“Him? He’s a no-good nothing, man. You’re the fellow I want to see.”
“Have it your own way. Mind if I sit down?”
“Help yourself.” Sandy Robbins moved so as to leave room for Henry to sit beside him on the bed. “Now, where do we start, Mr. Tibbett?”
Henry said, “Why don’t you tell me your side of the story—exactly as it happened.”
“From the beginning?”
“From the beginning.”
“Well, now.” Robbins ran one hand through his frizz of black hair. “I guess you’d say the beginning was when Olsen came down to the Anchorage Monday evening.”
“The day before he was killed?”
“That’s right. We were quiet that night—there was a big dance on at the Bum Boat, see? John and Margaret were in Tampica, visiting Miss Lucy. I was in charge of the Anchorage, and planning to shut up early since we had no customers. And then, in walks Senator Olsen.”
Henry said. “There was nobody else in the bar? Just the two of you?”
“That’s right. He sits down and orders a piña colada, and then he comes out with it.”
“With what?”
“This crazy idea of his. He’s telling me about Huberman— you know Huberman?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Well, Olsen starts talking about Huberman, and how he’s been reading about black guys carving up rich white fat cats on other islands, and how he’s got so he’s scared even to go out on the links, man. And Olsen says, ‘I’ve finally talked him into playing a twosome tomorrow afternoon, and he’s nervous as a kitten. Boy, wouldn’t it be something if he did get attacked?’ Then he looks at me, speculative like, and he says, ‘Hey, Sandy, you got a machete, haven’t you?’ ‘Sure I have, Senator.’ And he says, ‘You got a sense of humor, Sandy?’ and I say, ‘You tell me, Senator.’ Then he says, ‘OK. You hide yourself in the mango grove beside the fifth tee tomorrow afternoon, and when Huberman and I arrive, you leap out yelling and waving your machete. How about it?’ ”
“And what did you say?”
Sandy grinned. “I said, ‘You crazy, Senator? I got no idea of cutting up this Huberman.’ ‘Of course not, Sandy,’ he says. ‘Now, listen, this is the action. I act like I’m as scared as he is— but braver, see. I tell him—you run for help, I’ll deal with this fellow. And boy, will Huberman run! Then you go off home— and when Huberman comes back with the police and all, I’ll just play it cool and say, ‘What man with what machete? I didn’t see no man.’ And he starts to laugh, like he really was crazy.”
“And so you agreed?”
“Well…” Sandy hesitated.
“Margaret says he offered you money.”
“Sure. Hundred dollars. I showed Montague the bill, but it didn’t do any good. Made them think I might have robbed Olsen. Fact is, Mr. Tibbett, I was a fool. I admit it. I didn’t want any part of that damn silly business—but I needed that hundred.”
“Will you tell me why?” Henry asked.
“Sure, man. You know Candy?”
“Slightly. I’ve seen her.”
Sandy grinned. “Then I needn’t say any more, I guess. She’s something, that girl. Not like what you’d think, just to look at her, I mean. Intelligent, I mean. And she’s learning to swim and dive real well, too. Well, after we’d come in from swimming, we’d go to the Golf Club, and…well…”
“And Candy would pick up the tab,” said Henry.
“That,” said Sandy, “I wouldn’t have minded. She’s my friend. No, sir, what got me was that I knew all the time it was Huberman paying. Now, I don’t—didn’t earn that much at the Anchorage. Not John and Margaret’s fault,” he added hastily. “They don’t have the cash, not yet. Got to build up the business. But I wanted—just once—to be able to take Candy out, and show her a good time, and pay the check myself. I was planning to take her to Tampica, go to Pirate’s Cave for dinner, order the wine, dancing after, order the Golf Club launch home. You understand how I felt, Mr. Tibbett?”
Henry nodded. “I understand,” he said. “But it doesn’t help much, does it?”
“Sure doesn’t.”
“Now,” said Henry, “how did you get to the mango grove?”
“How? Swam, of course.”
“Where from?”
“There’s a little beach near the Anchorage—Pelican Bay. About a mile from Mango Trunk.”
