“Meanwhile, he sits at Westbourne with Harold Christie.”

“Christie’s with him?”

“That’s what I hear. In a plush guest suite, whispering into the old man’s ear. What’s the matter?”

Freddie was shaking his head. “Christie. You know he double-crossed Sir Harry last year, on the deal for the land for that airport? He had better watch himself. Sir Harry plays a long game. And Christie owes him a great deal of money.”

“Does he, now?”

“A great deal.” He glanced at Georges de Visledou, who had taken his drink and his cigarette and gone over to speak to a pair of women at one of the little round tables. “I will tell you something else. A few months ago, just before we had this last little disagreement, Sir Harry told me he was going to leave Nassau.”

“Oh, that’s been going around for ages.”

“No, but he means it. He doesn’t like the way the women here treat his wife, for one thing. He doesn’t like all the scrutiny, you know, this British oversight in his affairs. He’s been sending his money away for some time, to this bank in Mexico, and you may take my word for this, Mrs. Randolph. By this time next year, Oakes will be out of the Bahamas for good.”

As he said all this, de Marigny had lowered his voice, had positioned his head in close proximity to mine. I glanced to Jack, who was quietly rearranging his bottles behind the counter, and Jack, who had been watching us, looked away. I thought of the papers locked in my desk drawer on Cable Beach.

“Which bank?” I asked. “The one in Mexico?”

“Banco Continental, of course. Wenner-Gren’s outfit.”

I stubbed out my cigarette. “Fascinating. And also illegal, isn’t it? Moving your assets overseas in a time of war?”

“What does that matter to such men? But come. You’re not leaving?”

“I only stopped by for a little refreshment.”

He touched my hand. “We’re having a little dinner party tonight, Georges and me. You must join us.”

I opened my mouth to offer my regrets, to say I was otherwise engaged, but then I wasn’t, was I? Otherwise engaged. For all I knew, Thorpe was on his way back to London right now. For all I knew, I had seen my last of him. This idea—the loss of Thorpe—inserted itself at the top of my head, penetrating deeply, and then drew a slow gash right down the middle from skull to viscera, splitting me apart the way you might filet a trout.

I laid a few shillings on the counter and rose to my feet. “Why, how lovely of you to think of me, dear Freddie. Eight o’clock all right for you?”

He took my hand and kissed it. As he bent over my fingers, the light glinted on his hair.

“Eight o’clock is perfect.”