The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  “Ah, here we are. Em…Mr. Huberman?”

  Huberman opened his small brown eyes at the sound of Major Chatsworth’s voice. Squinting up into the sun, he could see the tall figure of the secretary accompanied by a smaller, undistinguished-looking man in beige cotton pants and a pale blue shirt.

  “Hi,” said Huberman, and closed his eyes again. He saw no reason why he should make things easier for this damned interfering policeman from England.

  “This is Chief Superintendent Tibbett, Mr. Huberman. As I told you, he would just like a word with you…pure formality…”

  “Siddown,” said Huberman. He did not open his eyes.

  “Well, Tibbett, I’ll leave you to your little chat with Mr. Huberman. I’ll see you later…”

  Major Chatsworth hurried away, enveloped in a palpable cloud of relief. He had never found Albert Huberman an easy member to get along with, and the present situation was acutely embarrassing. He was glad not to be in Henry Tibbett’s shoes.

  As a matter of fact, Henry was not wearing shoes. He had left them in the governor’s cottage. He sat down on the sand beside Huberman’s chaise longue and said, “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Huberman.”

  Huberman grunted. Henry went on, “I understand you and Senator Olsen were here together for a golfing holiday. Is that right?”

  Another grunt.

  “And you were playing a twosome on the afternoon of March twentieth, when—”

  Huberman opened his eyes enough to let a slit of sunshine in. He said, “For Chrissakes, stop beating about the bush. You want me to tell you what happened on the fifth tee, don’t you?”

  “Not particularly,” said Henry, agreeably. “I think I know that part. Sandy Robbins jumped out from the mango grove, brandishing a machete and yelling. Senator Olsen shouted to you to run for your life, and you did. When you got back with Major Chatsworth, you found the senator dead—murdered with a machete. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Huberman made an indistinct sound indicating assent, and added, “Then what the hell do you want to know?”

  Conversationally, Henry said, “I’m interested in your job. I believe you are a lobbyist.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We don’t have them in England,” Henry explained. “Just what do you do?”

  Huberman heaved a sigh, as of an unwilling fool-sufferer. He said, “I’m employed by the CPF—the Cotton Producers’ Federation. I look after their interests in Washington.”

  “By influencing politicians?”

  “By talking to them. Putting our point of view. Nothing illegal in that, is there?”

  “Apparently not,” said Henry. There was a dryness in his voice that made Huberman open his eyes a further eighth of an inch.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. The whole conception is—well—a little difficult for an Englishman to understand. Olsen was chairman of the Olsen committee, wasn’t he?”

  “Of course he was. Goddammit, there was no secret about it. I was working on Olsen to get the higher cotton subsidies through the committee. Ledbetter and I—”

  “Who’s Ledbetter?”

  “Jackson P. Ledbetter. President of the CPF. He was staying here up to the end of last week. We’re—we were, I should say—both personal friends of Brett Olsen’s, but I’m not going to pretend to you or anybody else that it was just coincidence we were vacationing here, or that we didn’t talk cotton from time to time. Olsen and I were just playing a friendly round that day. You make it sound like we were criminals or something.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to. Mr. Ledbetter doesn’t play golf, then?”

  “Sure he does, but he was off the island that day—went over to St. Boniface to do some shopping.”

  “And after the murder, Mr. Ledbetter went back to the States, but you decided to stay on here.” Henry sounded guileless, but Huberman was not deceived.

  “Now see here. Jackson Ledbetter went back to Washington because he had work to do. I stayed on because I’m on vacation. You’re here to investigate a crime, not to pry into innocent people’s private lives. Is that clear?”

  Before Henry could answer, a small, clear, feminine voice said, “Hi, Al. Who’s your friend?”

  Henry looked up and found himself staring at one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen. She was slender and long-limbed, and her body—where it was not covered by a scrap of string bikini—was evenly tanned to a deep honey color, so that the tiny sun-bleached hairs on her legs and forearms glistened like silver against her skin. She had evidently just come out of the sea, for she was dripping wet and carried a snorkel mask and rubber fins. She shook the water from her long blonde hair, which clung like seaweed around her shoulders, and picked up an enormous towel from a neighboring beach chair.

