Henry said, “So it was you who framed him?”
“It was not. That’s a lie. His arrest was a fortunate coincidence, and that’s the truth.” She spoke quite softly and very deliberately.
“The murder was an even more fortunate coincidence, wasn’t it?” Henry remarked.
“That’s all I’m saying. Now I’m going to show you something.” With a quick movement, Diamond whipped off her sunglasses, and Henry drew in his breath in sharp shock. Her right eye was as lovely as the rest of her face—huge and dark, with long curling lashes and elaborately made up. Where her left eye should have been, there was nothing but a hideous mass of scar tissue.
Watching Henry’s face, Diamond smiled slowly. “I won’t wear a patch over it,” she said. “I want it to be seen.” She leaned toward him over the back of the chair. “You know how that happened? It’s funny. Very funny. That was done by a golf ball.” Henry said nothing. “I am sixteen, come from Tampica to work at the Golf Club. Very good money, they say. Very rich men, very good tips. All true. Plenty of rich Americans, leave their wives at home, like to find a nice friendly girl on St. Matthew’s. But what happens if the girl’s not friendly? You tell me, Mr. Tibbett.”
“You’re not implying that it was done deliberately, are you?”
“You decide, Mr. Tibbett. Here am I with a very rich American, and I say no. ‘All right, Diamond. No hard feelings. Quite understand. We can be friends, can’t we?’ ‘Sure’ I say. ‘Then come around the golf course with me tomorrow, Diamond. I’m playing a round alone. Come with me, just walk and talk.’ ‘OK,’ I say. Fifth tee. ‘Diamond, you mind standing just there…just a little behind me? You watch my left arm, see if it’s straight as I drive.’ ‘Sure, I’ll watch.’ So I stand where he says and he winds himself up and he hits that ball hard and… They get me to the doctor’s house—he’s out at a party. So they get me on a boat to Doc Duncan on Tampica. Nothing he can do. Might just have saved the eye if he’d got to it right away.” Diamond replaced her glasses and stood up. “Don’t expect me to give up the Cause,” she said.
Henry said, “Diamond, who was it—” but she had gone.
Henry finished his beer and made his way back to the Anchorage.
At ten o’clock the following morning, Henry reported to the Golf Club for his first official meeting—a conference with the governor, who was arriving that morning on his private yacht, and the police chief, Inspector Owen Montague. The original idea had been to foregather in the inspector’s office at the Priest Town police station, but Sir Geoffrey opted in favor of the more luxurious setting of the Golf Club. He was, of course, planning to stay there.
John Colville drove Henry over to the Golf Club, between hedges of oleander and hibiscus. Remembering the manicured lawns surrounding Pirate’s Cave Hotel on Tampica, Henry was prepared for an abrupt contrast between the club compound and the island wilderness outside; what he was not prepared for was to find himself entering what looked like a military encampment.
The perimeter of the Golf Club was surrounded by a stout wire fence, eight feet high, and the gate to which John drove was defended by a prettified structure in white concrete with red roof tiles, which was nevertheless a guardhouse. As the Moke approached, a tall young man dressed in a musical-comedy uniform, with a gun holster at his hip, strolled out and barred the way.
“May I see your pass, sir?” The accent was unmistakably American.
John pulled the Moke up to a standstill. “You know me, Hank,” he said. “And this is Chief Superintendent Tibbett from Scotland Yard. He has an appointment with the gov. So just kindly move your ass and let us in.”
“OK, John. Sure. Sorry, Superintendent. We have to be careful, you see. The members expect it.” The guard pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket and began unlocking the heavy metal gate.
“What’s the number of the gov’s cottage?” John asked.
“Twenty-three. Around to the right, past the tennis courts. Have a nice day.”
As the Moke passed through into the sacred precincts, Henry heard the heavy gate slam shut and the key turn in the lock. They were inside the fortress.
“And very pretty it is, too, as you can see,” John was saying. “Seven hundred of the most beautiful acres in the Caribbean. The golf course was designed by Scotland’s greatest expert, I need hardly say, and the gardens were landscaped and planted by a specialist from Kew. The outside staff alone runs to thirty people.”
