Treasure Up in Smoke

by David Williams

  CHAPTER XVII

  Sister Helena was serene and composed – unlike the two men seated on the other side of her desk, both of whom sensed they were being outwitted. The nun’s disarmingly contemplative gaze rested on neither of her visitors; it was fixed somewhere in the middle distance, although it suggested her thoughts were far away from her mundane surroundings.

  In fact, Sister Helena was thinking how empty and ordered the little factory appeared after all the furious activity in the morning and the early afternoon. She also wondered – without apprehension – which way the questioning would now turn. Perhaps it would be as well to break the silence.

  ‘Now is there any other mortal thing you’d like to be knowing, Chief Inspector?’ The accent and the idiom bore a discernible and incongruous touch of the Irish – a legacy of five formative training years in County Cork, undissipated by over-indulgence in frivolous conversation in the ensuing quarter-century. ‘I’m sure Reverend Mother won’t want Mr McLush to be prosecuted – provided he doesn’t practise such foolishness again.’

  Small did his best not to show the exasperation he felt with this dissembling. He had practised the same selfcontrol during the inspection of the recently ploughed lanes between the sugar canes as well as on the comprehensive tour of the cigar factory. The nun had studiously avoided recognizing that his visit with Treasure had been prompted by anything other than the burglary – an event that no one at the convent had seen fit to report in the first place.

  The policeman looked sternly at the wilted Cannabis sativa bud and stem clasped in his left hand. It suggested the remains rather than the beginnings of a posy; but it was evidence – and there was plenty more in the turned-over earth outside.

  ‘Very charitable of you, I’m sure, Sister.’ The sarcasm in the tone was hardly disguised. Small was about to play his trump card. He produced a small plastic bag from his pocket. ‘Of course, there’s still the matter of the stolen property which, no doubt, you’ll want returned.’

  Sister Helena gazed at the bag: her cherubic, brown countenance registered mystification. ‘And what would that be, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘That would be . . . that is a quantity of marijuana, Sister, which McLush alleges he stole from these premises.’

  ‘Is it now? And that’s what he alleges?’ Sister Helena gave every indication that she was grateful for the enlightenment. ‘And you’re taking his word for it.’ She shook her head sadly.

  ‘Are you suggesting he didn’t get it from here?’

  ‘Not at all, Chief Inspector. Did you hear me make such a suggestion, Mr Treasure?’

  ‘Certainly not, Sister,’ said Treasure, with more conviction than he had intended. ‘I gather McLush is quite insistent, though. He says there were trays of it in that storeroom where he came down the ventilator.’

  ‘The empty one – with the strong smell of ammonia,’ added Chief Inspector Small with extra emphasis.

  ‘Ah, that was the infestation. You never saw so many creepy-crawlies. Came right in through the broken shaft, they did.’ Sister Helena smiled at the two men in turn. ‘A good scrub through with ammonia did the trick. We had to burn the stores – riddled they were with the dreadful creatures.’

  ‘What did you have stored there, Sister?’ Small was still holding his drooping bud.

  ‘Ah, now that’s difficult to say exactly, Chief Inspector. A bit of this, and a bit of that.’ Sister Helena put her hands together in a prayerful gesture. ‘Let me see now. There would have been dried herbs from the garden – oh, and seeds of all descriptions. I shouldn’t allow it but Sister Geraldine – she was in charge of our garden – she used to say the atmosphere’s just right for such things in here.’

  ‘Used to say?’

  ‘She passed away the week before last at the grand age of eighty-three – may she rest in peace.’ Sister Helena made the sign of the Cross. Treasure, following the instinct of a High Anglican, did the same thing.

  Small gave an embarrassed cough and tapped his chest. ‘And only Sister Geraldine would have known what was in the storeroom, of course.’ It was not so much a question as a statement. ‘Are you saying, Sister, that this quantity of dried ganga couldn’t have come from there?’

  ‘Sister Geraldine was a great one for herbal remedies, Chief Inspector. She could work miracles.’

  Since the late lamented did not immediately arrange to have Sister Helena struck by lightning, Treasure privately concluded the lady might also have been endowed with a broad mind and a strong sense of humour.

  ‘Now it could be,’ the nun continued earnestly, ‘that Mr McLush happened upon some small quantity . . .’

  ‘Of marijuana that Sister Geraldine had grown for medicinal purposes.’ Small completed the statement with resignation in every syllable. ‘All right, Sister, but was she also growing twenty acres of the stuff outside between the sugar canes? What I’m holding is a bud of Cannabis saliva.’ He placed the limp specimen on the desk.

