Teresa shot him a nasty look and took a pull at her drink. She said, “If Sebastian won’t ask her to leave, I will.”
“Don’t be silly, Tess,” said Major Chatsworth. He shot an uneasy glance at Henry. “You can’t do that. Club rules. Members are allowed to bring one guest, and Mr. Reynolds is a member.”
“A temporary member,” said Teresa with a sniff. “Anyhow, I never said I was going to order her to leave. I shall ask her to do so—quite politely. And I shall make sure that everyone in the club knows it, and for what reason. It may be quite embarrassing, both for her and for Mr. Reynolds, if she stays.” She finished her drink and stood up. “Well, I’d better get back. We have some members arriving in the morning, and there’s a lot to be done.”
She marched out of the bar, and Major Chatsworth turned to the others with a small, hopeless gesture. “Nothing I can say will stop her,” he remarked gloomily. “She’ll do nothing but harm, mark my words.”
“I’m sorry, Major,” said Henry, “if I’ve put you in a difficult position by wanting Candy to stay on.”
“That’s not the point, Tibbett. If Tess is as good as her word and everybody knows that Candy’s been asked to leave, and why…well…”
Emmy said, “You mean, there are other members—”
Sebastian cleared his throat. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mrs. Tibbett. I just meant that a lot of members’ wives don’t play golf, and some of them—”
“I understand you perfectly, Major Chatsworth,” said Emmy.
“I fancy you do, Mrs. Tibbett. The last thing we want is the wrong sort of publicity, especially after the murder. Oh, well, no use sitting here crying over spilled milk. Better go after her and see what I can do. Chalk up the drinks on my bill, will you, John?”
When Chatsworth had gone, John said, “I can’t think what’s got into Teresa.”
“Can’t you?” Margaret sounded amused.
“No, I can’t. As Sebastian almost said, everybody knows a certain amount of extramarital high jinks goes on at the Golf Club—hell, it’s one of the things that members pay for. Discretion.”
“Exactly,” said Margaret.
“So I don’t—”
“Candy Stevenson,” said Margaret, “was expected to leave when Mr. Huberman did—but instead she’s staying on. There must be at least one other member who feels that life would be easier if she were out of the way.” She turned to Henry, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. “Right, Chief Superintendent?”
“Right, Margaret.”
“But if that’s so,” John protested, “Sebastian would know.”
“I doubt it,” Henry said. “If I were a member and wanted to make arrangements of a—a certain delicacy—I don’t think I’d approach the major. I’d go to Mrs. Chatsworth. Right, Margaret?”
“Right, Henry.”
At ten o’clock the following morning, Saturday, Tom Bradley telephoned Henry Tibbett at the Anchorage Inn, speaking from Washington.
“Hi, Henry. Got to make this short and sweet. I’ve got some information for you, and I hope you’ll have some for me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Where’s Albert Huberman?” Tom asked.
“Not here,” said Henry. “He left in a hurry last night. Ordered the launch around seven o’clock and caught the night flight out of St. Boniface to Washington.”
Tom Bradley swore softly. “That’s what the Golf Club told me,” he said, “but I hoped they might just be covering up. You’re sure of your facts?”
“I have it from both Major and Mrs. Chatsworth,” Henry said, “and I saw the launch leaving myself. The girl Candy Stevenson is still at the club. She might be able to help you.”
“Nope. I tried that. She left this morning, early.”
“So Teresa did get rid of her. Pretty smart work.”
Bradley was not listening. “As far as anybody can make out, Huberman isn’t in Washington. He must be hiding out somewhere, damn his eyes.”
“Why should he be hiding?”
“That’s the news I have for you. The story hasn’t broken yet, but it’ll be all over the papers in the Bill Mawson column on Monday morning. Big kickback scandal involving the Olsen committee.”
“That’s the cotton subsidies affair?”
“Right. Seems the Justice Department was about to move on Olsen when he was killed. Now Bill’s got a leak from a Justice aide, and it seems that the probe won’t die with Olsen. Huberman’s in a hot spot, and he’s conveniently disappeared.”
