The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  “I hope,” said Teresa, “that you know what you’re doing. Come along, Sebastian.”

  John Colville reappeared from the kitchen, untying a large butcher’s apron from around his waist.

  “Dinner in five minutes,” he announced. “You off, Sebastian? Have a good evening, then. You’re eating with us, are you, Tom?”

  The dark-haired young man who had been briefly introduced as Tom Bradley got off his barstool and put his empty glass on the counter.

  “Afraid not, John. Sorry I didn’t tell you before. I’ve got a date.”

  “And you’re not bringing her here?”

  Tom Bradley grinned. “Not that sort of a date. Be seeing you.” He strolled toward the garden, then stopped and turned. He said to Henry, “You know the Bum Boat?”

  “Where there’s a dance tonight?”

  “That’s right. Might be interesting to look in.”

  “So it might.”

  “Maybe see you there later on.” He disappeared into the darkness.

  John Colville said, “The table’s laid for us in the snug. I’ll get one of the girls to keep an eye on the bar, but I don’t get the impression that business is going to be exactly brisk tonight.”

  The snug was a small room behind the bar, underneath the Tibbetts’ bedroom and with the same view overlooking the sea. A dinner table had been laid for five, but, as Henry and Emmy came in, a small, black-skinned girl was nimbly whisking away one place setting.

  “Sit you down,” said John. “We eat en famille here, with so few guest rooms…”

  “And so few guests,” Margaret put in. “One day, we’re going to build a proper dining room and more bedrooms and—”

  “Unless, of course,” John said, “this bloody murder succeeds in bankrupting us all. I’ve made a salmi of duck for tonight—hope that suits everybody.”

  “Whoever would have thought,” Margaret said, “that John would turn out to be better at cooking than he ever was at economics? That’s what makes this place such fun. And with—” She stopped.

  “With what?” Henry prompted.

  “Oh, nothing. I keep forgetting. I was going to say that with Sandy in charge of the bar…but that’s all changed now.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Henry said, “I’m rather glad that Tom Bradley isn’t in to dinner. You can tell us about this wretched business from your point of view. I’d like to have that under my belt before I meet the governor and the police chief tomorrow.”

  There was a little silence, broken only by the clattering of plates as John dispensed the food. Then Margaret said, “It sounds so silly, if you don’t know the people. I mean—Sandy could never have hoped to be believed.”

  “Never mind about that,” Henry said. “Just tell me.”

  “All right. Well, first of all, the facts. I expect you know them. The senator went off after lunch last Tuesday—March twentieth, that is—to play a round of golf with Mr. Huberman, and—”

  “Just a moment,” Henry said. “Let’s have a bit of background. I gather Olsen was here on his own, without his wife.”

  “Without his wife, but not exactly on his own,” said John.

  Quickly, Margaret said, “You’ve no right to say that, John. You don’t know for sure—”

  “Potatoes, Emmy? All I meant, my dear Margaret, was that Olsen and Huberman, who were old friends, had come here together for a golfing holiday, each without his wife.”

  “Well, if that’s really all you meant…” Margaret sounded dubious.

  “We are sticking to undeniable facts at this stage, aren’t we?” said John. “OK, darling. Go on.”

  “Who is Huberman?” Henry asked.

  Margaret said, “Albert G. Huberman. Attorney. Well-known Washington lobbyist. Since he represents a lot of the big cotton interests, he naturally came into contact with Senator Olsen—and, as John says, they came here to play golf, which is precisely what they were doing on March twentieth at ten minutes past three in the afternoon. They were on the fifth tee when it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  “Well, if we’re really to stick to proven facts, the next thing happened at twenty-five past three, when Huberman came rushing into the Golf Club, shouting murder. He’d run all the way from the fifth tee, and he was lucky not to have had a stroke on the way. He gasped out that a black man was attacking Senator Olsen with a machete. Major Chatsworth immediately telephoned the police and then got out his Moke and drove as fast as he could to the fifth tee. They found the senator. It—it must have been horrible. He’d not just been murdered—he’d been mutilated, hacked up. The police said it looked as though he had put up a fight, but…” Margaret raised her hands and let them fall in a hopeless gesture.