  Huberman said, “Hi, honey. This is Chief Superintendent Tibbett from England. Tibbett—Candy Stevenson. How was the snorkeling?”

  “Fantastic.” Candy sat down astride the chaise longue and began languidly to towel the water from her golden skin. “There’s a biggish barracuda in Mango Bay. Six feet or so. We had quite a game.”

  “This girl,” Huberman explained to Henry, “swims like she should be a mermaid. And faces up to those big fish—”

  Candy said, “Barracuda never attack, Al. You know that. They just look a mite fierce.”

  “A mite too much for me,” said Huberman. “More up your alley perhaps, Tibbett? Or do you specialize in sharks?”

  Henry said. “I’d better explain, Miss Stevenson—I’m a policeman, and I’m making inquiries into Senator Olsen’s death.”

  “Go right ahead,” said Candy. “Don’t mind me.” She lay down on the chaise longue and closed her eyes.

  Henry looked at Albert Huberman, who also appeared to be asleep. He said, “Shall we go on with the questions, Mr. Huberman, or would you rather talk in private?”

  “Oh, the hell…get on with it.” The eyes did not open. Henry noticed that a dark stubble of beard was beginning to appear on Huberman’s multiple chins. It occurred to him to wonder just what the attraction was that he presented for Candy Stevenson.

  He said, “You’re quite certain that the man with the machete was Sandy Robbins?”

  “Of course I’m certain.”

  “You’d seen him behind the bar at the Anchorage, I suppose?”

  There was a tiny pause, and then Huberman said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “Never been there. One-horse little joint, so they tell me.”

  “Then where—”

  This time Candy spoke. “Shall I tell him, or will you?” Henry was finding it somewhat unnerving to carry on a three-sided conversation in which two of the participants never opened their eyes. He felt a strong urge to lie down on the sand and feign sleep himself, but he felt bound to keep the ball rolling.

  “Who is going to tell what to whom?” he asked, acutely aware of his English accent and careful grammar.

  Huberman grunted.

  Candy said, “Sandy is the best underwater swimmer I’ve ever met. He used to take me out to West Sound Reef, after lobsters. Then sometimes we’d come back here for a drink. It made Al very cross—didn’t it, sugar?”

  Huberman said, “Now don’t misunderstand me, Tibbett. The fact that Sandy was—is—black is neither here nor there.”

  Candy Stevenson gave a little half-amused sigh, but said nothing. Huberman went on. “Neither here nor there. Nobody can call me a racist. No, the thing I objected to—what made it awkward—was that Sandy was an employee of a small and inferior establishment of this island. Not the sort of person you expect to meet at the bar of the Golf Club.”

  “But members may invite guests to the club?”

  “Certainly—but Candy is here as my guest. She’s not a member herself. It was…well, it was a hell of an unsatisfactory situation. I won’t go further than that.”

  “Did Major Chatsworth ever raise any objections to Robbins coming here?” Hen
ry asked.

  “Certainly not. He’s much too tactful. Besides, you know what these British are like.” Huberman paused and then added, “Curiously enough, if Robbins had been white, I think there might have been some open objections, from other members if not from Chatsworth. But everyone’s so darned scared of being accused of color prejudice these days… Well, I asked Candy to stop bringing the boy here. Go out skin diving with him by all means, if you want to, I said. Only just keep him away from the club. Was that too much to ask?”

  “Yes,” said Candy, shortly. There was an oppressive silence.

  Henry said, “So presumably Senator Olsen had also met Robbins in the bar here.”

  “Of course,” said Candy. She sat up, picked up one of her sand-encrusted feet, and began examining the toes intently, picking at them with inch-long carmine-painted fingernails. She did not look at either of the men.

  “Do either of you know,” Henry said, “of any reason why Robbins should have killed Olsen? Was there ever a quarrel or—”

  “No, no. Nothing of that sort,” answered Huberman quickly. “These people are emotional, you know, and—”

  Candy looked up from her toe examination and winked at Henry. She said, “Come off it, Al. There was a very good reason. Brett was jealous as hell of Sandy.”

