specially intrigued by the fact
that Dugdale wasn’t al lowed to
chase his criminals in there, would you?”
“It does give it a sort of piquant
slant,” Simon ad mitted cheerfully. He looked at his companion again and said: “But from the point of view of your
Government, a situation like that could have problems, couldn’t it?”
“It could,” Farnham said steadily.
“And before you’re much older I’ll tell you about one.”
It had taken rather a long time, so long
that the Saint felt no electrifying change, only a deepening and en riched
fulfillment of his faith in coincidences and the sure guiding hand of destiny.
But David Farnham seemed to feel as unhurried
as destiny itself, and Simon did not press him. Now that he knew for
certain that he had something to look forward to, the Saint could
wait for it as long as anyone.
Presently they were in the hills, winding
upwards, and Farnham
was pointing out the landmarks of his demesne with unalloyed exuberance as
they came into view. The house itself stood
on its own hilltop, an old Jamaican planter’s house, solidly welded to
the earth and mellowed in its setting with
graceful age, exposed and welcoming
to the four winds. As Simon unwound himself
from the car and stretched his long legs, the air he breathed in was sweet and cool.
“We’re twentyfive hundred feet
up,” Farnham said practically. “The ideal altitude for these latitudes.”
He kissed his wife as she came out to greet
them, and she said: “I remembered that you drank Dry Sack, Si mon. And
I hope you’ll excuse us having dinner at sundown, but that’s how we farmers
live. Anyway, we’re having codfish and ackee, which you told me you wanted to
try.”
“You make me feel like a prodigal
son,” said the Saint.
And after dinner, when he had cleaned his
plate of ackee, that hazardous
fruit which cooks up to look ex actly like a
dish of richly scrambled eggs, but which is deathly poison if it is plucked
prematurely from the tree, he said: “And now you could sell me
anywhere as a fatted calf.”
They had coffee on the verandah, and made
pleasant small talk for only a short while before Ellen Farnham quietly
excused herself. David filled another pipe, sitting forward with his forearms on his thighs
and his head bent in complete concentration
on the neat performance of the job. Simon knew that now it was coming, and let him take his time.
“Well,” Farnham said at last,
“it just happens that you’re not the only chap with a coincidence.
Only a few days ago the Governor asked me to go and see the Maroons.
I’d have been there already, only your wire came immediately
afterwards, so I put it off till you got here.”
Simon slanted a quizzical eyebrow.
“I thought you said you were all
through with Gov ernment.”
“I am. But the Maroons know me, and trust me, and I can talk to them. His Excellency asked me to do
it as a personal favor, and I
couldn’t refuse.”
“So I gather this trip has to be made
right away.”
“Tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”
Simon drew on his cigarette, and watched
smoke drift out
into the velvet night.
“I’m free and willing. And it’s nice of
you to put off this important visit until I got here. I feel quite guilty about
having kept the Maroons waiting for a dozy chat with you about the
weather and the banana crop.”
Farnham extinguished a match and leaned back
in aromatic comfort.
“I’m sure you know the big thing we’re
all trying to cope
with,” he said soberly. “In the United States, it seems to be mainly a matter of spies and fifth columnists in high places. In what’s left of our
poor old Empire, we have special
complications. We were imperialists before the word became an international insult, and we did a pretty good job of it; but whether or not we were
ever drunk with power, we’re certainly getting the hangovers today. Among other things, we were left with a
lot of subject people that we just
jolly well conquered and
that Dugdale wasn’t al lowed to
chase his criminals in there, would you?”
“It does give it a sort of piquant
slant,” Simon ad mitted cheerfully. He looked at his companion again and said: “But from the point of view of your
Government, a situation like that could have problems, couldn’t it?”
“It could,” Farnham said steadily.
“And before you’re much older I’ll tell you about one.”
It had taken rather a long time, so long
that the Saint felt no electrifying change, only a deepening and en riched
fulfillment of his faith in coincidences and the sure guiding hand of destiny.
But David Farnham seemed to feel as unhurried
as destiny itself, and Simon did not press him. Now that he knew for
certain that he had something to look forward to, the Saint could
wait for it as long as anyone.
Presently they were in the hills, winding
upwards, and Farnham
was pointing out the landmarks of his demesne with unalloyed exuberance as
they came into view. The house itself stood
on its own hilltop, an old Jamaican planter’s house, solidly welded to
the earth and mellowed in its setting with
graceful age, exposed and welcoming
to the four winds. As Simon unwound himself
from the car and stretched his long legs, the air he breathed in was sweet and cool.
“We’re twentyfive hundred feet
up,” Farnham said practically. “The ideal altitude for these latitudes.”
He kissed his wife as she came out to greet
them, and she said: “I remembered that you drank Dry Sack, Si mon. And
I hope you’ll excuse us having dinner at sundown, but that’s how we farmers
live. Anyway, we’re having codfish and ackee, which you told me you wanted to
try.”
“You make me feel like a prodigal
son,” said the Saint.
And after dinner, when he had cleaned his
plate of ackee, that hazardous
fruit which cooks up to look ex actly like a
dish of richly scrambled eggs, but which is deathly poison if it is plucked
prematurely from the tree, he said: “And now you could sell me
anywhere as a fatted calf.”
They had coffee on the verandah, and made
pleasant small talk for only a short while before Ellen Farnham quietly
excused herself. David filled another pipe, sitting forward with his forearms on his thighs
and his head bent in complete concentration
on the neat performance of the job. Simon knew that now it was coming, and let him take his time.
“Well,” Farnham said at last,
“it just happens that you’re not the only chap with a coincidence.
Only a few days ago the Governor asked me to go and see the Maroons.
I’d have been there already, only your wire came immediately
afterwards, so I put it off till you got here.”
Simon slanted a quizzical eyebrow.
“I thought you said you were all
through with Gov ernment.”
“I am. But the Maroons know me, and trust me, and I can talk to them. His Excellency asked me to do
it as a personal favor, and I
couldn’t refuse.”
“So I gather this trip has to be made
right away.”
“Tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”
Simon drew on his cigarette, and watched
smoke drift out
into the velvet night.
“I’m free and willing. And it’s nice of
you to put off this important visit until I got here. I feel quite guilty about
having kept the Maroons waiting for a dozy chat with you about the
weather and the banana crop.”
Farnham extinguished a match and leaned back
in aromatic comfort.
“I’m sure you know the big thing we’re
all trying to cope
with,” he said soberly. “In the United States, it seems to be mainly a matter of spies and fifth columnists in high places. In what’s left of our
poor old Empire, we have special
complications. We were imperialists before the word became an international insult, and we did a pretty good job of it; but whether or not we were
ever drunk with power, we’re certainly getting the hangovers today. Among other things, we were left with a
lot of subject people that we just
jolly well conquered and
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