  “What exactly was Huberman’s story?” Henry asked.

  “He said that Olsen had just teed up for his drive when the black man came leaping out of the undergrowth, brandishing his machete and yelling. There’s a lot of dense scrub there, between the mango grove and the tee, easy to hide in. Huberman was standing on the far side of the tee—he’d already made his drive. He said Olsen shouted at him to save himself, to run for it—and then began grappling with the man. Huberman isn’t exactly a heroic type. He ran. That’s about all there is to it—except that he definitely identified the black man as Sandy.”

  Henry said, “It seems to me to be simply Huberman’s word against Sandy’s. Why couldn’t Huberman have killed Olsen himself and made up the whole story?”

  “Because,” said John Colville dryly, “Sandy doesn’t deny that he was there. He admits hiding in the undergrowth and jumping out with his machete.”

  Emmy said, “Well, then, he surely must be guilty.”

  “Now we get to the part that sounds silly,” said Margaret. “You see, Sandy’s story is that the whole thing was a practical joke, thought up by Olsen himself. Olsen was—he had a bit of a sadistic streak in him, I suppose. I remember from Washington days that he was known for playing rather cruel tricks on people. Huberman had been reading about racial murders on other islands, and apparently he was as jumpy as a cat about the whole thing. Sandy says that Olsen came to him and offered him a hundred dollars if he’d hide at the fifth tee that afternoon and then come leaping out, breathing fire and brandishing his machete. The idea was that Huberman would lose his head and bolt—which is exactly what he did. Sandy would then depart quietly with his hundred bucks, and Olsen would await the arrival of police and ambulances. At that point, he’d say to Huberman, ‘Black man? What black man? I didn’t see any black man. It must have been your imagination. I wondered why you’d gone haring off like that. I think you’d better see an analyst.’ The idea being, of course, to humiliate Huberman and make him look a fool.”

  “And Sandy maintains that that is precisely what happened,” said John, between mouthfuls. “Have some more sauce, Henry. Everything went according to plan, except for one thing. Somebody actually did kill the senator.”

  Emmy said, “Somebody just happened to turn up with a machete, at that particular time and place. Whoever would believe that?”

  “Whoever would?” Margaret echoed. “That’s just the point. Sandy hasn’t a hope in hell of being believed.”

  “So the police arrested him,” said Henry, “and as a result people’s cars are being burned and windows broken—not to mention radio sets.”

  “That’s about the size of it, old man,” said John. “So if you can do anything about it, get busy, because it could get serious.”

  “I’m proposing to start this evening,” said Henry. “What sort of place is the Bum Boat Bar?”

  “There’s nothing the matter with the Bum Boat,” said Margaret, on the defensive. “It just happens that…well…”

  “It happens to be where the troublemakers hang out,” said John.

  “I believe they’re having a dance this evening,” Henry said. “I think I’ll look in.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Emmy, at once.

&nbs
p; “Better not, perhaps. You must be tired, and—”

  “I’m coming,” said Emmy, firmly. “If only as an insurance policy. Besides, you know I love West Indian music.”

  Henry did not smile. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “The answer is no. Please stay here with John and Margaret.”

  Emmy sighed. “OK. But be careful.”

  “I will.” Henry turned to John. “I don’t suppose I’ll need to take the Moke, will I?”

  John looked a little surprised. “No,” he said, “it’s only just down the road. How did you know?”

  “I just had a feeling,” said Henry.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE BUM BOAT Bar was strongly reminiscent of Barney’s Bar on Tampica, before its transformation into a cocktail lounge and restaurant. The boxlike concrete building was painted bright pink, the chairs and tables were green plastic, and the music was deafening. The clientele appeared to be one hundred percent young and black, and since men outnumbered women by about two to one, the bar was crowded with groups of men.

