“Sure as hell somebody knew.”
“Teresa Chatsworth?”
“Of course. She knew all right, or I’ll eat my brown derby. Why wasn’t he found until Saturday evening?”
“Because nobody went in to clean the room… Yes, yes, I know, I’m working on that angle. Meanwhile, what about Bill Mawson’s column?”
Bradley made a small, disgusted sound. “You might say it’s been overtaken by events. If friend Albert had committed suicide, we’d have been in business—but who’s going to run a smear column on a guy who’s just been cut up with a machete? With sob shots of his widow and kids on page one? How low can the press sink?”
“You tell me,” said Henry, amiably. “Now will you do something for me?”
“If you make it quick. I’m about to start packing.”
“Packing? Where are you off to?”
“You are about,” said Tom, “to have the pleasure of my company once more. There have been riots in your neighborhood, or perhaps you haven’t noticed. Not to mention a couple of murders. Nothing to compare with a CPF kickback scandal, but good for a paragraph. Having failed to locate Huberman, I’m being sent off to the sticks in disgrace. In Bill’s own words: ‘You started the story, Bradley, and I can’t think of a more fitting punishment than to make you finish it.’ ” Tom laughed, somewhat sourly.
Henry said, “Don’t despair. This could be a big story.”
“Har har.”
“Now, before you take off for St. Boniface, can you root around at Dulles Airport and find out anything you can about the person who claimed Huberman’s luggage?”
“Hell, Tibbett, I told you before—”
“Look,” said Henry. “Huberman’s luggage was on that plane. He wasn’t. But somebody claimed it.”
“And how in hell am I expected to—”
“I know it’s a long shot, but the luggage was very distinctive. Extremely expensive, black leather, each piece embossed in gold with the initials A. G. H. Somebody just might have noticed it.”
Bradley sighed. “OK. I’m booked on the five o’clock flight. I’ll get out there ahead of time and do what I can.”
“You know there’s a curfew here? All in by eight P.M. without a special pass.”
“Don’t worry. I’m fixed up with a press pass, and I’ve organized a boat to bring me over from St. Boniface.”
“How will you get to the Anchorage?”
“Relax, my friend. John Colville has a pass, and he’s going to meet me at the dock. Unless you feel like doing the job yourself.”
“It’ll be a pleasure. What time should I be there?”
“Let’s say nine-thirty… Be seeing you.”
Next, Henry asked the club switchboard to connect him to the governor’s cottage.
“Patterson speaking. Yes, Tibbett? Anything to report?”
“Not really sir. I wondered how you were getting on. Is the pathologist’s report in yet?”
“I think I can say we are making progress, Tibbett. Commissioner Alcott is getting in touch with Tampica with a request to send Addison Drake back for questioning. Meanwhile, Montague is going to organize a posse of policemen to search the rain forest for Robbins and Diamond. All other Seaward Islands have been alerted, in case the fugitives escaped by sea. Warrants are out for the arrest of the men Brooks and Delaware, who have also disappeared. That seems to be all we can do for the moment.”
“And the pathologist’s report?”
“Oh, yes. It’s here. Haven’t really had time to study it— all Greek to me, in any case.” Sir Geoffrey laughed, with the braying self-deprecation of the British upper classes. “It’ll make more sense to you than to me. I’ll let you have it when you come up to lunch.”
Henry said, “Perhaps you could have it sent down to Major Chatsworth’s office, Sir Geoffrey? I’m going back to the Anchorage for lunch.”
“You are?” Sir Geoffrey did not sound pleased. “Oh, very well. But be back here at three. I’ve arranged a meeting with Montague and Commissioner Alcott to plan our strategy for the search party.”
“I’ll be there, sir.”
Henry had a few more jobs to do at the Golf Club. He located the girl who should have cleaned Huberman’s cottage on Saturday morning. She volunteered that her name was Leontine and that Mrs. Chatsworth had told her not to bother about unoccupied cottages as no new arrivals were expected and there was other work to do. She had cleaned two occupied cottages and spent the rest of the morning taking an inventory of bed linen with the housekeeper. Then Henry put through a call to Miss Lucy Pontefract-Deacon.
