Mystery

“Oh, one little thing.” Von Heilitz leaned down beneath the overhead compartments. “Damrosch shot himself in the head at a desk in his apartment. There was a note saying Blue Rose in front of him on the desk. Case closed.”

He smiled, and all the fine horsehair lines around his mouth cut deeper into his skin. He turned away and started moving up the aisle toward the front of the plane. Tom scrambled out of his seat.

“Occasionally,” von Heilitz said, “what you have to do is go back to the beginning and see everything in a new way.”

They passed through the open door of the airplane and entered the annihilating sunlight of the Caribbean, pouring down from a hazy sun in an almost colorless sky.

“Occasionally,” von Heilitz said, “there are powerful reasons why you can’t or don’t want to do that.”

The stewardess who had told them she liked the way they dressed stood at the bottom of the metal staircase, handing white printed cards to the passengers. A long way away, goats pushed their heads through a wire fence. The smell of salt water mingled with the airport smell of jet fuel.

“The handwriting on the note in front of Damrosch,” Tom said.

“Printed in block letters.” He accepted one of the cards from the stewardess.

Tom took one too, and realized that it was a landing card. The first line was for his name, and the second for his passport number.

He gaped at the stewardess, and she said, “Gee, what happened to your eyebrows?”

Von Heilitz tugged at his sleeve. “The boy was in a fire. He just realized that he doesn’t have his passport.”

“Gee,” she said. “Will you have any trouble?

“None at all.” He walked Tom across the tarmac toward the door.

“Why not?”

“Watch me,” said von Heilitz.

At the baggage counter, the pool of yellow liquid seemed to have advanced another six or eight inches across the linoleum, and the American passengers gave it uneasy glances as they waited for their cases to ride toward them on the belt. Tom followed the old man toward the desk marked MILL WALK RESIDENTS, and saw him take a slim leather notecase from his pocket. He tore a sheet of perforated yellow paper from the case, bent over it for a second, and signaled for Tom to follow him to the desk.

He said, “Hello, Gonzalo,” to the official, and gave him his passport and landing card. The sheet of notepaper was folded into the passport. “My friend has been in a fire. He lost everything, including his passport. He is the grandson of Glendenning Upshaw, and wishes to convey the best wishes of Mr. Upshaw and Mr. Ralph Redwing to you.”

The official flicked bored black eyes at Tom’s face, opened von Heilitz’s passport, and pulled the note toward him. He shielded it behind his hand and opened the top half. Then he slid the folded note into his desk, stamped von Heilitz’s passport, and reached back into the desk for a form marked REPLACEMENT PASSPORT APPLICATION. “Fill this out and mail it in as soon as possible,” he said. “Nice to see you again, Mr. von Heilitz.”

The first words on the form were: No resident of Mill Walk shall be allowed to pass through Customs and Immigration until a replacement passport has been received.

“What was in the note?” Tom asked.

“Two dollars.”

They went outside into light and heat.

“How much would it have been without the best wishes of my grandfather and Ralph Redwing?”

“One dollar. Haven’t you ever heard of noblesse oblige?”

Tom looked across the ramp and saw half a dozen carriages and gigs in the open parking lot. The odor of horse manure drifted toward him, along with the smells of fuel oil and salt water. They were home. Von Heilitz raised his hand, and an old red taxi with one dangling headlight pulled up before them.

A short, chunky black man with a wide handsome face climbed out and smiled at them, showing two front teeth edged in gold. He went around to open his trunk, and von Heilitz said, “Hello, Andres.”

“Always good to see you again, Lamont,” the driver said. The trunk smelled strongly of fish. He hoisted in the cases and slammed the trunk shut. “Where we going today?”

“The St. Alwyn.” They all got in the car, and von Heilitz said, “Andres, Tom Pasmore here is a good friend of mine. I want you to treat him the same way you treat me. He might need your help someday.”

Andres leaned over the back of the seat and stuck out an enormous hand. “Any time, brother.” Tom took the hand with his left, raising his bandaged right hand in explanation.

Andres pulled out toward the highway into town, and Tom said, “Do you know everybody?”

“Only the right people. Have you been thinking about what I said?”

Tom nodded.

“Kind of stares you right in the face, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Tom said, and von Heilitz snorted.

“I don’t know if we’re thinking of the same thing.”

“We are.”

“Can I ask you a question before I say anything else?”

“Go ahead.”