The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  The motorboat was waiting at the quayside, its motor idling gently. A smiling boatman helped Reynolds aboard; if he was surprised by the heavy beach bag, he did not say so. He simply slung it into the boat, cast off, and set course for Jellyfish Bay.

  The harbor master had been quite right. The beach was a crescent of pink-white coral sand, ringed by a grove of palm trees and protected by a steeply rising wooded hill to landward. The place was completely deserted, and Reynolds, peering over the gunwale of the boat at the floating forest of jellyfish in the clear water, was not surprised.

  The boatman drove the flat-bottomed craft skillfully up to the beach and kept it steady while Reynolds jumped ashore with his bag. He said, “You know about the jellyfish, sir? Don’t try to swim.”

  “Yes, thanks. I know.”

  “Well, have a good morning. What time shall I come for you?”

  “No time. I’m walking back.”

  Like Daniel, the boatman had ceased to be surprised at the vagaries of members. He just grinned, waved his hand, and maneuvered the little boat in a tight circle before it roared off around the point and back to the Golf Club.

  Reynolds slung his beach bag onto the ground and began a careful inspection of the sand and surrounding scrub. The tide was coming in, washing over the traces of any previous occupancy—but there, on the firm sand just below the high-water line, was the deeply indented print of a large, naked foot. Reynolds just had time to see it before the next wave erased it like chalk from a blackboard. Higher up, in the soft, dry sand, footprints were indistinguishable, but, following the line from the boat’s landing place to the footprint and up the beach, Reynolds began a painstaking examination of the prickly bushes and sea-grape trees that led up to the forest.

  There was no path, but it seemed to him that twigs had been broken and leaves bruised as somebody had passed this way—possibly somebody carrying a heavy burden, causing a deep footprint and a clumsy passage through the shrubs.

  Then, suddenly, he saw what he had not dared hope to find. A thread of gray wool caught on the sharp spine of an aloe. He did not hesitate. If the trail were ever to be successfully followed, it must be now. He had caught the vanishing footprint by a matter of seconds. The fragile gray thread would blow away at any moment in the steady northeasterly trade wind. He knew he was alone and unarmed and at the grave disadvantage of being totally lacking in local knowledge—but there was nothing else to be done. If he could follow unseen, pinpoint a position, and return with help—well, it would be the best he could do. Besides, Candy Stevenson was an exceptionally pretty girl.

  Reynolds went back to the beach, picked up his bag, and swung it over his shoulder. Then he began making his way through the sea grapes and cotton bushes, under the carob trees and the white cedars, up toward the dark rain forest where the wild white orchids grow.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SUNDAY LUNCH AT the Anchorage was by no means its usual convivial self. The Tibbetts and Colvilles were the only people eating, and the bar was almost empty. Outside, the hyacinth sea curling over coral in the sunshine seemed a cruel mockery; a dark shadow lay over St. Matthew’s island. All the departing boats were full, and all the returning boats were empty, and the people had stopped smiling.

  John had prepared an adequate but uninspired buffet of cold meat and salad. He apologized for it with a shrug and a wry smile. “I just can’t understand it,” he said, for the fifth time. “Someone like Sandy, someone I’d have trusted with my life…”

  Margaret said glumly, “Let’s face it, John. We’ve been living in a fool’s paradise, like everyone who first comes to an island. There is a difference between races, and there’s always going to be them and us, whether we like it or not.”

  “No!” Emmy had not meant to sound so vehement, but the word came out of its own accord. “You know you don’t really mean that, Margaret. Or if you do, there’s no hope for anybody, anywhere.”

  “Oh, I don’t know what I mean anymore,” said Margaret. “If Sandy didn’t kill Senator Olsen, why did he run away when the prison burned down? And if he didn’t kill Mr. Huberman, then who did?”

  Henry said, “Don’t rush to judgment, Margaret. Supposing Sandy didn’t disappear voluntarily? He was one against a mob when they stormed the jail.”

  “All right, but they couldn’t have forced him to kill Huberman, could they?”

  “Nobody knows who killed Huberman,” Henry pointed out.