  “Jealous?” Henry echoed. “Why?”

  “Because of me, of course.” Candy sounded impatient at his slowness.

  “But I thought that you and Mr. Huberman…”

  Candy returned her foot to the sand and squinted up at Henry through her veil of golden hair. “Hey, when were you born, mister? Or don’t they do things that way in England?”

  Henry said, “If you mean what I think you do, the practice is universal. But you might just spell it out for me.”

  “Now, Candy.” Warningly, from Huberman. He did not open his eyes.

  “OK. Well, sure I came here with Al, as his…guest. But in fact I was intended as a nice little gift—unsolicited, of course— from the CPF to Senator Brett Olsen. To sweeten his vacation.”

  “Candy—”

  “Shut up, Al. So of course Brett got sore when I started to go scuba diving with Sandy. He reckoned I was his personal property, like. After all, he’d paid for me, hadn’t he?”

  “Had he? I thought you said the CPF—”

  “Ah, but—”

  Huberman sat up, his eyes wide open. “Tibbett, you mustn’t believe a word of this. Candy’s a great little kidder, aren’t you, honey? Why, she hardly exchanged a word with Senator Olsen, did you, baby? She went swimming with Sandy Robbins, and…everything else she did with me. Still does. Isn’t that so, Candy?”

  Candy lay back on the chaise longue. In a tired voice she said, “I guess so, honey. I was just kidding. You know me.”

  On impulse, Henry said, “Candy, do you know a girl called Diamond?”

  There was an apparently endless silence. Huberman was looking at Candy, bewildered. The girl lay as if asleep, but Henry felt that she was tense. At last she said, “No.”

  Another silence. Huberman said, “Who is this Diamond dame? Why should Candy know her? What are you getting at, Tibbett?”

  Henry grinned. “Oh, nothing. Just trying to find some sort of a pattern, you know. Well, I won’t bother you anymore.” He scrambled to his feet. “Thank you both, you’ve been very helpful. I hope we’ll meet again. Now I have to go to the lockup—to meet Sandy Robbins.”

  Candy opened one eye. “Give him my love,” she said.

  “I’ll do that,” said Henry. He walked a few steps down the beach, then paused and looked back. Huberman and Candy were lying, one on each chaise longue, their eyes closed. Like corpses.

  Henry had walked a hundred yards or so up the beach toward the bar when his eye was caught by a figure at once familiar and incongruous. A tall, athletic young man in a khaki-colored shirt and rather long Bermuda shorts, impeccably creased, below which paper-white legs proclaimed him a new arrival from a less clement climate. He stood out among the bronzed, near-naked sun worshipers like a bowler-hatted City gentleman at a rock concert. Henry raised a hand in greeting.

  “Good morning, Mr. Reynolds,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here, of all places. Did you have a good journey?”

  “Oh, good morning, sir. Yes, thank you, very good. I was just looking for you, sir. They told me you were conducting an interview on the beach.”

  Henry grinned. “If you can call it that,” he said. “What d’you think of this place?”

  “Like Dartmoor on the outside, isn’t it, sir? What are they all so scared of?”

  “Robbery, murder, and journalists,” said Henry.

  “But once you get in, well, I’ve never seen anything like it.” He paused. “I hope you and Mrs. Tibbett are comfortable, then?”

  “Very, thanks. Not in this class, of course, but the atmosphere’s cozier. You must come slumming one day.”

  Reynolds went slightly pink. “Thank you, sir. I’d appreciate that.” He cleared his throat. “Well—how are things going, sir?”

  “Interestingly, so far. I’m just off to the nick to talk to Robbins.”

  “You want me to come along, sir?”

  “No, I don’t think so. We don’t want to scare the young man. No, you stay here, have a swim, and do some sunbathing. Keep your ears open—I’m interested in the sort of gossip that may be running around this place. You might find a spot in the sun up there, near a fat man called Huberman and his girl friend. You can’t miss her—a smashing blonde in a green string bikini. They’re the people I’ve just been talking to.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “And Reynolds…”

  “Sir?”