“Kickbacks from the cotton people?” Henry said. “Does that involve Ledbetter?”
“It might. Anybody’s guess. As president of the CPF, he’s bound to come under suspicion.”
“He hasn’t disappeared, too?”
“Ledbetter? Far from it. He’s in New York. One of our guys managed to see him yesterday afternoon. He’s issuing a statement, timed to coincide with Bill’s column, deeply regretting any implication et cetera, et cetera. The usual stuff. So far, nobody has traced any money further back than Huberman. Dammit, where is that bastard?”
“Not here,” said Henry.
“Well, I’ll tell you something. He wasn’t on that plane last night. I met it at Dulles myself, and there’s no way I could have missed him.”
“Couldn’t the airline have arranged to smuggle him off by some different exit?”
“Sure they could. But they swear they didn’t, and why should they do such a thing? They also maintain that he was on the flight. His name’s on the manifest, and his baggage was claimed. Well, I guess he could have fixed that. He’s hiding out somewhere, and I’m going to find him.”
Henry said, “Did the Golf Club say where his girl friend had gone?”
“Nope. Just that she left early this morning. Candy wouldn’t know anything anyhow. Strictly a sex symbol. She’ll have gotten herself a fresh millionaire by now. Well, I gotta go. If you get any word on Huberman, be a pal and call me— Margaret has my number. And watch out for Monday’s Post. Bill Mawson’s column. See you.”
At half-past ten, Daniel Markham drove up in a Golf Club jeep and came into the bar of the Anchorage. He waved aside John’s suggestion of a drink.
“Can’t stop, I’m afraid, John. On my way to Priest Town— we’re expecting a load of fertilizer on the Tortola boat. Just dropped in to deliver this—for you, I think, sir.” And he handed Henry an envelope discreetly emblazoned with the insignia of the club and addressed to Mr. Henry Tibbett in a hand which Henry recognized at once as that of Sergeant Derek Reynolds.
“Gentleman asked me to deliver it personally. Well, so long, all. See you later.”
Daniel was vaulting into the jeep again before Henry had time to open the envelope. The letter, on club notepaper, was written in a hurried scrawl. It read as follows:
Dear Mr. Tibbett,
Sorry I couldn’t keep our appointment, but I’m off on a swift boat trip, on the trail of one of those rare stamps I told you about. Don’t worry, I won’t go over the side—you know I can’t swim!
Miss Stevenson has decided to leave, too—she went golfing early this morning, but her opponent pulled a stroke on her, which made her very fed up, I’m afraid. I rowed her out to the launch and punted around till it left.
I hope I won’t be away too long—I’ve left all my things at the club, including my shoes. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I get back. Until then, there’s no point trying to contact me—I don’t know where I’ll be.
Yours,
Derek Reynolds
Emmy strolled into the bar, shaking the seawater out of her wet hair. “Mail from home?” she asked.
“No. From our friend Mr. Reynolds.”
Emmy took the letter, read it, and said, “What an odd communication. Did you have an appointment with him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then what does he—”
Henry glanced around him. The bar was empty except for John Colville, who was rearranging bottl
es and glasses in anticipation of the noontide rush of business. Henry said, “I feel like a swim. Coming?”
“I’ve only just got back from the beach!”
“Then you’ll need a dry swimsuit. Come on upstairs.”
Emmy was well trained. “OK. See you later, John.” She led the way up the outside staircase to the bedroom. Once inside, she said, “Now, what’s all this—as your constables are supposed to say?”
“This letter, from Reynolds.”
“Sounds slightly crazy to me. Has he taken a real shine to the Candy girl and run off with her?”
“Of course not. The letter sounds odd to you because Reynolds wrote it in police jargon. Not a bad effort, considering he must have been in one hell of a hurry. I’ll translate it.”
Henry studied the letter for a moment and then went on. “He’s off on some ploy that isn’t strictly legal or authorized. That’s what ‘swift’ means.”
“On a boat,” said Emmy.