“That’s a long swim,” Henry said.
Sandy laughed. “Long? You crazy, man? With my flippers and snorkel, five miles is nothing. Ten, even.”
“So you swam around to Mango Trunk, virtually underwater.”
“That’s right, man. Nothing above the water but the tip of my snorkel tube. I didn’t want to be conspicuous, see?”
“So it’s a fair bet nobody saw you,” said Henry. “Did you see anybody?”
“Difficult to see much beside fishes when you’re snorkeling, man.” Sandy sounded amused.
“I meant after you surfaced at Mango Trunk.”
Sandy shook his head. “Don’t often get people on Mango Trunk. It’s not one of the best beaches around, and there’s no way to it but by water. Unless you come down off the golf course and through the mango grove, of course—but you don’t find club members dropping off at the fifth tee to take a dip.”
“OK,” Henry said. “Go on from there. You came out of the water and walked up the beach. You had your machete with you.”
“That’s right, man. Had it in a special sheath on my belt, for swimming. So I waited, nice and hidden in the trees, and before long Olsen and Huberman show up.”
“They didn’t have a caddy?”
“No, sir. Well, Huberman drives his ball, and Olsen’s looking into the grove, sort of anxious in case I don’t turn up. So when he starts his swing, I reckon the moment has come, and I leap out, yelling and waving my machete.” Sandy grinned broadly. “Must have looked a proper lemon, like Margaret says.”
“I gather the scheme worked?”
“Sure did, man. Olsen played it to the hilt. ‘Run, Al! Run for your life! Get help!’ He didn’t really need to carry on so. That Huberman was off the tee and legging it for the horizon in two seconds flat. And Olsen began to laugh. Man, I’ve never heard a man laugh so loud. He gives me the hundred, and pats my arm, and makes with his head that I should beat it.”
“What did he actually say?”
“He didn’t say nothing. He was laughing too hard, man. So I tuck my hundred in the waterproof bag with the machete and get back in the water. Next thing I knew was when Montague comes into the bar of the Anchorage that evening, looking all solemn, with Sergeant Ingham along. I’m behind the bar, and I ask them what they fancy to drink. And they tell me they’re not interested in a drink and that I’m under arrest for murder. Man, that’s the worst moment of my life, I’m telling you.”
Henry said, “You could hardly blame them, Sandy. Obviously Huberman identified you, and the fact remains that somebody did murder Senator Olsen. Somebody who was an expert with a machete.”
Sandy gave Henry a sideways look. “What makes you say that?”
“Well…”
“Now see here, Mr. Tibbett. I didn’t get to look at Olsen’s body, but they tell me he was all cut up.”
“That’s correct.” Before leaving London, Henry had been shown photographs of the senator’s body. “Whoever did it must really have hated Olsen to do that to him.”
Sandy leaned forward and tapped Henry on the arm. “That’s where you’re wrong, man. All that shows is that the fellow with the machete was no expert. He didn’t know how to handle it.” He paused. “You know what a machete’s really for, don’t you?”
“Not precisely. Cutting down vegetation, I suppose.”
“No, man. It’s for cutting coconuts. You climb up the tree with your machete and cut down the coconut. Unless you really know what you’re doing.”
“Then what do you do?”
“You don’t climb, man. You just throw the m
achete up and get the nut you’re after, and down they both come.”
“That’s the way you do it?”
“Sure is, man. But that’s not the important part. The important part is once you’ve got the coconut down. Ever tried to split a coconut?”
“No, I haven’t,” Henry admitted.
“Well, man, it’s an art. I’m telling you. One stroke with the machete—straight down the middle. Coconut’s in two equal halves.”
“Yes, but—”
Sandy went on, unperturbed. “Now, I’m not saying a machete’s never been used to kill a man, because it has. And there’s a way of doing it—a right way, like an expert would use. You get it?”
“You mean…the victim’s head?”
“Right, man. Like the coconut. From behind. One neat stroke. That’s how the expert would do it. You believe me?”
For a long moment, the two men looked at each other. At last, Henry said, “Yes, Sandy, I believe what you say about the expert method. But a possibility occurs to me.”