  “For heaven’s sake get into swimming trunks and stop looking like a copper. I can see your boots.”

  Reynolds glanced involuntarily down at his bare feet, then grinned sheepishly. “I see what you mean, sir.”

  “And stop calling me ‘sir.’ Now, Major Chatsworth has kindly invited me to have lunch here. Wait for me in the bar, will you? I’ll be there around one, and we’ll lunch together. Remember that you’re just a casual acquaintance of mine from London.”

  “I’ll be there, sir—that is, I’ll be there.”

  Henry made his way to the beach bar and asked for a car to be sent to the governor’s cottage in five minutes. Then he retrieved his shoes and soon was outside the formidable main gate and bumping along cheerfully over the rutted dirt road toward Priest Town, at the wheel of the inevitable Mini-moke.

  The police station was a gray stone building on the quayside, next door to the customhouse. The waterfront was bustling with activity, as fishermen sorted their catch and sailing yachts motored out of harbor, their white sails flapping. The Island Queen was still berthed at her pier, taking on passengers and merchandise for the return run to Antigua. It was a busy scene, full of life and color, and several tourists were recording it on movie cameras. Henry wondered how many of the vacation films would feature the tall, unsmiling black girl in the dark sunglasses who was lounging against the side wall of the customhouse. Diamond gave him no sign of recognition, but he knew very well that he was being observed, and also that she had intended him to notice her. He pushed open the shabby green door of the police station and stepped inside, into the cool shadows.

  Inspector Montague was all smiles. “Ah, twelve on the dot. Punctuality is the politeness of kings, or so they tell me. I’ll take you along to Robbins right away, Henry. Do you think I should sit in at the interview? It’s just as you like, of course, my dear fellow.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather see him alone. I want to get his confidence, you see.”

  “I don’t see why my presence—” Montague began, then broke off with a nervous smile. “Of course, of course. I see your point. I was just going along to the Anchorage for lunch, in any case. Shall I see you there?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. Major Chatsworth has invited me to eat at the Golf Club.”

  �
��Oh, please yourself, of course. I hope it’s on the house, that’s all. For your sake, I mean. Well, then, Sergeant Ingham can look after you.” He pressed a bell on his desk, and a burly black man in tropical uniform appeared. “Sergeant, this is Chief Superintendent Tibbett. He wants a private talk with Robbins. See to it, will you?” To Henry, he added, “I’ll be here this afternoon, if you want me. So long for now.”

  “This way, if you please, sir.” Sergeant Ingham’s gentle voice belied his tough appearance. “Just ring the bell in the cell when you’re through, sir. Then I’ll come and let you out.” Apologetically, he added, “We have to try to keep Sandy— Robbins, that is—as carefully as we can. Of course, we don’t have anything like maximum security. We’ve never had a murder here before that I can remember.”

  “I know,” said Henry. “That’s what makes it so distressing.”

  “That’s right, man. I mean sir. Distressing is right. Just down this passage, sir. Here we are.”

  Sergeant Ingham produced an iron key of medieval dimensions and turned it in the lock of one of the three small, barred cells at the back of the building. He said, “Hi, Sandy, man. Got a visitor for you. Chief Superintendent Tibbett from London, like Mrs. Colville said. Well, I’ll leave you now, sir.”

  Sandy Robbins, who had been lying full length on the narrow bed reading a paperback detective book, jumped to his feet. Beaming as though his handsome black face would split in two, he held out his hand and said, “Henry Tibbett. Man, am I glad to see you! So Margaret finally sent you.”

  Henry shook hands, smiled back, and said, “Not Margaret, Sandy. Scotland Yard.”

  Robbins brushed aside this technicality. “Margaret and John,” he said, “told me that if there was any man in the world could get me out of this mess, it was you.”

  “Look,” Henry said, “I’m not your lawyer. I’m a policeman, investigating the case. If you would like your lawyer present at the interview—”