  “Everybody knows.” John Colville stood up. “Pass up your plates, will you? We seem to have run out of help. Margaret’s right. We’ve got to face up to it. Sandy isn’t really important— that is, he’s important to us as a person, of course, but the bigger issue is these islands. Not only St. Matthew’s—the whole British Seawards group. The Executive Council on St. Mark’s has been working with the British government on a whole new plan to redevelop the islands—tourism on the one hand, and a revival of the Sea Island cotton trade on the other. I know about it, because they called me in as a consultant, since I’m an economist. It was a marvelous plan, and would have brought a real future to these islands. And now… By God, I wish they’d deported all these bloody Tampicans and other out-islanders before it got to this point.” He pulled himself up short. “Sorry, Emmy. Henry. I’m afraid both Margaret and I get a bit emotional on the subject of the B.S.I. There’s cheese, fresh fruit, and coffee.”

  At two o’clock, Henry looked at his watch and said, “Well, I’m off to the Golf Club for yet another meeting. Why don’t you come with me, Emmy?”

  “Me? You surely don’t want me at your meeting.”

  “No—but you should see the place. It’s spectacular.”

  “Go on, Emmy,” said Margaret. “Have a last dance on the volcano. They’ll probably blow it up tomorrow.”

  “Nothing like looking on the bright side,” said Emmy. “OK. I’ll go and get a dry swimsuit.”

  In the Mini-moke, as Henry drove along the twisting dirt track between the Anchorage and the Golf Club, Emmy said, “You see what I mean—about Margaret and John?”

  “Don’t worry about them for the moment,” said Henry. “You’ve got work to do.”

  “Work?”

  “Why do you think I brought you along?”

  Emmy sighed. “I might have known. All right, what is it?”

  “Candy Stevenson and Derek Reynolds both left the club early on Saturday morning. Candy apparently went on the eight-thirty launch to St. Boniface. After that, we can’t trace her. Maybe she’s still there, maybe she boarded an aircraft under another name, maybe the airlines don’t keep accurate manifests. Anyhow, Montague’s people haven’t been able to trace her further than St. Boniface—and Reynolds’s note made it perfectly clear that he suspected some sort of villainy and that he was going after it. Now—what I want to know is when and how he left the club. Where he was heading, what transport he used, what time, anything you can find out. OK?”

  “Y-e-s,” Emmy agreed, doubtfully. “But where shall I start?”

  “At the harbor master’s office,” Henry suggested. “Be a member wanting to take a boat trip…be a friend of Mr. Reynolds, the philatelist from London. Play it by ear—it’s all you can do.”

  The guard at the gate was even larger and grimmer than usual, and it took a call to Major Chatsworth before Emmy was admitted, as a nonmember without documentation. Finally, however, the big gates swung open and the Moke rolled through.

  “There’s the jetty, over there, and the comic-opera pavilion is the office,” said Henry. “I’ll see you in the bar sometime after four. Good luck, darling.”

  Commissioner Alcott and Inspector Montague were waiting for Henry in the governor’s cottage, which seemed to have become a sort of unofficial GHQ. The governor himself was not there, but the party was completed by Sergeant Ingham, on crutches and festooned with bandages, but in good spirits. A detailed map of the island of St. Matthew’s was laid out on the table, and an earnest discussion was in progress—a discussion cu
t short by Henry’s arrival.

  The commissioner was a tall, skinny white man, with an untidy shock of pure white hair and a small white moustache. He wore khaki shorts and a white open-necked shirt with epaulets of rank on the shoulders, and Henry could see that he was as lean and spare and muscled as a racing greyhound. He spoke with the accent of his native Lancashire, and he laughed a lot.

  When introductions had been completed, Alcott said, “Well, now, Tibbett, before we get down to this hunting expedition, let’s fill you in with what’s been ’appening. Noothing mooch. No trace of Miss Stevenson—I think you knew that. But there’s anoother ‘no trace’ that’s interesting—Addison Drake. Duty ’arbor master, Friday night. Seems ’e ’anded in ’is notice Friday afternoon, said ’e’d work ’is night shift and be off to Tampica in the morning. Well, that’s what you expect in these parts. People like to move around. No ’arm in that, is there?” Before Henry could agree, he went on. “Well, ’e didn’t turn oop in Tampica. Mind you, that doesn’t mean mooch—I wouldn’t say they’ve a record of every Tampican as comes in from St. Boniface on the ferryboat—”

  Henry said, “Commissioner, might I interrupt you to make a phone call to Tampica? I think it may clear this matter up.”

