The little procession that entered the square at the corner furthest from where the two men were seated had – at that distance – the appearance of a refugee band. At the head was Debby Rees – resolute, but advancing at the limp. Behind her, in line abreast, came Molly Treasure, Peregrine and Mrs Dogwall. The group then reverted to single file, McLush in black, followed by Luke Murphy in a boiler suit and armed with a monkey-wrench.
Treasure noted with some satisfaction that his wife was the only member of the party whose appearance and demeanour were normal beyond remark. All the others in some way evidenced either affliction, extreme apprehension, or an eccentricity of dress that would have produced very loud remarks – not to say cat-calls – in many built-up areas.
The woman flanking Peregrine to his right – Treasure could only guess at the identity of Small’s bobby-dazzler – wore a flimsy, sleeveless yellow jacket that stopped short some inches above her naval. This relatively decorous attire served to emphasize the near naked state of the shapely anatomy below. Apart from her high-heeled shoes Mrs Dogwall’s only other defence from vulgar gaze were some brief white panties of a style that would never have been allowed daylight exhibition on the beach at Frinton.
But if Mrs Dogwall quickly earned the admiring whistles of the erstwhile footballers in the square – a sequence that seemed to cause her no disquiet – it was Peregrine who produced the jeers; Peregrine Gore in a mini-length pleated yellow skirt worn over pale white skin and matching bare feet.
It was only seconds after the human convoy entered the square from the west that the motorized contingent of police tore in from the east. Two Land-Rovers skidded to a halt in front of the police-station and eight armed officers disgorged at the double.
‘Stay where you are.’ It was Debby who issued the order in a tone that did justice to a Governor’s daughter. The ranks behind her closed perceptibly around Peregrine. The policemen halted, irresolute.
Father Babington chose this moment to make his departure from the police-station. Treasure and Brown were already hurrying across the square.
‘Arrest that man – he’s a spy. I have recorded proof.’ McLush had detached himself from the group and was advancing upon Brown, arm pointed in accusation.
‘He’s nothing of the sort, Mr McLush, and I advise you to keep silent.’ Treasure had taken a stance on the unclaimed ground between the police and the rescue party.
‘Now, sergeant,’ he addressed the leading officer, ‘some of these ladies and gentlemen are going in to see Chief Inspector Small. Kindly clear the way. Miss Rees –’ he turned to Debby – ‘perhaps you’d lead in Mr McLush and Mr Gore. Good afternoon, Peregrine.’
The sergeant glanced at Father Babington, who nodded in support of the banker’s instructions: the summary execution of Peregrine Gore had been avoided once again.
Debby limped up the station steps followed by the two men – and by Mrs Dogwall who kept close to Peregrine’s side; her role as protector might be concluded but she needed to retrieve her skirt.
‘I think yellow suits him, don’t you?’ Molly Treasure had moved to her husband’s side. ‘Darling, you were marvellous – and so were the others. Hello, Mr Brown, enjoying your holiday?’ She smiled benignly at the recipient of this inapposite enquiry. ‘Peregrine and his friend positively ran into us riding on a trolley – so inventive. Mr Murphy here hitched them up, and here we are.’
Treasure held out his hand to Luke Murphy. ‘How d’you do. Thank you for guarding the party. D’you know, at first sight in that boiler suit, I thought you were the Governor.’
The black man smiled. ‘Difference is, sah, on me de dirt don’t show.’
CHAPTER XVI
It was an hour since the confrontation in the square. Treasure returned to the Chief Inspector’s office after completing his telephone call in another room.
‘You get through all right?’
‘Mm. Your operator’s extremely efficient.’ Treasure settled himself in a chair.
Small appreciated the compliment and privately wished it could be applied to the general functioning of the KCI police force. ‘Was Babington right?’
‘He was right to tell you Joe O’Hara thought he was being blackmailed by McLush – but the late O’Hara was wrong. McLush receives a small quarterly retainer from the bank. He has no account there – numbered or otherwise. Joe probably got to know McLush was receiving cheques from Grifer, Lerc . . .’
