“All the same,” Henry said, “I understand that the British Seawards—St. Matthew’s in particular—were once the world’s biggest source of Sea Island. But the plantations have all disappeared now, and the only cotton trees one sees are growing wild.”
“That’s perfectly correct.”
“I also understand,” Henry said, “that there’s a plan to revive the industry. Replant with new stock and get the islands back into business again in a big way.” He ended on a slightly interrogatory note.
Sir Geoffrey took a mouthful of scrambled egg, shaking his head as he did so. When he could decently speak, he said, “There was such a plan. Indeed there was. Still is, I suppose, on paper. But it’s ironic you should bring it up just now. I told you I’d been on to London yesterday. Well, I got the bad news that the House of Commons has voted overwhelmingly to suspend funding of the scheme indefinitely, in view of the disturbed political situation here. There’s a great deal of money involved, you see. Well, can’t blame London, I suppose. Next thing you know, we’ll be in for independence here, like Tampica. No sense in throwing away taxpayers’ money. Still, it’s a disappointment. Can’t deny it. A big disappointment.”
“And,” said Henry, “a big relief to the United States cotton industry.”
Sir Geoffrey smiled, a little grimly. “I should imagine so,” he said. “The quality of West Indian cotton has always been the best in the world, and there’s a definite movement in consumer demand away from synthetics and back to high-grade natural fabrics. That’s why we worked out this scheme. We could have sold every ounce we produced, and more, I can assure you. It would have been the making of these islands.”
“I don’t imagine,” Henry said, “that the Golf Club was any more enthusiastic than the CPF.”
“Not enthusiastic, no—but it wouldn’t really have affected them much one way or the other. They’re only interested in St. Matthew’s, not in the other islands. We couldn’t have touched their land, of course. It would simply have meant replacing a lot of useless scrubland in the interior of the island with plantations. Might have made it a bit harder to get staff, that’s all.”
“It would have changed the image of the island,” Henry said.
Patterson laughed, wiping his mouth. “You think the Golf Club cares about that? This is an ivory tower, my dear Tibbett, and so long as its battlements are intact, nobody inside cares about what goes on beyond the moat, if you follow me.”
“I wonder if that’s quite accurate,” Henry said. “You can see the effect that the riots have had on the club.” He gestured at the empty tables.
“That’s a different matter altogether, Tibbett. Civil disturbances and murders have nothing to do with cotton plantations.”
“I wonder,” said Henry.
9:00 A.M. “Call it off?” said Owen Montague, incredulously. “Are you out of your mind? The island’ll never get back to normal until we catch these dangerous criminals.”
“We’ll catch them,” said Henry. “All I’m asking is that you should call off your search party for the time being. Until… well, for the time being.”
“I certainly can’t do anything of the sort without consulting Commissioner Alcott,” said Montague, snappishly.
“By all means consult him,” said Henry. “I’ve already spoken to him, and he agrees.”
Montague shot him a look full of suspicion and picked up the telephone. With the police station gutted, he had established uncomfortable headquarters in a small office at the back of the police garage, and this had done nothing to improve his opinion of life in general and interfering officers from Scotland Yard in particular.
“Commissioner Alcott? Good morning, sir. Tibbett is with me, and he tells me… Oh, did he?… Oh, I see… Well, I think I might have been informed… Yes, I know I’ve been informed now, but… Oh, very well…sir…”
He slammed down the receiver. “It’s extremely difficult to operate efficiently in a vacuum,” he said. “If either you or Alcott would give me a good reason for this decision…” He tapped his desk with a pencil, which promptly broke at the point. “Did you know that the supermarket was broken into and looted last night?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “I did.”
“Well, there you are. That sort of thing is going to go on and get worse, until we—”
“Look, Inspector Montague,” said Henry, “I know where they are—or at least, how to trace them. They have supplies, which means they’re not intending to move, at least for the moment.”
Montague was looking at him with an almost comical expression of disbelief. “You know where they are? Then, dear soul, why don’t you tell us? What are you playing at?”