“Not necessarily. He needed the boat to be able to assure me that he wasn’t over the side.”
“What does that mean, for heaven’s sake?”
Henry grinned. “Attending to his own affairs, usually sexual. In fact, that there’s nothing personal in his going after Candy Stevenson, who is obviously the ‘rare stamp’ in question. Somebody has played a dirty trick on her—‘pulled a stroke’— and Reynolds believes she’s innocent.”
“How on earth do you know that?”
“Because he says he rowed her out to the launch. ‘Rowing in’ is slang for implicating somebody in a crime, so ‘rowing out’ is the opposite. To ‘punt around’ is to patrol—which I suppose means that he’s searched the Golf Club and is now convinced that she’s been abducted. So he’s gone after her.”
“Without his shoes?”
Henry said, “That’s a private joke. I accused him yesterday of mentally wearing a copper’s boots, even on the beach. This must mean that he’s disappearing into the undergrowth, especially as it’s followed by a clear warning not to go after him. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” Henry sat down heavily on the bed. “I hope to God he knows what he’s doing. If it were anybody but Reynolds…”
“Derek Reynolds is OK.” Emmy spoke decisively. Several times she had worked very unofficially with Reynolds, and she held him in great esteem.
“I never said he wasn’t. I just hope he’s not being a bloody fool. Well, the next thing is to contact Mrs. Chatsworth and find out what she said to Candy Stevenson, and where she thinks she is.”
“Miss Stevenson has left, Superintendent.” Teresa’s voice was clipped and very upper-class English. “I have no idea where she has gone. She went on the first launch to St. Boniface, at eight-thirty… Yes, I spoke to her last night… No, I don’t think I was rude in any way. I just pointed out that Mr. Reynolds was only a temporary member and therefore didn’t enjoy the same privileges as—”
“Is that true, Mrs. Chatsworth?”
“In the circumstances, yes. We have a certain latitude in the case of temporary members.”
“Did she seem upset when you spoke to her?”
“She did not.” Through the telephone line, Henry could imagine Teresa’s mouth set in a thin line of disapproval. “She was extremely flippant. I did not press her. I made my point and left it at that. I was gratified but not really surprised when the reception clerk told me she had departed on the eight-thirty.”
“I suppose you know,” said Henry, “that Mr. Reynolds has also gone.”
“Has—what?”
“Gone. Presumably with Miss Stevenson.”
“How on earth do you know that, Mr. Tibbett?”
“Because I had an appointment with him this morning, and he sent a note via Daniel.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then Teresa Chatsworth said, “So that’s why she went. Well, Mr. Reynolds has not checked out, and so he will be charged for the room until he returns.” She replaced the receiver with a noisy click.
At eleven o’clock, Sergeant Ingham and two of his constables, on orders from Inspector Owen Montague, broke into the Bum Boat Bar and arrested Diamond on charges of creating a public disturbance. They handcuffed her and marched her out into the police wagon and drove her to the police station in Priest Town, where she was booked under her legal name of Ethel Drake and locked into a cell adjoining that of Sandy Robbins.
At twelve o’clock, the rioting began in earnest.
It started in the area around the Bum Boat, led by Brooks and Delaware, who had been buying drinks freely for all comers. It spread through the streets of Priest Town like a brush fire. The Golf Club shut and barricaded its formidable iron gates, incidentally imprisoning both Sir Geoffrey Patterson and Inspector Montague.
Small bands of three and four black youths quickly merged themselves into more menacing groups, their numbers building up into the fifties and sixties. Most of them had very little idea of what it was all about, but the momentum was irresistible. When they had satisfied their first frustrations by breaking windows and overturning cars, they converged as if by common consent upon the police station.
The news was brought to the Anchorage by a badly shaken Daniel, who had narrowly escaped while driving his load of fertilizer back from the Priest Town dock. John Colville immediately closed the bar, lowering the protective iron grilles around it with much difficulty, for they had not been used in years.