  Heads turned and conversations stopped momentarily as Henry came in. There was a certain amount of laughter, of a kind which Henry did not much like the sound of, but no overt hostility or rudeness. Nor was there the warm friendliness which he had come to associate with the West Indies.

  He was making his way to the bar for a drink when he spotted Tom Bradley, who seemed to be the only other white person present. He was sitting at a table in the company of two young black men—one tall, lanky, and bearded, the other small and slightly built, both beautifully dressed in slim-hipped flaring pants and denim shirts decorated with colored sequins. Tom raised his hand in salute to Henry, said something to his companions, and then got up and came over to the bar, glass in hand.

  “So you decided to come along?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “On your recommendation,” said Henry. “In any case, I wanted to look around.”

  “While you still have a hope of doing it incognito?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And what d’you think you’ll find here?”

  Henry said. “The person who heaved a brick into the Anchorage bar.”

  Tom Bradley grinned. “That’s a fair assumption,” he said. “Do you want some introductions? What are you drinking, by the way? No, no, this is on me. Two more beers, please, Everett. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Your good health,” said Henry, raising his glass. “What can you do for me? You can tell me what you’re doing here on this island, for a start.”

  Tom’s grin grew even wider. “Hadn’t you guessed? I’m a reporter. Sorry, an investigative journalist. From Washington, D.C. I’m one of the foot-slogging minions who gather material for Bill Mawson. You must know his column.”

  Henry shook his head. “We’re from the other side of the world,” he said. “You’ll have to explain.”

  “It’s very refreshing,” remarked Tom, “to meet somebody who has never heard of Bill Mawson. It sort of restores one’s faith in the human race. Well, in a nutshell, he operates in and around Washington, and his specialty is uncovering hornets’ nests—usually political. Some of the stuff he digs out is pure scandal—but he’s done his share in sniffing out several nasty cases of corruption in high places. With the help of people like me, of course.”

  “And are you here on the track of scandal and corruption?”

  “To be honest—no. I’m a very small cog in the machine, and I’m here on a watching brief, simply because the man who got murdered was Senator Brett Olsen. Bill didn’t consider it an important enough assignment for one of his top men, so I landed it, and I sure am enjoying it. I’m also supposed to keep a weather eye on the political situation and let the front office know if it looks like it might blow up into full-scale riots. Hence, I keep my finger on the throbbing nerve center of St. Matthew’s—which is the Bum Boat Bar.”

  “And what’s your opinion of the situation?” Henry asked.

  “A storm in a teacup,” said Bradley. “The only mystery is what caused Sandy Robbins to run amok with a machete, and I’ve a few ideas about that which I won’t go into now. The rest is just a few hotheads looking for an excuse to raise Cain.”

  “Revolutions can start that way,” Henry said.

  “So they can—but I don’t see it happening here. What may happen, though, is a tricky economic situation if the tourists get scared away. Sandy was really very thoughtless to kill Olsen on Golf Club property. It’s given the members a bad attack of cold feet—and the members are the people who keep this island off the bread line.”

  “Who threw the brick?” said Henry.

  Tom grinned again. “Come and meet Brooks and Delaware,” he said.

  The two young black men, who had been engaged in serious conversation, stopped talking abruptly as Tom and Henry approached. Tom said, easily, “Brooks…Delaware… meet Henry. He’s a friend.”

  Brooks—the tall, bearded man—extended his hand. “Pleased to know you, man.”

  The smaller man looked at Tom and said, “Is he a brother of the Cause?”

  “He’s a friend,” Tom repeated.

  “You can trust him?”

  “He wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”

  Delaware seemed to make up his mind. “OK, man. You’re a friend of Tom’s, you’re a friend of ours, you’re a friend of the Cause. Sit down and drink your beer. You from the States?”

  “No,” said Henry.

  “Cuba?”

  “England.”

  The two black men exchanged wary glances. Tom Bradley said, “Not all Englishmen are like Sir Geoffrey Patterson, you know.”

  Henry said, “That was a very well-aimed stone. Yours, I presume—” he added, to Brooks.

  The big man grinned. “Sure, man. And there’s more where that come from.”