Small nodded. ‘That’s simple. He was President of the KCI Bank.’
‘So he put two and two together. If O’Hara was making blackmail payments to a Grifer, Lerc account it would have been easy to assume McLush was the villain. He wasn’t.’
‘Who was?’
‘Pierre Lerc isn’t telling, I’m afraid – not for the moment anyway, and certainly not on an open telephone line. It’s understandable. The blackmail allegation is, after all, second-hand. I made the mistake of volunteering we thought Joe had been murdered – a point that considerably strengthened Pierre’s sense of integrity. In fairness, I’d have reacted in the same way.’
‘But he did confirm it isn’t McLush who’s been getting these er . . . these alleged substantial payments from Joe O’Hara.’
‘Definitely. Of course, you could say he’s protecting an employee . . .’
‘But the explanation and the misunderstanding – they’re logical enough.’ Small frowned. ‘Which leaves us guessing.’
‘True, but if O’Hara was being blackmailed by someone else who benefited from the cigar business, we’re looking at a pretty small field.’ Treasure helped himself to a banana from the plate on Small’s desk. The two had agreed to go without a proper lunch. ‘Incidentally, I’d guess friend Brown is in for a wigging for panicking and disclosing all – or all he knew. Poor chap.’ But the speaker did not appear unduly concerned.
‘And if the cigar company is just a front for drug trafficking as McLush says?’
‘He’s not going to say it to anyone else?’ Treasure countered quickly.
‘Not a chance, sir. He’s scared stiff.’ Small glanced at the plastic bag sitting in the centre of his blotting-pad. ‘That’s marijuana all right, and very high quality too – ganga they call it out here. We’ve only McLush’s word on where he got it, of course.’
‘And you’ve cautioned him he could be charged with illegal possession.’
Small shrugged his shoulders. ‘He didn’t disclose it voluntarily. We found it when we searched him after he’d admitted breaking and entering the convent. What’s really got him worried is the chance he’ll be arrested on suspicion of murder.’
‘Out all night, no alibi, close to the scene of the crime. By the way, thank you again for letting Gore leave.’
The Chief Inspector smiled before continuing. ‘As far as I can ascertain, practically everybody at that dinnerparty is ready to confirm that McLush and Mr O’Hara were at daggers drawn.’
‘In fairness – according to Gore anyway – it was Joe O’Hara who had his knife into McLush, not the other way round.’
‘True, and Father Babington’s given us the reason.’ Small paused. ‘I had to shut up McLush, sir – for the time being anyway. This ganga business is dynamite. The implications . . .’
‘Gould suggest that everyone in authority on this pious little island is potentially a partner in the smoothest drug racket ever devised.’ Treasure gave a chuckle.
KCI’s temporary Police Chief was not moved to mirth. It’s very serious, Mr Treasure.’
‘I know, Chief Inspector.’ The banker suppressed a further chuckle. ‘But at least you’re not implicated.’
Small sighed. ‘Which may put me in a minority of one.’
‘Not quite. You’ve got me. But I see what you mean. If the thing’s organized on the scale McLush suggests, you can’t even be sure your policemen aren’t involved – and the Customs and Excise people next door.’ Treasure paused. ‘But hang on. McLush claims to be a professional ferret. He’s lived here
for years and it’s taken him till today to discover a wholesale drug racket.’
‘Or so he says when faced with a possible murder charge.’
‘You’ve got a point there. I still think what evidence we’ve got could suggest the involvement of a very few people – most of them in a closed order of nuns.’
‘Both the O’Haras have to be implicated, plus Father Babington. And what about the Chief Minister – even the Governor? This is a very small island, sir.’
Treasure marvelled that the policeman had not uncharitably decided to include Lady Rees. He stood up and walked to the window. ‘I agree about the O’Haras, and obviously Babington. But it could stop right there. The nuns could have been growing the stuff under orders from Babington – same as they’d grow cauliflowers if he asked them to.’