Henry grinned. “I suppose you could call it politics,” he said. “Or detection. Or preservation of the species. It doesn’t really matter. Just call off your search party, there’s a good fellow.”
“Since the commissioner has ordered it, I have no choice. But I do it under protest, and I intend that fact to be recorded.” Montague put out his hand automatically to where the desk buzzer should be, but was not. Crossly, he got up, strode over to the door, and shouted, “Geraldine!”
“Yes, Inspector?” A trim, attractive black policewoman appeared from the even more uncomfortable outer office, carrying a stenographer’s notebook and pencil.
“Ah, Geraldine. Take a memo. To Sergeant Ingham. The search party detailed for this morning has been canceled until further notice. Personnel to stand by. You’ll have to run all the way with that one, dear, because they’re assembling outside the station at this very moment. Then take another memo to Commissioner Alcott, copy to Chief Superintendent Tibbett. Search party canceled according to instructions and under strong protest. I’ll sign them both, and make sure they’re delivered. Thank you, dear.” He gave Henry a furious look.
“Thank you, Inspector Montague,” said Henry. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”
“It’s nothing to do with me, dear boy,” said Montague icily. “Don’t let me detain you.”
9:45 A.M. “Ledbetter’s telephone number? Sure, I can get it. What’s all this in aid of?” Tom Bradley sat up in bed, blinking in the shafts of sunlight that came filtering through the shutters of his bedroom at the Anchorage. “For Chrissakes, Henry, don’t you ever sleep? We didn’t get to bed till after five.”
“I’m sorry, Tom. There’s so little time. Alcott is cooperating wonderfully, but I can’t stall Montague forever.”
“You’re rambling, dear fellow,” said Tom. He stretched out a hand to his bedside table and, without looking, found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “What’s the idea? Are you intending to call Jackson Ledbetter and ask him, just as a favor to Scotland Yard, to admit he was paying off Brett Olsen via Albert Huberman to keep the Olsen committee sweet?
“No.”
“Now, you listen to me, Henry, and take my advice. All right, so Olsen and Huberman are dead. But the Olsen committee is still alive, and so is the CPF, and so is the Justice Department. If there are any more tricks, Justice will be on to them like a raccoon onto a bag of garbage—but my guess is that there won’t be. So, in a rough sort of way, justice will have been done. At least the abuses will stop. Seems to me the best thing you can do is get after Sandy Robbins and clear up the murders, and get after Diamond and company and clear up this island, so that things can get back to normal. Don’t go meddling with Ledbetter. He’s too important.”
Henry said, “Is that a warning?”
“A piece of friendly advice, pal. And believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I think you do. I’d still like that telephone number.”
Tom took a puff at his cigarette and sighed. “If you must, you must. Mind you, I don’t know where he is right now. You’d best start at the CPF in Washington, D.C. If he’s not there, try his home in McLean—that’s a plush suburb in Virginia. I can give you both numbers. If all else fails, there’s his apartment in New York. Y
ou’ll find my address book in the pocket of my blue suit in the closet. Take what you want and for God’s sake let me get back to sleep.”
He stubbed out the cigarette and rolled over, pulling the sheet over his head. Henry found the small black book and copied two numbers. Then he said, “I’ll need the New York address.”
A muffled voice from under the sheet said, with a yawn, “Should be in the book…no phone number though…”
“Ah, yes. Here it is. Thanks a lot, Tom.”
10:00 A.M. Henry was talking on the telephone to his old acquaintance, Officer Stanton of the District of Columbia police force in Washington.
He cut short Stanton’s warm greetings. “No…no, I’m not in D.C., I’m in the Caribbean… No, not literally, worse luck… Look, I’m here on a case, and I need your help. You know Washington National Airport? The shuttle service to New York?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“What time does the last plane take off on a Friday night?”
“Nine o’clock,” replied Stanton promptly. “I know. I was up in the Big Apple just last weekend.”
