The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  “I think I did rather well, darling. I mean, I found quite a lot of people who saw Mr. Reynolds on Saturday morning, and I’ve been able to put it all together to make sense.”

  “OK. Shoot.”

  “Well, he was up and about early, for a start. That nice Daniel Markham—you remember—he saw him at about half-past seven, at Candy Stevenson’s cottage. Says he opened the door—it wasn’t locked—went inside for a moment, then came running out again and hurried through the grounds and up to the reception desk. Of course, it was closed at that hour, so Derek ran back toward the jetty. Daniel didn’t see him again until about a quarter to nine, when he—Daniel, that is—was inspecting some trees near Derek’s cottage. He says he came out, obviously in a hurry, carrying a heavy beach bag. He saw Daniel, gave him the note to be delivered to you, and shot off toward the jetty again.”

  “Sounds as if he was chasing a boat,” Henry said.

  “Wait a minute. I’m coming to that. The harbor master says Derek was hanging around the jetty even before he took over at eight o’clock—that is, when Addison was still on duty. He then proceeded to make a nuisance of himself, asking to see the passenger list for the eight-thirty launch to St. Boniface. The harbor master explained that it was very awkward, with so many outgoing passengers to be processed. He had to keep Derek waiting until the boat had gone. Then he let him see the passenger list. Derek read it and said something about his friends having left. Then he ordered one of the club’s little motorboats to take him to Jellyfish Bay.”

  “Jellyfish Bay? Where on earth is that?”

  “I don’t know,” Emmy said. “We can find out. Anyhow, this is the really interesting part. He said he wanted the boat in five minutes and went off. Five minutes later, he turned up with a beach bag and boarded the boat— but …”

  “But what, for heaven’s sake?”

  “ But …both the harbor master and the boatman asked what time he wanted to be picked up again, and he said he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “Said he’d walk back to the club. They warned him that it would be a long, hot walk, but he said that didn’t bother him. When he didn’t turn up for lunch, the harbor master as a matter of routine sent a boat to Jellyfish Bay, but there was no sign of him. And there hasn’t been ever since!” Emmy ended on a note of triumph. “Does that entitle me to a drink?”

  “Certainly. It also entitles Derek Reynolds to the Idiot-of-the-Year medal, with bar. Why didn’t he get in touch with me by phone?”

  “Maybe,” said Emmy, “he didn’t have time.”

  “Or thought he didn’t. OK—what’s it to be?”

  “A fruit punch, please. I’m thirsty.”

  Henry called the barman and ordered two fruit punches. When the tall pink drinks arrived, Henry signed for them and said, “We were thinking of going to Jellyfish Bay tomorrow. Is it a good place to spend a day?”

  The barman smiled widely. “Depends how much you like jellyfish.”

  “You mean—”

  “No good for swimming. Get yourself stung to kingdom come. The beach is fine, if you don’t plan to go in the water.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Why, just around after Apple Tree Bay—that’s the nearest to the club.”

  “I thought Mango Trunk was the nearest.”

  “That’s in the other direction. Westward, man. Out of the bay, turn east around the headland, and there’s Apple Tree. And next one is Jellyfish. After that, there’s nowhere a boat can land for quite a way.”

  Emmy said, “It doesn’t sound very nice, darling. Let’s go somewhere else.”

  “Sure, lady,” said the barman. “The whole island is empty now. You go anywhere you like—not meet anybody. Not anybody.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Henry said.

  “About what?” said a cool English voice in his right ear. He turned to see Teresa Chatsworth, crisp as ever in black pants and a white shirt. She climbed onto a barstool, ordered an iced tea, and—without waiting for an answer to her question—said, “What a day. I suppose the high command at Dunkirk must have felt much the same. An efficient defeat is almost as good as a victory, and our evacuation has gone without a hitch.”

  “As bad as that, is it?” Emmy said.

  “Worse. The club is getting it both ways.”

  “How do you mean?” Henry asked.