Back at the Anchorage Inn, Henry lay on his bed and read the autopsy report on Albert Huberman, while Emmy took a shower to rinse the salt water off her rapidly bronzing skin. The report was predictable. Translated into lay terms, Albert Huberman had died of multiple wounds inflicted by a sharp instrument, such as a machete. The body was well nourished, despite the fact that the deceased had not eaten a substantial meal for some twelve hours before his death. The wounds could not possibly have been self-inflicted. The time of death was difficult to pinpoint, owing to the delay in finding the body. All the doctor was prepared to say was that Huberman had died between twelve and twenty-four hours before the autopsy, which was held at midnight on Saturday night in the hospital on St. Mark’s.
Emmy emerged from the shower, toweling vigorously. She said, “John and Margaret are really broken up, Henry. The curfew means no bar trade after eight o’clock—and just about the end of tourism on this island. By God, I hope you find Sandy Robbins and let him have it.”
“You’ve decided he’s guilty, have you?”
“Well, I’m not blind or an imbecile. Even Margaret admits now that—well, she tries to stick up for him, but once he got out of jail, why didn’t he come back here? Why did he have to—”
“We don’t know what he did or where he is,” Henry pointed out.
Emmy suddenly stopped toweling and stood quite still. She said, “No, we don’t. And we don’t know where Sergeant Reynolds is either, do we?”
CHAPTER NINE
IF DEREK REYNOLDS had not been a highly trained and alert policeman, it is probable that he could have felt nothing but relief at the departure of Candy Stevenson from St. Matthew’s Golf Club. A note pushed under the door of his cottage at seven o’clock on Saturday morning informed him, in a childishly rounded hand, that “the old bitch” had been “so rude” that she, Candy, had decided to pack up and leave on the first launch to St. Boniface. “Darling Derek” had been a “cutie angel pie,” and she hoped they would meet again someday.
The note was delivered as silently as possible, and most people would not have been woken by the tiny, dry sound of the paper under the door. Reynolds, however, was up and out of bed in an instant—just in time to see a black, masculine back view slipping away into the shelter of a hedge of pink oleanders. This fact was not in itself particularly sinister, but it was enough to send Derek Reynolds struggling sleepily into his pants and shirt and out into the early-morning quiet of the gardens.
Although the whole compound seemed to be asleep, Derek Reynolds took care to remain unobtrusive as he made his way toward the jetty, and, as he approached it, he was glad he had taken this elementary precaution, because—unlike the rest of the club—the jetty was not deserted.
The harbor master’s office was empty, and the club launches and small Boston whalers rode quietly at the quayside, jostling each other gently on the sparkling water. In another twenty minutes or so, the first of the staff would arrive to check, refuel, scrub, and swab down the boats for a new day. Meanwhile, two black men—one of whom Reynolds recognized as Addison Drake—were loading the last of a pile of luggage onto the Island Eagle. Derek Reynolds ran down the jetty, waving his arms.
“Candy! Miss Stevenson!”
He found himself confronted by the bulk and muscle of Addison, who smiled and said, “Hi, Mr. Reynolds. Looking for something?”
“For Miss Steven
son. She left a note—”
“She ain’t here, man. Best go back look in her cottage. We’re just loading her luggage. She’s off at half-past eight.”
“If I could just go on board—”
“Sorry, sir.” Addison had been joined by the second black man, who was every bit as formidable as his companion. “Are you traveling to St. Boniface on this launch?”
“Yes,” said Reynolds.
“Then I’ll have to see your pass from the reception desk, sir.”
“I haven’t got a pass. I’ve only just decided.”
“Well, sir, I’m afraid I can’t let you on board without a pass. But we don’t sail till eight-thirty. Plenty of time to go up to the desk and get your pass and—”
“Plenty of time to go back to Miss Candy’s cottage,” added Addison, helpfully.
The two of them presented a solid front, and Derek Reynolds had the sense to realize that he could not penetrate it single-handedly. At the same time, he was reasonably certain that he could glimpse, in the dark recesses of the boat’s cabin, a slim golden-skinned leg protruding from beneath a blanket. As he watched, the leg gave an indignant kick, which only served to shroud it under a falling fold of gray wool.