“What possibility?”
“You’re bright,” Henry said. “Work it out for yourself. By the way, Candy sends her love.”
Gravely, Sandy said, “That’s kind. I appreciate that. Will you give her mine?”
“I’ll do my best,” Henry said. Then, “How much have you seen of Diamond lately?”
Sandy’s face hardened. “What d’you know about that?”
“Just that it’s old history. When did it end?”
“Long ago, man. Long ago.”
“Before you met Candy?”
“Oh, sure. Long before that.”
“And you never went along with Diamond as far as politics—”
“Cut it out, man.” Sandy sounded really angry. “I broke with Diamond long before she ever…before she…”
“Lost her eye?”
“Before that, man. Who’s been telling you?”
“Nobody, Sandy,” said Henry. “Nobody at all.”
CHAPTER SIX
LUNCHTIME AT ST. MATTHEW’S Golf Club. The dining room was a long, shady terrace overlooking the beach, and it had been laid out with an impressive buffet. Lobsters and Parma ham, sides of roast beef and whole hams stood among herbaceous borders of green salad, rosebushes of pink shrimps on sticks, bosky copses of soft beige mushrooms scattered with parsley, carrots and radishes sculpted into flowers and snowflakes. Whole pineapples had been scooped out and filled with fruit, cakes frosted and iced like fairy tales, tiny tangerines candied, leaves and all, and platters of cheeses shaded from creamy white Brie to the deep orange of Double Gloucester. Sergeant Reynolds was trying hard not to appear impressed, but Henry saw his eyes widen despite himself.
When both their plates were laden with good things, they carried them to a secluded table. A short conversation with the wine waiter produced two glasses of beer. Under the protective cover of buzzing conversation from other tables, Henry said, “Well, Mr. Reynolds? How did you get on?”
“With Huberman and the girl? No dice, I’m afraid. Chatty as a couple of clams.”
“Were you close enough to hear anything they said?”
“I was lying on the beach right next to them. Well, that is, as close as I could…”
“And they didn’t say anything at all?”
“Not a word. He was lying on his back on that beach chair thing. She spread out a towel on the sand and lay on her face.” Reynolds paused. “Next thing, it was half-past twelve, and the girl sits up and says ‘OK, Al. Lunchtime.’ He sort of grunts and sits up, and they go off up the beach together. I haven’t seen them since. They’ve not been in here or the bar.”
Henry said, “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something puzzling you.”
“Well—yes, actually. I could have sworn I didn’t miss anything, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, Huberman did make one remark, and I can’t make head nor tail of it. They were both lying there, not moving, when suddenly Huberman says ‘And you can put that idea out of your head for a start.’ But she hadn’t said a word—not even moved.”
“Did she react?” said Henry.
“Not really. She just rolled over on her side, so that her back was toward him. And there we were for another ten minutes, until she said it was lunchtime. It did occur to me,” added Reynolds diffidently, “that perhaps he was taking up an old conversation—I mean, answering something that she had said much earlier on. You see what I mean?”
Henry swallowed a delicious mouthful of lobster and said, “I do. Very interesting.”
“How did you make out—?” Reynolds nipped the word “sir” off his tongue. “Did you see Robbins?”
“I did. A very attractive young man.”
“D’you think he’s innocent?”
Henry meditated a moment. “Too soon to say. I’ve certainly established that he had a couple of good reasons for wanting to do away with Senator Olsen.”
“You mean, he was mixed up with this political business after all?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. These were personal reasons, and therefore more plausible, as Lucy said.”
“Lucy?”
“A friend of mine on Tampica,” Henry explained. “We discussed the case. She knows most of these people. You must meet her.”
“I’d like that,” said Reynolds. “There’re some smashing girls on these islands, if Miss Candy is anything to go by.”
Henry smiled. “Miss Lucy Pontefract-Deacon is eighty-four,” he said. “But all the same, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. However, for the moment I’ve a more congenial job for you. You’re a nice-looking, unattached young man, and Candy Stevenson is obviously bored with Huberman. Play it very lightly—don’t let her think you’re after information. I want to know more about her relationship with Olsen—and with Sandy Robbins. I want to know what Huberman meant by that cryptic remark. I want to know more about Jackson Ledbetter.”