  “Well, we might just have survived the riots and the curfew—this place is a sort of enchanted enclave, and most of our members hardly know the rest of the island exists. We might even have recovered from Olsen’s murder, if Sandy Robbins had been quickly tried and convicted. Even the combination of the two wouldn’t have been quite impossible but Huberman’s murder on the premises and Robbins’s escape…” Teresa shrugged her thin shoulders.

  Henry said, “It’s a small point, Mrs. Chatsworth, but I wondered why Mr. Huberman’s cottage wasn’t cleaned on Saturday morning. It would have helped a lot to know whether Huberman was alive or dead.”

  Teresa gave Henry a small, icy smile. “As you undoubtedly know, Mr. Tibbett, it was on my orders. The club was almost empty, and the housekeeper badly needed to take her linen inventory. We fit these things in when we can spare the staff, and it was an obvious opportunity.”

  “Oh, well. Just our bad luck.” Henry took a sip of his drink and went on. “You know a great deal about the members, don’t you, Mrs. Chatsworth?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. It makes you very valuable to the club.”

  “For God’s sake, Tibbett, if you’re fishing for information, come right out and ask for it.”

  “All right, I will. What do you know about kickback scandals involving Senator Olsen and Albert Huberman and the Cotton Producers’ Federation?”

  Teresa let out a long breath, as if in relief. She said, “What on earth makes you interested in that?”

  “Answering a question with a question is a very old device,” Henry said. “It nearly always means that someone is stalling.”

  “I think,” said Teresa Chatsworth, “that you should wait until Jackson Ledbetter releases his statement tomorrow. Washington is full of cheap columnists like Bill Mawson, who will print deliberate lies just to provoke a reaction. Good God, people come to St. Matthew’s to get away from that sort of muckraking. Does that answer you?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “You’ve answered me very adequately. Well, Emmy, we should be on our way. We don’t want to get into trouble with the curfew regulations.”

  “Oh that,” said Teresa impatiently. “Commissioner Alcott has made his tiny gesture, but he can’t keep it up. Don’t worry, Tibbett. The curfew won’t last. Life must go on.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. He finished his drink. “It must, mustn’t it? Be seeing you, Mrs. Chatsworth.”

  Henry and Emmy paused only once on the way out of the Golf Club, and that was at the reception desk. They were in luck—the girl had been on duty on Friday evening, and in answer to Henry’s question she replied at once, “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Right after. Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PRIEST TOWN UNDER curfew was a silent, unfriendly place. The narrow roadways and alleys were deserted except for an occasional patrolling policeman. Bars and cafés were dark and empty. The headlights of Henry’s Mini-moke threw angular shadows across the wary streets, and every shuttered window seemed to be listening. Twice Henry was stopped by polite policemen. He produced his papers, explained that he was meeting a boat from St. Boniface, and was allowed to proceed.

  The town quay was under strict surveillance, with armed constables waiting to greet every arriving boat. Since no boats were arriving, this was proving a boring occupation, and Henry provided a welcome diversion. He was invited to join the posse in the Customs and Immigration office for a cup of coffee, and everybody seemed cheered by his assurance that there would be at least one boat arriving before the Island Queen docked in the morning.

 
As Henry sipped his coffee quietly in a corner, conversation returned to the burning topic of the day—the whereabouts of Diamond and Sandy. This took easy precedence over the death of Albert Huberman, which seemed neither here nor there to the islanders. It lay, so to speak, outside their territory. As to the fugitives, opinion seemed to be about equally divided between those who reckoned they had made their getaway by boat and those who were convinced that they had gone to ground in the rain forest—where, given supplies, they could remain undetected almost indefinitely.

  The discussion was interrupted by the throbbing of a powerful outboard motor in the quiet harbor. Coffee was abandoned, peaked caps were pulled on, and the constables went out onto the quayside. Henry followed them, in time to see the red and green navigation lights of a boat coming across the water from the harbor entrance. A few moments later she was alongside the wharf, and Tom Bradley was jumping ashore. The black boatman from St. Boniface unloaded the baggage with practiced ease, cracked a joke with the police officers, signed a document of some sort, and then put the wheel over, opened up his motor, and roared off again out of the harbor, leaving a wave of silver on the smooth, dark water.