Reynolds chafed miserably under his assumed civilian status. He could not demand to go on board. He said, “I think Miss Stevenson is on that boat.”
The two black men looked at each other and smiled. Addison said, “There’s nobody on that boat, man. Just the luggage. It don’t sail till eight-thirty. And nobody gets on that boat without a pass from reception. You want Miss Stevenson, you’ll find her in her cottage. You want a pass for the launch, you get it from the desk…sir.”
Derek Reynolds knew enough to accept the setback gracefully. “OK,” he said. “When can I get a pass from the desk?”
“Eight o’clock, sir.”
“Thanks a lot. Be seeing you.”
Predictably, Candy Stevenson’s cottage was empty. Even more predictably, at twenty-five minutes past seven, the reception desk was locked and shuttered. Reynolds arrived back at the jetty to see to his dismay that the Island Eagle was moving away from the quayside, heading for the narrow channel through the reef and out to the open sea. Several boatmen were already setting about their day’s work, and the harbor master coming on duty was opening the door to his office. Seeing Reynolds’s dismayed face, he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, sir. She’ll be back for the eight-thirty trip. Just out for a trial run— skipper wants to check on one of the fuel lines.”
The Island Eagle had by now negotiated the gap in the reef and turned to starboard, opening up her powerful engines. She roared away around the point and out of sight. Ten minutes later she was back. The skipper moored the boat, jumped ashore, and made for the harbor master’s office—giving Reynolds an unfriendly look as he passed. There was no sign of Addison. Reynolds made for the launch. Candy Stevenson’s baggage was neatly stacked in the forward part of the cabin, and, as Reynolds watched, porters began carrying more luggage down the jetty and loading it onto the boat. Otherwise, the cabin was quite empty.
The harbor master’s office was by now humming with activity. The Customs and Excise men had arrived, and departing members were crowding the little hexagonal pavilion, fluttering boat passes and U.S. Customs declarations and exit cards.
Reynolds fought his way to the harbor master’s desk. Without looking up, the latter said, “Boat pass, please, sir.”
“I haven’t got a pass. I—”
“This launch is full, sir. If you haven’t a pass, you’ll have to wait for the next one. Sorry, sir.”
“I’m not catching a boat. I—”
“In that case,” said a loud female voice with a Western twang, “kindly make room for people who are.” A large lady wearing a brilliantly striped shirt and pants, a cartwheel hat, and enormous sunglasses placed her elbow firmly in Derek Reynolds’s stomach and ousted him from his place at the desk.
As the mass of humanity thinned out, Reynolds managed to reattract the harbor master’s attention. “Miss Stevenson,” he said. “Candy Stevenson. Is she supposed to be on that boat?”
The harbor master ran his eye down a list on his desk. “Yes,” he said. “She was one of the first on board. Here’s her pass.”
“Well, she’s not on board.”
“For heaven’s sake, come along, Francine, or we’ll miss the boat. Excuse me.” This time it was a tall, thin man with an East Coast accent and an imperious air who elbowed Reynolds aside.
The harbor master became all affability. “Ah, Senator. Sorry you’re leaving us. Hope you enjoyed your stay. Come again soon… Yes, yes, it’ll all blow over. You know St. Matthew’s— our people will soon put a stop to all this nonsense…”
From the doorway, a voice called, “All aboard for St. Boniface! We’re leaving now, ladies and gentlemen! All aboard!”
Sergeant Derek Reynolds had never felt more frustrated or more ineffectual. Accustomed to being backed up by all the majesty of the law, he felt naked in the unfamiliar role of an ordinary member of the public, forced to wheedle rather than demand. If only he had been able to reveal his identity to this stupid little man… He pulled himself up sharply. This was just the attitude that the chief disliked so much.
The office was now empty except for the various officials, busy completing forms. Reynolds perched on the edge of the desk at which the harbor master was making his final notations. He reminded himself that his new role had some compensations; he was, after all, a member of one of the most exclusive clubs in the world. He might be pretty small beer compared with senators and movie stars, but as long as he was the only member present, he was surely entitled to a little respect from the staff.