‘Oh?’ Small vented his disbelief.
‘No, I’m serious. Would they know they were in to some criminal activity? Marijuana’s a soft drug anyway, and from what you tell me growing a bit in the garden’s common enough in the West Indies.’
‘It’s still illegal and it’s mostly leaf and stalk stuff. This is high quality material – more what you’d expect in a Thai stick.’
‘A what?’
‘Asian hashish – they get the resin from the flower of the female plant and wrap it round six-inch sticks. Very strong in THG it is – that’s the active ingredient, tetra something or other. THG for short.’ In answer to Treasure’s surprised look Small added, ‘I did a course in it last year.’
‘Good for you. Anyway, back to basics. KGI ganga is high quality stuff, for export only, discounting consumption by stray pigs whose reactions confirm the power of the product. It’s grown by the vicar for the local squire. . . Oh, and distributed in America by the squire’s brother who happens to be in the smokes business. Now who else has to know? Customs people?’
Small shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. They don’t look at much that comes in, and they’re certainly not bothered about what goes out.’
‘And they can’t see the stuff growing because no one gets into the convent. You don’t see it from the air either because there’s no overflying on that side of the island – to protect the birds. All clever stuff – arranged, no doubt, by Joe O’Hara.’
‘I expect so. There’s engine-drivers of course – the blokes who take the tobacco into the convent.’
‘And who’re probably made to stand by their engines while the nuns unload the stuff. Gore says all you’d see from the convent building is a wall of sugar cane. No, I reckon that bit’s fool-proof.’ Treasure turned inwards from the window. ‘It could be there are only three men in the know.’
‘Plus whoever was blackmailing Mr O’Hara.’
‘Unless . . .’ Treasure paused, then squared his shoulders. ‘What about Mongo Joyce – he must benefit through the tobacco company, but only indirectly on the face of it. You say he refused to sanction a search warrant?’
‘Unless Father Babington approved.’
‘That’s rich. Tell me again exactly what Babington said when you had him back.’
‘He said he had no knowledge of the existence of ganga at the convent – he said it twice.’
‘And you’ll be allowed into the convent at three o’clock without a warrant?’
Small nodded and glanced at his watch. ‘An hour from now – any earlier would have interfered with devotions apparently.’
‘You wouldn’t think of going over Joyce’s head to the Governor?’
‘I’d rather not, sir.’
‘I see what you mean. What a very sensitive situation. Joyce may be co-operating with Babington for purely political reasons – I mean nothing to do with the ganga, though that’s the kindest possible interpretation in the circumstances. If you went to see Rees and he supported the other two there’d be a nasty cloud of suspicion over his head if a scandal breaks. Hm. Better wait for three o’clock, I think. Want me to come with you?’
‘Very much, sir.’ The Chief Inspector looked thoughtful. ‘How d’you suppose they’re getting the ganga into the USA? I mean, the Customs people there aren’t sleepy.’
‘That’s the beauty of the whole business. My guess is they’re not shipping marijuana. They’re shipping cigars laced with marijuana under a special quota licence from the US Government!’ Treasure dropped back into a chair. ‘You see, the Americans regard the whole trade as something between a joke and an act of charity. I don’t imagine shipments of KCI Elegantes get a second glance.’ He nodded knowingly. ‘This explains the whole unbelievable business.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Chief Inspector, I’ve been invited to buy a highly-profitable operation at a knock-down price, with strings, it’s true, but we’re getting the cigar company for peanuts. The customers – that small and very select band of customers – have been paying close on ten dollars each for those cigars. Well, I wouldn’t have paid a dollar for the ones I’ve sampled. So what’s the explanation? According to Peregrine Gore, his late friend Mr Joe O’Hara had doubts about the survival of the KCI cigar trade. And how! For more than a decade Joe was making a very nice turn-out of very inferior cigars with a very special, homegrown additive.’
‘Then along comes a blackmailer . . .’