  Formalities were quickly concluded. Tom’s passport was stamped, his baggage inspected with some care, his press card examined, and his curfew pass issued. Then the guardians of the law settled down to another cup of coffee, and Tom and Henry loaded up the Moke and climbed in.

  As they drove through the dark, empty streets, Henry said, “Well? Any luck?”

  “About Huberman’s luggage, you mean?”

  “That’s just what I mean.”

  “Well, I didn’t draw a complete blank. I got talking to the redcaps at Dulles, and one of them is pretty sure he remembers the baggage. He noticed it partly because it was very fancy, as you said, and partly because it went around the belt several times without being claimed.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “That’s what he thought, because the man who—” There was a sudden, shocking sound of breaking glass, somewhere ahead and to the right. Henry braked the Moke sharply and switched off the lights. He said, “I’m going to investigate. Coming?”

  “You bet.”

  “Well, take care. These people aren’t joking.”

  “Neither am I,” remarked Tom Bradley under his breath, as he clambered out of the car and followed Henry to the street corner.

  They found themselves looking down a narrow street lined with small shops, mostly of the souvenir-boutique variety. On a normal evening, it would have been alive with light and noise and the bustle of commerce, but under the curfew it was dark and shuttered—with one exception. About halfway down the street on the left was Priest Town’s newest pride— the supermarket. Recently opened, it would have looked very small beer beside its American or even English cousins—but there were shelves stacked with groceries, a freezer, a fruit and vegetable section, and a checkout desk. St. Matthew’s had never seen anything like it before, and it was the talk of the town.

  This establishment had decided, despite the curfew, to keep on its lights, which threw a broad band of radiance across the street; but, as Henry and Tom rounded the corner, the lights suddenly went out, leaving the darkness deeper than before. However, in the split second before blackness fell, Henry had just time to see the big, gaping hole in the store’s plate-glass window.

  “They’re in there,” he breathed in Tom’s ear. “Come on!”

  The two men began to run down the street toward the store, their footsteps unnaturally loud in the black silence. Suddenly, a single shot rang out, ripping the night. Instinctively, they both stopped. Then Henry shouted, “Come on, man! What are you waiting for?”—and pelted down the street toward the supermarket.

  Outside the shop, the pavement glistened with broken glass under the light of Henry’s flashlight. He shone the beam through the jagged hole in the plate-glass window and shouted, “Police! We’ve got you covered! Come out with your hands up!”

  Absolute silence. Henry stepped forward and began to play his flashlight along the shelves and down the aisles of the market. Without turning his head, he said to Tom, who was behind him, “Step in carefully, or you’ll cut yourself to ribbons. Follow me.”

  Gingerly, Henry stepped through the shattered window and into the interior of the store. Holding his light well to one side of his body, so that anybody firing at it would at worst hit his hand, he began to edge toward the main door. Still the silence was complete and oppressive. At last, his fingers found what they were looking for. He pressed the switch, and the building was once more flooded with light.

  A careful search of the aisles showed that they were empty—at least of people. However, the looters had left ample evidence of their activities. Shelves were half-emptied of cans, bursting bags of sugar lay on the floor, fruit and vegetables rolled in the aisles as if dropped in the panic to escape, and, at the back of the store, the door to the dark storeroom stood open.

  “That’s the way they went,” said Henry.

  “What about the shot?”

  “We’ll find out in a moment.” Henry walked into the storeroom and switched on the light. The back door, leading out into the alley behind the market, swung gently open in the soft night breeze. Henry went over and examined it. “That’s what I thought. They shot the lock out—very neatly, too. They’ll be well away by now.”

  Tom said, “At least they didn’t have time to get away with much. I suppose we’d better go and tell the police—but they’ll have slipped back into Priest Town like eels into the—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Henry. “I’ve an idea. Did you notice that they didn’t touch the freezer? Only canned things and fruit. Come on, back to the Moke!”

