‘No names.’ He paused. ‘I’ve surely got something as will blow ye out of y’r seat, never doubt it. What I want t’ see first is the colour o’ your money.’
‘Very well.’ Renzi felt inside his waistcoat and brought out a soft hide purse, clinking it suggestively before pouring out the contents in a little stream, sliding the silver towards himself where he could see it through chinks directly down from under the blindfold.
‘That?’ the man said in disbelief. ‘Won’t buy a monkey his mort o’ joy-juice. Have to do better’n that.’
‘I can,’ Renzi said levelly. ‘Much more. I have it close by – no need to tempt a man to slit my throat and run with it. How much depends on what you can tell me.’
‘I’ve more t’ tell ye right enough. But what’s to stop ye runnin’ off without payin’ after I tells yez?’
‘What’s to stop you slitting my gizzard after I hand over the silver, just to keep your secret safe?’
The man chortled. ‘Seems we’ve come to a chock-a-block.’
Renzi was quick to pick up that he was a seaman: his reference to the state of a tackle, when the lower block has run up against the upper, stopping the hoist, had given him away.
‘Not necessarily,’ Renzi said carefully. ‘This you shall have when you’ve satisfied me with your information. The rest comes only after a runner takes a note containing the information to one of my colleagues, who will countersign it, and returns to me here with this evidence that the secret is secure in our hands.’
‘An’ you’ll be waitin’ here, o’ course.’
‘As will you, my friend, and the money.’
There was a heavy silence while this was digested.
‘No tricks!’
‘You have my word.’
Renzi got straight to the point: ‘So then, where is this privateers’ nest, at all?’
‘Ha! This is where you’re on the wrong course entirely, Mr Smith. ’Cos they’s not privateers, not at all. We’re talkin’ Navy, French Navy, as has a whole fleet as they’re controlling from the one place.’
Renzi felt a wash of relief mixed with elation but fought it down. He put out his hand for the coins, neatly divided them in two and pushed one pile across. ‘Which place?’
He felt the man reach across and draw the remainder to him but didn’t try to stop it. He was in too much of a fever to hear the rest.
‘Curaçao.’
In a rush of insight, Renzi saw how this could be all too possible and cursed himself for not considering the island before.
It was small and lay on the other side of the Caribbean, not far off the continental land mass of South America and of trifling importance in trade. However, it was still a tiny remnant of the Dutch empire, and the Hollanders, under a puppet government of Napoleon, would certainly do as they were told. Renzi’s pulse raced. ‘You’ve seen them yourself?’
‘Last voyage we did. Sees ’em come an’ go at a trot in the Schottegat, as is within Willemstad.’
‘You can’t tell me anything else?’
‘Well … the admiral cove is a right Tartar an’ he’s ashore in a big place at Parera, can’t miss him. Heard his name was Duperré or such.’
‘Is the island fortified? Do they have ships-of-the-line there?’
‘Why you askin’ me this? I’ve told you all I saw. Now, let’s see the rest o’ the rhino!’
Mind racing, Renzi tried to think. With the location of the base now known, it was really up to Dacres how he acted. Further questions could wait. The main thing was, he had what he wanted.
‘This does appear satisfactory information. You will have your reward once the runner returns. If you would be so good as to stand behind me as I remove my blindfold to write … there.’
He scribbled the bare facts on the back of a poster. Curaçao – the French Navy, Duperré in command. Then a request to countersign.
Handing it over his shoulder and being careful not to turn, he said, ‘Do get a messenger to take this at once to a Mr Wilikins.’ He gave the address and added, ‘He is not expecting this. Nonetheless the messenger is to be insistent he be called to sight and sign it.’ He hoped the confidential clerk would forgive being roused from bed but he would quickly realise the import of the paper.
Time passed. Renzi, blindfolded again, sat uncomfortably. The man discouraged conversation, and when the pot-boy returned, he snatched the paper and slapped it on the table, resuming his position behind.
‘Look at it!’ he demanded, as the blindfold was again lifted.