“Jackson who?”
“Ledbetter. He’s an American businessman, very high powered. Chairman of the Cotton Producers’ Federation. He was here until a few days ago, but now he’s gone back to the States.”
“Just what do you want to know about these people?” Reynolds sounded anxious.
“Whatever Candy Stevenson knows,” said Henry. He grinned at the sergeant. “Just relax and enjoy yourself. You’re not likely to get another assignment like this in your entire career. Now whatever you do, don’t let on that you’re a policeman. You’re a businessman from London. Do you know anything about cotton?”
“No, sir. Sorry—I mean, no.”
“What do you know anything about?”
Surprisingly, Sergeant Reynolds reddened. “Well, sir… that is…stamp collecting. It’s my hobby. Would that be any good?”
“That would be splendid.” Henry was enthusiastic. “You’re a dealer in rare stamps, and you’re here on holiday but also hoping to pick up a…what would you be hoping to pick up?”
“A purple Tampica fourpenny oblong, of course.”
“Of course. A what?”
“A purple Tampica fourpenny oblong. One of the rarest stamps there is. The purple Tampica fourpenny was a square stamp, you see—but in 1934 a couple of sheets were mis-perforated as oblongs, by mistake. They’re not all accounted for, and collectors think some may still be around on the islands—probably privately owned by people who’ve no idea what they’re worth. That was the first thing I thought of when I heard about this job. I mean, I thought that if I had some time off I could go to Tampica and—”
“Mr. Reynolds,” said Henry, “you never cease to amaze and delight me. Go off and dazzle Candy Stevenson with purple oblongs. If she asks why you were lunching with me, say we are acquaintances from London. Refer to me rather patronizingly as some sort of a bobby. Whatever you do, don’t forget you’re very rich.”
“About that,” said Reynolds. “What do I do for money?”
“You put everything on the bill. The peo
ple here are much too wealthy to dirty their hands with actual money. You’ll have to get used to that.”
“Shouldn’t be very hard,” said Reynolds, with a grin.
“You’d be surprised,” said Henry.
On his way back to the parking lot, Henry stopped at the secretary’s office, where Major Chatsworth was engaged in a passionate telephone conversation with Her Majesty’s customhouse on St. Mark’s. Apparently there were difficulties over a consignment of frozen beef from the United States.
“I suppose you know that the governor is staying at the club?” he shouted, playing his trump card. “Yes, and I’ve promised him roast ribs of beef for Saturday night, and I can assure you that if… Oh, you will? Well, so I should hope… Yes, yes, I’ll send the boat… And a very good day to you, sir.” He slammed down the telephone and looked up balefully at Henry, mopping his brow with a white linen handkerchief. “Officious bureaucrats! Making smugglers out of all of us, that’s what they’re doing! I could have run that consignment out of Tampica in my own boat and no questions asked. A man tries to play by the rules, and where does it get him? Oh, forgive me, Tibbett. Just a little bother with Customs and Excise. Charming fellows really, of course. Now, what can I do for you? You’ve had lunch, I trust?”
“I’ve had lunch,” Henry said, “and I’m on my way back to the Anchorage. It’s all right if I keep the Moke, is it?”
“My dear chap, it’s yours for as long as you’re here.”
“Thank you. One other thing. About Sergeant Reynolds.”
“You found him all right, did you?”
“Yes, indeed. And I want to fill you in on his assumed identity. He is Mr. Derek Reynolds, a wealthy philatelist from London.”
“A philatelist?”
“It happens to be true,” said Henry. “Except the wealthy bit. So play it up, will you? Especially to Sir Geoffrey and Montague…and your wife.”
The Anchorage was deserted, except for John Colville, who was sitting behind the bar reading the Financial Times. He looked up as Henry came in from the blazing sunlight of the garden into the cool shadows under the palm-leaf roof.
The Coconut Killings Page 7