“All the same,” Henry said, “it strikes me rather like a luxurious maximum-security prison. Are all those guns and fences really necessary?”
“I’m afraid they are. Of course, security has been tightened up since Olsen’s murder—but even before that, the committee didn’t take any chances. This is a private club, after all—and at any one time the number of potential targets here must be enormous.”
“Targets?”
“For robbery, blackmail, kidnapping, political demonstration, and even murder. Not to mention plain hounding by newsmen or fans. The people who come here are prepared to pay astronomical prices for security and privacy.”
“Poor things,” said Henry. And then, “In view of all that, how is Sandy Robbins supposed to have got in? Unless he was invited by Olsen as he says.”
“By water,” said John. He drew up outside one of the white-painted Spanish-style cottages. “Here we are. And there’s the beach. It’s discreetly guarded by a posse of bouncers disguised as sunbathers, of course. But at certain points the golf course runs close to the sea, and—”
“And under British law all land below the high-water line is public property,” said Henry. “How about the fifth tee?”
“Separated from the beach by about a hundred yards of mango grove,” said John. “Perfect cover. Well, this is number twenty-three. I’ll be getting back to the Anchorage.”
The door to the cottage stood open, leading into the sitting room, which had a red-tiled floor scattered with Scandinavian rugs and was furnished in bamboo and brass. Beyond, on the veranda overlooking the beach, Henry could see three men sitting around a glass-topped table, sipping long drinks and obviously in conference. One he recognized as Major Chatsworth. Of the other two, Henry decided that the tall, thin, distinguished-looking character with the graying goatee was probably the governor, Sir Geoffrey Patterson, while the dark, tubby little man with the black moustache who was continually mopping the sweat from his brow must be Inspector Montague, chief of the island’s police force. Henry walked through the sitting room, paused at the open door to the veranda, and said, “I’m Henry Tibbett. May I join you, gentlemen?”
The three men looked up abruptly, as if caught off balance. Then Major Chatsworth said, “Ah, Tibbett. Good morning. Sir Geoffrey, may I present Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard? Chief Superintendent, Sir Geoffrey Patterson,” and he indicated the small, rotund man who was now sweating more profusely than ever.
“Ah. Yes. Tibbett. To be sure.” Henry recognized the plummy voice from the previous evening’s broadcast. “Glad to see you. Hope you can help us clear up this sorry affair. This is Inspector Montague.”
The third man had risen to his feet and now resembled a shakily planted, bearded beanpole. He said, disdainfully, “I certainly hope we can dispose of this horrid thing as quickly as possible, Chief—am I right?—Chief Superintendent? Goodness me, what a mouthful. I’m afraid you won’t find us equipped with all your newfangled scientific dodges. We’re not used to sophisticated crimes like murder on St. Matthew’s, I fear. Very much behind the times, we are.”
Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat, passed a handkerchief over his brow, and said, “Hrrrmph. Yes. Well, sit you down, Tibbett. Now, this needn’t take long. Just fill you in about the general background of the whole business, and we can leave you and Montague to get things settled, eh?”
“I hope so,” said Henry.
Major Chatsworth, who had disappeared into the interior of the cottage, came out again with a tall glass full of p
inkish liquid, which he placed at Henry’s elbow, spilling some in the process.
Sir Geoffrey said, “You heard my broadcast last night, I imagine?”
“Some of it, sir.”
“What d’you mean, some of it?”
Quickly, Chatsworth said, “We were both listening in the Anchorage bar, Sir Geoffrey. Unfortunately, the broadcast was interrupted—”
“By a well-aimed stone,” Henry said. “Tell me, Sir Geoffrey, what do you know about a girl called Diamond?”
There was a quick, three-pronged glance. Then the governor said, “Nothing, Tibbett. Who is she?”
Montague said, “She’s a troublemaker from Tampica, Sir Geoffrey. A girl who imagines she has a grudge against white people on this island.”
“She also has one eye missing,” Henry said. “She lost it on the fifth tee of this golf course, when somebody drove a golf ball into it.”
Sir Geoffrey looked startled. “Gracious me, what a bizarre story. What do you know of this, Chatsworth?”