  Henry had the engine started and the little car on the move almost before Tom had clambered in. He quickly turned the car around and set off in the direction from which he had come.

  “Hey, what’s the idea, Henry?” Tom was clinging to his suitcase to keep it from leaping out of the swaying, bumping vehicle.

  Henry said, “You know this island better than I do. Where’s the nearest beach to Priest Town that you could sneak a boat into—well away from the main quay and lighted streets?”

  Tom considered. Then he said, “Frenchman’s Bay.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “About half a mile west of Priest Town, across country. More by road.”

  “How do we get there?”

  “We can’t drive all the way. The last part is strictly footwork.”

  “OK, we’ll get as close as we can. You direct me.”

  Tom peered into the darkness ahead. “I think…yes, left here!”

  Henry turned the wheel violently, and the Moke swung around a tight corner. Tom cursed and clung even more grimly to his suitcase with one hand and the iron strut of the Moke with the other. Another minute or so and the houses of Priest Town had thinned out. The road changed from tarred to dirt surface, and the car leaped and bumped over the rutted surface. Past a few more straggling houses, a few goats complaining lazily at being disturbed—and the road, such as it was, ended in a small circular clearing.

  “The path goes down from here,” Tom said. “Look, there’s Frenchman’s Bay down there and—by God, you were right. There is a boat.”

  They were standing on a rocky bluff separated from the beach below by several hundred yards of thickly overgrown scrub. Above, the velvet sky was studded with oversized stars. In the faint light of a crescent moon, white-creaming waves crawled against the protective reef circling the bay, while gentle waters lapped at the sandy shore. In the center of the lagoon, riding at anchor, was a small motorboat. It was empty.

  Henry said, “Take the flashlight and lead the way. You know the path.”

  It was rough going—not so much a path as a trail, littered with a selection of obstacles, such as smooth, steep gray rocks and convoluted tree roots. Nocturnal crabs scuttled across the sandy track and into the undergrowth, their sm
all, hard claws chittering on the dry leaves. A bird rose suddenly from the bushes with a shocking scatter of sound. A supple green snake uncoiled itself in the beam of Tom’s flashlight and slithered silently away over a rock. At last, the men broke from the cover of the trees into the grove of palms that edged the beach, and finally onto the silver sand.

  The beach was deserted, but where the retreating tide had left a smooth arc of damp sand, there were two sets of footprints leading down into the sea. Henry caught a sound of water, but not of waves. He whispered, “Put the flashlight out. Get back under the trees.”

  As they watched, eyes riveted on the little anchored boat, a long black arm came up out of the water to grasp the gunwale. This was quickly followed by a second arm, clutching a bundle of some sort, which was thrown over the side and into the boat. Then a tall, lithe black figure emerged from the sea and hoisted itself into the boat. A moment later, another, paler arm rose from the water, holding its burden aloft like Excalibur. The dark figure in the boat seized the bundle and stowed it, and then leaned down to help as the second figure climbed aboard.

  In an instant, the anchor was up, the motor was on, and the boat sped out of the bay, expertly guided through the narrow channel in the reef. It carried no lights, and at that distance, in the chancy moonlight, it was impossible to be sure of the identities of the occupants. Two things, however, were clear to Henry. One of them was black and the other white, and they were either girls or young boys.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Tom. “Those weren’t ordinary looters.”

  “They certainly weren’t,” Henry said. “Back to the car as fast as we can. I’ve got to get to a telephone.”

  “Then we may as well go straight to the Anchorage. We’re on the way there.”

  John, Margaret, and Emmy were sitting glumly in the empty bar and were obviously delighted to welcome Tom, plying him with questions and drinks.

  “No time for that now,” said Henry. “I need a telephone, and fast.”

  “A telephone?” said Emmy. “Why on earth…?” Ignoring her, Henry said, “John, can you connect me with the Golf Club? I want to speak to Major Chatsworth and nobody else. Particularly not Mrs. Chatsworth.”