‘Precisely. Joe recognizes the game’s up so there’s to be a big switch into distilling or tourism with the apparently prosperous cigar company as the buyer bait. Incidentally, no one could have complained afterwards about the price of the tobacco company. Without the marijuana – sorry, ganga filling future profits would probably just about justify what Joe was asking.’
It was Small’s turn to speculate. ‘I understand there’re about five hundred customers in the States. Would you say the blackmailer is likely one of them?’
Treasure shook his head. ‘Possible, but if you think about it, not likely. You started out this morning looking for a murderer here on the island. Now you’re interested in a blackmailer as well. Two crimes – two criminals? Or two crimes – one criminal? Right now I’d vote the second way. It complicates the motive, of course. Blackmailers don’t normally polish off their victims . . .’
‘Unless they’re due for exposure or stand to gain more in the long run. Gould I cadge another fill of that baccy, Mr Treasure?’
‘Please do. I think we could profitably spend the next half-hour smoking out our four hot prospects.’
‘I make it six,’ the Chief Inspector observed quietly as he proceeded to fill his pipe. ‘That is if anyone’s told me any fibs today. And I’m beginning to think they have.’
Molly Treasure had promised her husband she would not let Peregrine out of her sight. Since both Debby and Mrs Dogwall seemed obsessively keen to follow the same purpose Molly had no misgiving about leaving her charge in their care while she strolled in the garden of Government House. In any case, while she could not actually see the three of them, the noise of laughter and splashing from the guest-house pool was indication enough that Peregrine was safely occupied.
The short step-ladder and the secateurs Molly had found abandoned. She had temporarily borrowed both to aid in the execution of a minor piece of praedial larceny, namely the appropriation of some wild orchids that hung enticingly but just out of reach from a branch of a dogwood tree.
‘Can I help, ma’am?’
Assistance was as unnecessary as the fact of being observed was irritating: nevertheless Molly gave the girl a warm smile. ‘You can hold these clippers while I climb down. Sarah, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl’s face lit up. ‘Please, ma’am, you’re famous, aren’t you? I seen you in de movies. Twice.’
‘So you know I don’t steal flowers for a living. Isn’t that just beautiful?’ Molly stepped down on to terra firma, and held up the spray of delicate blooms.
‘Shall I be takin’ back de ladder, ma’am?’
‘Certainly not, Sarah. I’m sure you have better things to do in your free time. Isn’t it a holiday?’
‘It was supposed to be, ma’am, but Uncle Joe . . .’
‘Of course, it’s very sad. Did you know Mr O’Hara?’
The conventional enquiry produced an entirely unexpected reaction. Sarah burst into tears. Still clutching the secateurs, she dropped on her knees, her body convulsing with each heavy sob.
Molly sat down on the grass beside the girl. ‘Sarah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you.’
The tear-stained face was raised. ‘Oh ma’am, someone gotta help me. Me got terrible trouble.’
Molly was a voluntary social counsellor in Chelsea. The situation was one she sensed as familiar enough; it was best to come to the point. ‘Are you pregnant, Sarah?’ she asked gently.
For once the lesson of experience was confounded. Nothing would have comforted Sarah more than to be able to answer that she was carrying the seed of the O’Haras. As it was, the question only served to deepen her despondency. She wept some more without replying.
Molly felt her fears confirmed. ‘D’you want to tell me about it, Sarah? Here, take my hanky.’ Unlike her fastidious husband, she matched the offer with action.
Sarah blew her nose. ‘I was on de way to tellin’ de Governor – it’s him me should be tellin’. But me’s scared, ma’am.’
The Governor indeed; the dirty old man – was Molly’s outraged reaction: no wonder the child was in such a state. ‘The Governor is the father, Sarah? Are you sure, now?’
The girl looked up again in blank surprise. ‘No, ma’am, you don’ understan’ – it’s not to do wid de Governor. It’s de murder. I seen de murderer dis mornin’ up at de lodge.’
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