Major Chatsworth’s normally ruddy complexion had deepened to strawberry. “Girl’s a confounded nuisance,” he said. “Tried to put the blame on the club. Her work had been unsatisfactory for some time, and the committee was planning to fire her—pity we didn’t get around to it sooner. Matter of fact, the club behaved very handsomely. Paid her medical expenses and offered a thousand dollars’ compensation, which is a fortune to these people. Naturally, she couldn’t be kept on after an episode like that. She took the money, of course, and ever since she’s been stirring up trouble. She’s the one who’s behind all this unrest, Sir Geoffrey.”
The governor looked puzzled. “I thought it was a gang of young men.”
“So it is, my dear fellow,” said Montague, languidly, “but who puts them up to it? Ask yourself that.”
“For heaven’s sake, Owen,” said Major Chatsworth, “can’t we have her deported or something?”
“What, and have a real riot on our hands?” Montague lit a small cigar and blew out a plume of smoke. “Don’t be idiotic, Sebastian. What we have to do is to play the whole thing very slowly, very quietly—until this wave of violence dies down. Meanwhile, as long as Diamond is on this island, you’re going to have trouble, dear soul. Might as well admit it.”
“Why have I not been told about this woman before?” Sir Geoffrey might be unimposing physically, but now his voice had the unmistakable ring of authority. “You know that I rely on your reports, Montague—and this is the first I have heard of her. And yet, within twenty-four hours of his arrival, Chief Superintendent Tibbett has been able to pinpoint—”
“Oh, don’t go on like that, Geoffrey,” said Montague, pettishly. “Sandy Robbins killed Senator Olsen. There can’t be any possible argument about that. The sooner we get him tried and convicted, the better. Diamond and her merry men have been having their little fling, throwing stones and setting cars on fire, but once the trial is over and Sandy is safely behind bars in St. Mark’s, the steam’ll run out of these silly demonstrations, you mark my words.”
“I’d be happier if that girl was back on Tampica, where she belongs,” said Major Chatsworth. The others ignored him.
Sir Geoffrey said, “As to getting the trial over as quickly as possible, I entirely agree with you, Montague. On the other hand, Tibbett has come all this way precisely so that people here can be convinced that justice is being done. He must at least make a show of conducting an investigation.”
Henry opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and shut it again. The governor glanced at his watch.
“Well, gentlemen, I don’t think I can help you any further. Good luck to you, Tibbett, and make it as quick as you can, won’t you? Nothing to be gained by dillydallying. Facts are clear enough. Don’t hesitate to call on me if I can help at all. I’ll be on the golf course if you need me. Pray use this cottage as your HQ, if you wish. Good day to you.”
When the governor had left, Henry said, “Who was the wealthy American who put out Diamond’s eye, Major Chatsworth?”
“I really can’t tell you, Tibbett.” The major was decidedly flustered. “The whole thing happened four years ago—before my time. I was told about the incident and the financial details and so on, but no name was mentioned. The whole episode was…kept in low profile, as you might say.”
“I suppose your predecessor would know,” Henry said.
“Of course—but he’s dead. That’s how the job came to be vacant.”
“Anything suspicious about his death?” Henry asked.
“Not unless you call DTs and cirrhosis of the liver suspicious,” Chatsworth remarked tersely.
“Ah, well. Never mind.” Henry turned to Montague. “I’d like to see Sandy Robbins as soon as possible.”
“Easily done. He’s in the lockup in Priest Town, and he has very few social engagements.” Montague sniggered.
“Can you fix it for me to see him this morning—say, twelve o’clock?”
“Consider it done.”
To Chatsworth, Henry said, “Is Mr. Huberman still at the club?”
“Yes, he is. Won’t go near the golf course anymore, but he’d booked in for three weeks, and…” The major’s voice trailed away.
Henry said, “I’m surprised he stayed on, after what happened. And since he came here to play golf…”
Once again, Chatsworth’s face had assumed its crushed-strawberry hue. He said, “I may as well tell you, because you’d find out anyhow. There’s a young woman.”
“Huberman’s girl friend?”