  Alcott looked surprised, but he said, “Go ahead, chum. Help yourself.”

  A few moments later, Henry was saying, “Lucy? Any news for me? You have? Well?… Oh, I see. Yes, we rather thought that… I don’t know, Lucy. Well, he is her brother, after all…no, of course not, Lucy. The police are not…yes, I promise you… Good-bye, my dear.”

  Commissioner Alcott was regarding Henry with a cocked eyebrow. He said, “You’ve bin in these parts before, ’aven’t you?”

  “Well, actually—”

  Montague broke in, precisely. “I explained, Commissioner, that the Chief Superintendent was sent over because of his experience in—”

  Sergeant Ingham was grinning from ear to ear. “What does Miz Lucy say?”

  “Who is this Lucy?” Montague demanded. “What has she to do with the case?”

  Henry said, “She’s an elderly English spinster who lives on Tampica. She has the reputation of knowing everything that happens on that island, and she deserves it. I called her earlier today and asked her if Addison had come home. It was she who pointed out to me that he is Diamond’s brother. Addison Drake.”

  Alcott turned to Owen Montague. “Did you know that, Inspector?”

  “My dear chap, don’t take on so. Drake’s an extremely common name on these islands, and family relationships boggle the imagination. There are four Drakes on the staff of the club, not including Addison. I have a Constable Drake on my force, and there’s a Drake girl working at the Anchorage. Really, you can’t expect me to keep up with island families.”

  “Well,” Henry said, “it may or may not be significant, but Lucy does keep up with Tampican families, and she assures me that Diamond and Addison are brother and sister, and very close. Diamond’s the older, and Addison didn’t come over to St. Matthew’s until after Diamond’s accident. She is also quite positive that he has not come home. I think we can add him to our list of missing persons.”

  “Making,” said Commissioner Alcott, “five in all. Diamond and Addison Drake, Sandy Robbins, Brooks, and Delaware. And if all I’ve been told is accurate, Montague, that’s a nasty, dangerous little lot to be hiding out in the hills. Probably armed and certainly vicious.”

  “Don’t rub it in, dear soul,” said Owen Montague. He was very pale. “For a start, they’ll be almost impossible to find. They know the island like the backs of their hands, and there’s about a hundred square miles of rain forest up there on the mountain. Unless they’re foolish enough to light a fire, we couldn’t spot them even from a helicopter—which in any case we haven’t got. And supposing we do find them…” He paused.

  “We’ll find them,” said Alcott.

  “All right, go ahead and find them,” snapped Montague. “Bring them down to Priest Town in handcuffs and see what happens.” He appealed to Henry. “You said there’d be trouble if we arrested Diamond in the first place. If we round them up now…”

  “The situation is quite different,” said Alcott. “We’ve got the men now. Twenty coonstables from St. Mark’s. With guns.”

  “And whose side do you think most of them will be on?” Montague demanded. “Really, Commissioner, you are naïve.”

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector. I’m wot?”

  Henry said quickly, “It’s a bad situation, Commissioner, and I think Inspector Montague is right to be alarmed. I’m sure you agree we have to move very delicately.”

  “We ’ave to apprehend that dangerous lot.”

  “Of course. But the first thing to do is locate them. And then…how are they living, up in the forest? Either they’ll have to send somebody down for food, or supplies are being brought up from the valley. I think that’s our best lead.”

  “True,” said Alcott. He scratched his head with a bony hand. “You think we should ’old our ’orses and joost watch, like?”

  “Of course, you must do whatever you think is best,” Henry said, “but in your place I think I’d take a small band of men I could really trust and begin with the idea of locating the camp, not capturing it. I presume your men have walkie-talkies to keep in contact with each other and headquarters.”