“And the first on Saturday morning?”
Stanton considered. “Weekdays it’s seven A.M.,” he said, “but I’ve a feeling it’s later on Saturday. Eight, or even nine. Eight, I think.”
“Good,” said Henry.
“What’s good about it, for Chrissakes?”
“Never mind. Now, if somebody wanted to leave luggage at the airport overnight, what would he do?”
“Put it in a locker, I guess.”
Henry said, “As I remember it, National doesn’t have night flights, being so close to the city center.”
“Right.”
“So how would anybody rent a locker after the last evening flight?”
Stanton laughed. “You sure don’t know the system, Tibbett. These lockers are pay-as-you-go.”
“Can you explain?”
“Sure. If the locker’s not in use, it’s open and the key is in the lock—but you can’t move it, see? But you put your money in and—hey, presto, the key’s mobile. Put in your bags, close and lock the door, and pocket the key. Once you open it again, you’re back where you started. More money in the slot, or you can’t relock it.”
“Supposing,” Henry said, “that somebody deposits luggage, takes the key, and simply walks off and doesn’t come back?”
“What sort of a nut would do that?” Stanton demanded.
“Somebody who wants to dispose of something as unobtrusively as possible.”
There was a pause, and then Officer Stanton said, “OK. What are we looking for?”
“A matched set of luggage,” Henry said. “I don’t know how many pieces. Very expensive, black leather, monogrammed in gold with the letters A. G. H. Deposited late last Friday night or early Saturday morning.”
“And if we find it, what’s in it that we’re looking for?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! You crazy or sump’n?” Henry could almost see the rotating jaw as Officer Stanton demolished yet another stick of chewing gum.
“It’s the luggage itself I’m after,” Henry explained. “Not what’s in it. Can you make a quick check and call me back at this number?”
“Sure, sure. Nice to hear from you, Mr. Tibbett.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Stanton.”
It was less than an hour later when Officer Stanton called the number of the Anchorage Inn from Washington National Airport.
“Well, we got it.”
Henry breathed a sigh of relief. “Where was it?”
“In the unclaimed property department. The agent cashier—that’s the guy with the master key—he checks the lockers about every twenty-four hours, and any unclaimed stuff is brought over here. They keep it about six months to see if anyone claims it.”
“I see. Well, since you’re on the spot, you might check for another unclaimed article.”
“What?” demanded Stanton, and when Henry told him, “Aw, you’re nuts. OK, I’ll take a look.” A few moments later he was back. “Well, I’ll be darned. You’re right, it’s here… No, not the same locker.”
“Hold it with the luggage,” Henry said. “Test the suitcases for fingerprints.”
“You going to send us some dabs for matching?”
“I hope so,” Henry said, “but not immediately. The next thing is to get hold of one of those locker keys.”
“Look,” Stanton protested, “the keys were removed from those lockers. That’s the whole point. The agent cashier opened them with his master key and—”
“I don’t care which key or which locker,” Henry said. “I just want a key to one of the baggage lockers at National. Can you get one?”
“Sure, but—”
“Can you give it to the pilot of the next plane taking off from Dulles for St. Boniface? In an envelope addressed to me? I’ll meet him there. Call me back and tell me when the plane’s due.”
When Officer Stanton called back at one o’clock, he sounded as if life might be becoming too difficult for him. He prefaced his remarks by the word “Jeez!” and a prayer that the Almighty would spare him from ever becoming involved with a British cop again as long as he lived. He added that a locker key from National Airport, in an envelope addressed to Henry, would be in the pocket of Captain Joe Stapleton of Trans-American Airlines, whose 707 was due to touch down in St. Boniface at 4:30 that afternoon.
When Henry tried to thank him, he said, “Aw, nuts!,” and there was the sound of a deftly spit gob of gum hitting the wastepaper basket. And then, “It’s been a real pleasure, Mr. Tibbett.”
1:15 P.M. “I honestly don’t think I can do it, Henry,” said Emmy.