“That’s right. A remarkably pretty girl, a fashion model, I believe. Miss Candida Stevenson, known as Candy. I understand that she…em…expressed a wish to stay on and finish her holiday, and so of course Mr. Huberman…that is…”
“I understand,” said Henry. “Now, I have to make a phone call, and then I’d like to see Mr. Huberman. Can you contact him and make a date for me around eleven o’clock?”
“Surely. He’ll be on the beach. I’ll have a word with him.”
“Thanks.” Henry hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “Is there a telephone I can use?”
“Right here, sir. Just ask the operator for the number you want. Run along now, Owen. Can’t you see the chief superintendent wants a bit of privacy?”
“Oh, very well.” Owen Montague stood up reluctantly. “We’ll cooperate, won’t we, Chief Superintendent? Or may I call you Henry? My name’s Owen.”
“Certainly you can call me Henry. I’ll see you at the lockup at twelve.”
Montague giggled a little. “Not a very romantic assignation,” he said. “Oh, all right, Sebastian. I’m going.”
When Montague had gone, Major Chatsworth leaned toward Henry and said in a conspiratorial voice, “I thought you’d like to know—Mr. Reynolds has arrived. On the Island Queen. He’s in number seventeen.”
“Good,” said Henry. “By the way, you’re the only person who knows who Reynolds is, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. Even Teresa and Owen don’t know. Nor the governor.”
“Good. Keep it that way, won’t you?”
“Of course. Of course. Oh, and I’ve arranged for one of our Mokes to be at your disposal, Tibbett. Just ask at the bar. You’ll be lunching at the clubhouse, I trust?”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“A pleasure, sir. Well, I’ll get along to the beach and find Mr. Huberman.”
Henry waited until Chatsworth was well away from the cottage, and then lifted the receiver. A minute later he was connected to Sugar Mill Bay, and Lucy Pontefract-Deacon was saying, “I’m ashamed of myself, Henry. I must be getting old.”
“So it was Senator Olsen?”
“Of course it was. I remember distinctly, now that you mention it. Of course, Olsen was just a name to me—and not a very memorable one at that. And it’s so long since Ethel left this island.”
“Ethel?”
“Ethel Drake. The girl who now calls herself Diamond.”
“What do you know about her, Lucy?”
“Bright. Ambitious. Quite ruthless, I should think— especially after she lost her eye.”
“Why did she leave Tampica?”
“To make money. Can’t really blame her. It was before independence, and Tampica was something of a dead end for up-and-coming youngsters. She was one of a big family, and she was determined to get out of the rut. And then, of course, there was Sandy Robbins. You remember I told you he had a girl here?”
“That’s very interesting,” said Henry. “Tell me, Lucy— how is Diamond’s family doing now?”
Lucy laughed. “Famously, most of them. One brother is a qualified motor mechanic, working for Barney. The oldest girl is reservations manager at the Barracuda Bay Hotel. One brother stayed on St. Matthew’s with the club, but the youngest runs the best seafood restaurant in Tampica Harbour.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Henry. “I’d have thought that Tampica might be a more attractive place than St. Matthew’s right now. Especially since the Golf Club is out as far as Diamond is concerned.”
“I see what you mean. You think she had some special reason for staying on?”
“I’m beginning to think,” Henry said, “that she had two reasons—at least one of which no longer applies.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ALBERT G. HUBERMAN lay flat on his back on a chaise longue, listening to the rhythmical plashing of the sea and soaking the sunshine into his plump, near-naked body. He was not looking forward to his interview with Henry Tibbett, but he had decided that the best thing to do was to get it over with as quickly as possible.
All other things being equal, Huberman would have been back in Washington by now—but things were far from equal. As a lobbyist working for a group of cotton producers, his assignment had been to establish contact with and influence over Senator Brett Olsen, chairman of the Olsen committee. Hence his presence on St. Matthew’s. Now, Brett Olsen was dead, and Huberman’s masters had decided to keep him in cold storage in the Caribbean until they embarked on a new strategy—and that, of course, depended on who was nominated as the new committee chairman. Besides, Huberman’s role in the attack on Olsen had been unheroic, if not ridiculous. Candy Stevenson provided a useful excuse, but in fact she had very little to do with Huberman’s protracted stay on St. Matthew’s.
The Coconut Killings Page 5