  “That an excellent notion, Tibbett. When will you start?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t go myself,” Henry said. “I have to meet somebody this evening, somebody arriving from Washington.”

  “Well, obviously I can’t go,” said Alcott. “You’re the local man, Montague.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll go.” Montague sounded peeved. “Sergeant, I’d be obliged if you would detail the men you think suitable. Four. Chaps who know the interior of the island. Tell them to meet me at the police garage at”—he glanced at his watch—“at four.”

  “Very good, sir.” Sergeant Ingham stood up, adjusted his crutches, and hobbled out of the room.

  Montague said, “We’ll only have about three hours of daylight—it would be the luck of the devil if we found anything today. Has anybody considered that they might have got away by boat to another island?”

  Alcott gave him a sideways look. “My men have checked on every motorboat on this island.”

  “What about a sailing boat?”

  “The governor,” said Alcott, “ ’ad the sense to get on to me on Saturday, right after the jailbreak. Unlike some. Any’ow, we ’ad a Piper out in no time, flying low, observing any sailboats leaving this island. All checked up on. You take it from me, that little lot’s still on St. Matthew’s, and planning mischief.” He paused. “Where d’you plan to start, then?”

  Montague was gazing at the map of the island. He said, “The whole of this central area is dense rain forest. That’s where they’ll be. But they must have got away from Priest Town in some sort of vehicle, and there’s a jeep reported missing. My guess is that they drove up the mountain road as far as they dared, then drove into the undergrowth to hide the car and went on by foot. The best we can hope for today is to find that car. It won’t be much, but it’ll give us a lead. Tomorrow, we can begin the search in earnest.”

  “If things work out,” Henry said, “I’d like to come with you before this search is over.”

  “Can’t think of anything I’d like more, dear boy. Well, I must be off.” He strode out of the cottage, banging the door behind him.

  “Curious bloke, that,” Alcott remarked. “Bit of a fairy, I always thought. Yet ’e’s got guts, in a funny way.”

  “That’s not unusual, you know,” said Henry.

  “No. No, you’re right, Tibbett. Doosn’t do to generalize.” He produced an ancient pipe from his pocket and began to stuff it with tobacco. “I joost ’ope they didn’t get away by boat.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “Certainly I said it. ’Ad to, didn’t I? But it could ’ave been done
, all the same. Ah, well. Now, what news ’ave you got for me, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Just about none, so far. Did your men have any luck on St. Boniface?”

  “About the boat? No, and I didn’t think they would. Oh, the U.S. authorities cooperated all right, but those lads know they’re American and we’re British. Not likely that any of them would admit ’aving ferried ’Uberman back here, is it? Any’ow, it’s not important ’oo brought him. Point is, ’e got back here, went to ’is cottage, and next day was murdered, and there’s no prizes out for ’oo did it. Wot beats me is—wot do they expect to get out of it, Diamond Drake and Sandy Robbins and that lot? Either they stay on the run, or they don’t. Either we find them, or we don’t. Doosn’t seem to me they stand to gain, one way or t’other.”

  Henry said, “That’s the aspect that’s been interesting me, Commissioner. I was sent out here to investigate one particular killing, but now it’s becoming less and less important on its own. The pattern is something much bigger.”

  “Well, you tell me wot it is, Tibbett, because I’m damned if I know.” Commissioner Alcott sucked on his pipe, then took it out of his mouth and banged it on the ashtray. “ ’Oo’re you meeting this evening, if it’s not a tactless question?”

  “Not at all. A journalist from Washington.”

  Alcott’s white eyebrows went up. “Indeed? Interesting. Keep me filled in, won’t you, Tibbett? And if you need any men, I’ve a few good ones. And rather more not so good, but we’ll skip that. Well, I’m off. Need a lift?”

  “No, thanks, sir. I’ve got transport, and I’m picking up my wife in the bar at four.”

  “And you make sure it’s your wife, yoong fellow,” chuckled Alcott. “There’s been more than loose change picked up in this bar, I can tell you. Keep in tooch.”

  Emmy was waiting for Henry, perched on a high stool beside the open-air bar with its sweeping seascape view. She was excited.