  “What are you planning next?” Henry asked, conversationally.

  Quickly, Delaware said, “We don’t discuss that outside of meetings. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Need any help?”

  Delaware laughed.

  “Sure. A membership card to the Golf Club would come in mighty handy, man. That place is like a fortress, I tell you.”

  “People go in there to work, don’t they?” said Henry.

  “Sure they do. And live there in staff quarters. And any one of them comes just once in here for a beer—wham, he’s out. Just like that. And a man who’s been fired by the club don’t find no new job easy, not on this island. That’s what I call slavery, man. That’s what we’re fighting. When we’re through, there won’t be any Golf Club. Nor Chatsworth nor Patterson neither. There’ll be the independent republic of St. Matthew’s, run by and for the people of this island.”

  “That sounds like a fine ambition for your home island,” said Henry. “You were born here, I suppose?”

  “No, man. No way. I’m from Tampica, like Brooks here.”

  “People born on this island, they’re no good,” Brooks explained. “ ’Fraid of the Golf Club. ’Fraid of the government. ’Fraid of their own shadows. They won’t get out and fight for their rights.”

  “And yet,” Henry pointed out, “Sandy Robbins is a native-born Matthewsian, isn’t he?”

  Again a glance was exchanged. Then Delaware said, “Sandy was framed. A white man’s trick.”

  “You mean, you don’t think he killed Senator Olsen?”

  “He wouldn’t have had the guts,” said Brooks, in disgust.

  “Then who did?” said Henry. “One of your people, perhaps?”

  “Who’s this?” The voice was low, feminine, and as incisive as an ace service by a tennis champion. All four men looked up. Standing behind Henry’s chair was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. She was black as onyx, a good six feet tall, and slim as a reed. She wore pink denim pants, which flared at the ankle over her two-inch wedge sandals, and a pink cotton shirt whose tails were knotted between her brea
sts, leaving her midriff bare. Also, in the gloom of the bar, she sported huge dark glasses with rims of glittering rhinestone. Her hair was elaborately plaited close to her head in the cornrow fashion, leaving little lanes of naked, shiny scalp between the neat braids.

  Brooks and Delaware seemed to have been struck dumb, but Tom Bradley grinned and said, “Hi, Diamond. This is a friend of mine.”

  The girl called Diamond did not even look at Tom. To the other two, she repeated, “Who is he?”

  Awkwardly, Brooks said, “Like Tom said…a friend…”

  “Name?”

  “Henry.”

  “Henry what?”

  “Well—”

  “I’ll tell you, you pair of idiots,” said Diamond. “His name’s Henry Tibbett, and he’s a pig out of London. What have you told him?”

  “Nothing, Diamond,” said Delaware, too quickly. “Nothing at all. Just drinking a beer, that’s all.”

  “Talk about Sandy?”

  “Well…not really…”

  “Get out,” said Diamond, coldly. “Both of you. And you,” she added, to Tom. “I’m going to talk to this man alone. Once. After that, nobody talks to him. Understand?”

  Like a pair of whipped puppies, Brooks and Delaware shuffled to their feet and made for the bar. Tom stood up and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, brother,” he said. “She doesn’t actually eat men, do you, honey?”

  Diamond was not amused. “I said get out.”

  “OK, OK. Cool it, baby. See you at the Anchorage, Henry.” Tom strolled off into the darkness.

  Diamond pulled up a chair, turned it with its back to the table, and straddled it, her long legs on either side of the seat, her elbows on the back. Henry wished she would take off her glasses so that he could see her eyes.

  She said. “Now I’m doing the talking, remember. You come here to solve the Olsen case—Sandy innocent or guilty, right? Now get this. We’re a political movement, and no policeman wants to get mixed up in politics—right? We don’t care about Sandy anymore—innocent, guilty, all the same to us. He’s served his purpose by getting arrested. All right, so he’s guilty, so that’s better for us—but so he’s innocent, that’s never going to stop us now. We’re off the ground and way up out of sight, man.”