He smiled and said, “Sorry I bothered you when you were so busy.”
The harbor master smiled back, with rather less enthusiasm. “That’s all right, sir. Sorry I couldn’t give you more time.”
“Now that things are quieter, could I see the passenger list of the Island Eagle? I’m not sure which of my friends sailed on her.”
There was a moment of hesitation, and then the harbor master said, “Right, sir. Here it is. I can’t let you take it out of the office, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t look at it.” He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. “You’ll see the names were checked off when the passengers handed in their boat passes.”
“Anybody missing?”
“No, sir. Our boats out to St. Boniface are all full, I’m sorry to say. Had to turn several members away this morning.”
Reynolds studied the manifest. “Miss C. Stevenson” was checked off, and her boat pass was among the sheaf attached to the passenger list. Another interesting entry was a note at the bottom of the list, stating that Addison Drake, staff member now resigned, was aboard this launch for repatriation to Tampica via St. Boniface.
“Thank you.” Derek Reynolds returned the paper to the harbor master. “Well, it seems my friends did leave, after all.” He paused. “I’d like to take a motorboat out today, if there’s one available.”
“Surely, sir. Where would you like to go?”
“I’m not sure. One of the bays on the north shore, east from here. What do you suggest?”
“Well, sir, there’s Apple Tree Bay—that’s the closest and always very popular. Excellent snorkeling. Then comes Jellyfish Bay—but I doubt if you’d like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the jellyfish, like I said. It’s a beautiful beach, but the swimming’s no good, sir. After that, it’s a longer ride—”
“How long?”
“Oh, fifteen to twenty minutes in a Boston whaler, out to Village Point Bay, sir.”
“No, that’s too far. I’ll take Jellyfish Bay. By the way, can the big launches put ashore there?”
The harbor master looked surprised. “They certainly could—there’s no reef. But they never do. When would you like the boat to be ready, sir?”
Reynolds glanced at
his watch. “Five minutes. I’ve something to do first.”
“And when shall we come back to pick you up, sir?”
“Don’t bother. I’ll walk back.”
“Walk?”
“I presume it’s possible.”
“Well—yes. But it’s rough going, sir. You have to climb up through the forest behind the beach to get to the road. It’ll take you a good hour.”
“That’s OK. I need the exercise.”
Reynolds sprinted back to his cottage and quickly filled a beach bag with a curious assortment of items—slacks, a sweater, socks and stout shoes, a knife, a whistle, a powerful flashlight, a compass, binoculars, a flask of water, and the rudimentary map of the island provided by the management. Then he scribbled a note on hotel writing paper, pausing every so often to find the right phrase. He read over what he had written and sighed. Not very good, but it would have to do. Pray heaven the old man understands.
Daniel Markham was a dedicated gardener. Although officially head greensman in charge of the golf course, he kept a strict eye on the club’s exotic gardens, and he had had several unpleasant encounters with the head gardener, with whom he did not always see eye to eye. As a consequence, he had formed the habit of visiting the gardens early in the morning, before the arrival of the regular staff, to make sure that all was well.
So it happened that, while bending over to inspect the trunk of a lignum vitae, he was accosted in the rear by a member, unknown to him, who urgently thrust an envelope into his hand and begged him to deliver it as soon as possible to Mr. Henry Tibbett at the Anchorage Inn.
Daniel said he would be only too pleased. He remembered Mr. Tibbett well, and his wife, too—why, he had ridden with them in John Colville’s Moke up from Priest Town the day they arrived. He was disposed to settle down to a leisurely session of island gossip, but the member appeared to be in a curious hurry for anyone on a Caribbean island before nine o’clock in the morning. Muttering that he would see Daniel later, the member rushed off in the direction of the jetty, with his beach bag bumping heavily against his shoulder. Daniel shook his head, having long since ceased trying to make sense of the ways of members. He pocketed the letter and returned to his arboreal inspection.
The Coconut Killings Page 11