“It’s our only hope. I hate asking you, but—think what’s at stake.”
Emmy said nothing, but took a long drink of orange juice. The Tibbetts were the only occupants of the Anchorage bar, at a time when it was usually alive with lunchtime customers. At last, Emmy said, “It’s not so much that I don’t think I could pull it off—although it wouldn’t be easy. It’s…well…it doesn’t seem ethical.”
“Ethical!” Henry was near the point of explosion.
Emmy said, “Oh, I know. I don’t want to go into the realms of philosophy, but I can’t help it. You’re saying that the end justifies the means.”
“In this case—yes, I am.”
“Well, I just can’t accept that, Henry.”
“Look, Emmy, an innocent deception—”
“It’s not an innocent deception. It’s a double lie, and I can’t do it.”
Henry gave an exasperated sigh. “Well, obviously I can’t, so I suppose I’d better forget the whole thing. And when a murderer gets off scot free, and maybe a couple of more people are killed, I hope you’ll feel extremely proud of your high moral stand.”
“Henry!” Emmy was near tears. “That isn’t fair! You know I’d do anything to help you—and the others—that I didn’t feel was positively wrong. I know that all you care about is getting to the bottom of the case. Like Lucy once said about you—”
“Lucy!” Henry stood up suddenly. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of her sooner? Lucy is the answer.”
Five minutes later, he was talking to Miss Lucy Pontefract-Deacon in Tampica. She was saying, “Know him? Of course I know him, Henry. You ask the silliest questions sometimes… Never mind how…yes…yes… That doesn’t surprise me… My goodness, yes, of course you’re right… How extremely foolish we’ve all been, haven’t we?… Well, last time I did stumble to the right conclusion just before you did, but you’ve certainly beaten me to it this time… Well, now, what do you propose to do?… Yes…yes, a splendid idea…oh, won’t she? Well, I applaud her for it, and you can tell her that I admire a woman with high principles. On the other hand, after eighty I feel one is allowed a little latitude… Yes, of course I will; it’ll be a pleasure, Henry… Now, just a minute, the call should come from St. Matthew’s, should it not?… Yes, of course, I visit there f
requently… Let’s see, what time is it now?… I’ll catch the two o’clock plane to St. Mark’s and hire a boat from there. Meet me at the quay, and give Emmy my love.”
Henry was at the town wharf to welcome the small white launch that came scudding across the harbor. The boatman tied up alongside, and Henry leaned down to give his hand to the straight-backed, white-haired old lady who climbed with surprising agility onto the jetty, grasping a striped parasol in one hand and an enormous handbag in the other. She kissed Henry briefly, put up the parasol, and walked ashore. Henry noticed with amusement that the Customs and Immigration officers and the police reinforcements on the quay were lining up more as a guard of honor than an official screening barrier.
“Hi there, Miz Lucy.”
“Nice day, Miz Lucy.”
“Haven’t been to see us for a while, Miz Lucy.”
Lucy Pontefract-Deacon beamed. “I always enjoy visiting St. Matthew’s,” she said. “Such a pretty island. I imagine you will want to stamp my passport.”
The welcoming committee looked at its boots and mumbled something about that not being necessary.
“But I insist. These formalities are for our own protection, are they not?” She fumbled in her bag and produced a well-worn travel document. “Do we go into the office? Ah, how very nice. Thank you, Lemuel. You are looking very well. Give my love to your wife, won’t you?”
A few moments later, willing hands assisted Lucy into the Mini-moke beside Henry. As they drove away from the quayside, she looked at her passport complacently and remarked, “Nobody will be able to dispute that I was on St. Matthew’s today.” And then, “Oh, dear. What a pity about the police station. Of course, it was an exceptionally ugly building, but wanton destruction is always distressing. You seem to be doing very well, Henry.”
“Don’t talk too soon, Lucy.”
“Better too soon than too late. Now, let’s go over this once more…”
The Coconut Killings Page 17