air transportation in that area. They did outstanding work, and when the village was finished and ready for occupation they were put in charge of organizing the sea and air charters that brought in the twenty tons of supplies from Florida and Nassau every week. Of all the jobs in the village, this was one of the least glamorous, and could involve all kinds of unsociable hours loading and unloading cargo planes and flying to Florida to check supplies. But it was a job that offered more freedom than anything else in the village. And the umbrella of respectability that the club offered suited them both very nicely.

  Dick Pagett had never particularly liked either of them. Indeed, no one actually liked Willem or Matt, but they were good at their jobs.

  The arrival of Hardin was potentially more of a problem to them than to anybody else in the village. From a high point at the end of the island, the two me
n stared down on the village to the left, and the marina to the right. It was a natural vantage point, and one they had chosen whenever they needed to be alone, really alone. The notion of privacy was despised in Club Village.

  “We could cut him in,” said Matt, but it wasn’t really a serious suggestion.

  Willem examined the end of his thin panatella and flicked the ash over the side of the car. “Cut him in and they’ll cut us out … in more ways than one.”

  There was a ruminative silence. “How far are we ahead?” asked Matt. He knew, but he wanted it confirmed.

  “Forty thousand.”

  “We could quit now.”

  There was another silence. They both knew that they were in too deep simply to walk away. But at some point, there had to be an escape for them. Willem took another draw on his panatella. “And close down the route? Try to explain that in Jackson Heights and Bogotá.”

  “You’re assuming that this guy is going to find out.” Matt was fidgeting with a shell necklace tied around his neck. He was a thin, long-faced boy with a receding chin.

  “No,” said Willem. “But you can be sure he’ll be walking around with his eyeballs on sticks after what happened to Pagett.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We carry on, very discreetly and very carefully.”

  “The next pickup is on Saturday night. Isn’t that too soon?” There was a nervous cracking in Matt’s voice.

  “We don’t have any choice. It’s on the way. They’re using St. Anne Cay again. Twenty pounds of snow. It’s expected in Miami by Tuesday at the latest. It has a train to catch.”

  Matt gazed down at the island thoughtfully. “It’s always bigger, isn’t it? They keep upping the load every time, as though they’re willing us to get caught.”

  “They recognize a good route,” Willem shrugged.

  Matt finally broke. “Listen, I don’t like it. I say we take a walk. Remember Barias … his face got caught in a propeller.”