Despite vigorous protests from Emmy and the Colvilles, Henry insisted on getting into his Moke and heading for Priest Town. He abandoned the vehicle well outside the town and made his way on foot toward the quayside, breasting the tide of hysterical tourists and Golf Club members who were struggling out of the danger zone. He arrived at the waterfront in time to see the police station ablaze, surrounded by revolutionaries of both sexes throwing blazing gasoline cans into the building.
By the time the flames were finally brought under control, one constable was dead, and three others, together with Sergeant Ingham, were being treated in the local hospital—and there was no sign whatsoever of either Sandy Robbins or Diamond Drake.
Their mission accomplished, the arsonists melted quietly away. There were no arrests, because the police force of St. Matthew’s had been effectively put out of action, and by the time reinforcements arrived from St. Mark’s, there was nobody to arrest.
At seven o’clock in the evening, when some sort of order had been restored and Sir Geoffrey was preparing to broadcast another of his soothing messages to the population, a maid at the Golf Club went into the cottage previously occupied by Mr. Albert Huberman. Two minutes later, she arrived screaming in Major Chatsworth’s office. It was with some difficulty that Sebastian extracted from her the information that the cottage was not empty. It contained the body of Mr. Albert Huberman, who had been brutally hacked to pieces by a machete, and was very dead indeed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS SUNDAY morning in Sebastian Chatsworth’s office at the Golf Club, and Henry Tibbett was very angry.
“I made it absolutely clear that this would happen if Diamond was arrested. The stone thrown at my car couldn’t matter less. Now you have two murders and two escaped prisoners on your plate, and frankly you’re welcome to them. Maybe it’s no coincidence that this is April Fools’ Day.”
“You made nothing of the sort clear, Tibbett.” Sir Geoffrey took an indignant puff at his cigar and strutted across the room, punctuating his words with emphatic gestures. “Nobody could have foreseen that Robbins and Drake would escape from prison. Still less did anybody— let alone you—imagine that a man would be murdered—a man, mind you, who was supposed to have been back in the United States for at least twenty-four hours. The whole thing is disgraceful, and I demand an explanation.”
“You’d better ask Inspector Montague about the prison breaks,” said Henry. “And about the murdered policeman. That’s his department.”
Owen Montague, who had been lounging against the windowsill, stood up abruptly and
stamped out his cigarette on the marble-tiled floor. He had gone very pale. “I don’t think that’s fair, Tibbett,” he said. “My men behaved splendidly. There was simply nothing they could do. They were outnumbered, and the place was on fire. And I may say that I was against arresting the Drake girl from the beginning. It was Sir Geoffrey and Sebastian who—”
“I did no more than my duty,” said Sebastian Chatsworth. “I informed the governor of a breach of the peace.”
“Now you’re all insinuating that the whole thing was my fault, is that it?” demanded Sir Geoffrey.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Henry said. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper, and I apologize. Let’s not quarrel among ourselves. What’s happened has happened, and the best thing we can do now is get on with our respective jobs.”
The governor cleared his throat. “Just what I was about to say, Tibbett. Cooperation is the key. Montague and I are due at my cottage in ten minutes for a meeting with Commissioner Alcott from St. Mark’s to talk about riot control. As you know, the Executive Council has already imposed an eight o’clock curfew, on my advice. The tracking down of the escaped prisoners would seem to me to call for a joint effort by Montague and Tibbett.”
“Of course I’ll help all I can, sir,” Henry said, “but I do have my terms of reference. I’m here to investigate the murder of Senator Olsen.”
“And of Albert Huberman, Tibbett.”
“Strictly speaking, sir—”
“Please let me finish. It’s perfectly obvious what happened yesterday. Robbins escaped from jail and took advantage of the general confusion to come here to the Golf Club—once again by water, of course—and finish off what he had started: the double murder of Olsen and Huberman. In fact, for all we know, Huberman may have been the intended victim all along, but the first time he escaped, and Olsen had to be silenced. You only have to consider: Robbins’s escape, the same murder weapon, the same horrible mutilation…it all fits. Agreed?”
The Coconut Killings Page 9