  ‘Is that what it is now – well, you live and learn. To us it’s the most pernicious weed in the place – would you believe?’ Small gave not the slightest indication that he was anything other than a total disbeliever. ‘We were ploughing it in only today as you could see. Cannabis saliva. I must make a note of that.’ Sister Helena grasped a pencil and began to scribble. ‘That would be double “n”, I expect. Sister Geraldine was never able to find a weedkiller that would keep it down.’ She looked up from her writing. ‘Now is there anything else? With the terrible tragedy of Mr O’Hara you must have enough to do without chasing burglars.’

  ‘Sister Helena it was Treasure who spoke – ‘have you been putting ganga in the cigars?’

  The hands returned to the prayerful position. ‘Do you know, Mr Treasure, while we’ve been talking the thought has come to me that that’s entirely possible.’ The two men glanced at each other. Small produced a notebook. ‘You see, we are always experimenting, with aromatics, you understand – ingredients that might make the cigars more popular.’

  ‘From Sister Geraldine’s bumper storeroom?’ Treasure put in quietly.

  ‘That’s entirely right, Mr Treasure. And now you both have me worried that by chance . . .’

  ‘You’ve been trafficking in drugs.’ Small’s tone was stern and sonorous.

  ‘Ah, now that’s a strong statement, Chief Inspector, and one you’d need to be proving, wouldn’t you say?’

  There was a pause. Small put his notebook away, made as though to retrieve his precious specimen, thought better of it, and stood up. ‘Sister Helena, fifty shipping cases of cigars arrived in Rupertstown earlier this afternoon for loading. That’s five thousand boxes of twenty-five cigars if my arithmetic’s right.’

  ‘That’s absolutely right, Chief Inspector, and it’s why we’ve not a cigar in the place here to offer you.’

  Small continued. ‘I have to tell you that Mr Broom of the Customs and Excise has seized the cargo for examination, and that I shall be receiving his report when we return to the town.’

  ‘Well then, I mustn’t delay you. With one thing and another you really have your hands full.’ Sister Helena positively beamed at her two visitors as she showed them to the door. ‘Reverend Mother will be all the more grateful when I tell her how you put yourself out –’ she paused – ‘investigating our little burglary.’

  Mark and Molly Treasure, wearing swimming clothes, turned and retraced their steps along the unspoiled, palm- fringed beach. Treasure judged they had walked a mile around the headland – and further from the guest-house where they had earlier taken tea with Debby, Peregrine and the Dogwalls.

  ‘The girl must have been mistaken. Small said it was still quite dark at five-thirty this morning.’

  ‘But she saw someone,’ Molly insisted, ‘and if it wasn’t Luke Murphy . . .’

  Treasure interrupted, ‘Well, it wasn’t Luke Murphy. One mightn’t accept the word of the three diesel engine-drivers – I mean he could have squared them – but if Archie R
ees says the chap was in the railway yard from five to nearly six o’clock, you can’t do much better than have the ruddy Governor as an alibi.’

  ‘But the Governor wasn’t there himself the whole time. You said . . .’

  ‘He was playing trains some of the time. There was a panic on early because the precious Sir Dafydd was being temperamental. Rees took it on a test run by himself, and then drove the first train up. The point is, Murphy was there when he left and when he came back.’

  ‘And there wouldn’t have been time for him to nip up to this waterfall place, do for Joe O’Hara and . . . ?’

  ‘Certainly not – it’s miles. And anyway he still has other witnesses.’ Treasure stopped to watch the gyrations of some diminutive fish. The shoal darted from the shallows seawards when Molly stepped into the water to join him for a closer look. ‘Anyway, Small’s playing it very close. As yet, nobody, including the Governor and the Chief Minister, knows about the autopsy result – nor about Sarah’s awful experience,’ he finished lightly.

  ‘Well, it couldn’t have been very funny for her, poor child.’

  ‘No, of course not. You did the right thing, darling – in bringing her straight to Small, I mean.’

  ‘We aim to please,’ Molly replied as the couple continued along the beach. ‘But if Mr O’Hara died at three o’clock . . .’

  ‘Or earlier.’

  ‘Or earlier, then whoever Sarah saw wasn’t the murderer.’

  ‘May not have been the murderer.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘What I said was strictly for your information.’

  ‘Yes, sir – I shan’t tell a living soul. Promise. Anyway, I’ve forgotten, so tell me again.’

  ‘O’Hara died from heart failure induced by a curarin injection in his left thigh administered between one-thirty – which is the last time Peregrine saw him – and three a.m. It couldn’t have been any later because otherwise he’d have bled all over the place when his head was cut off.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Yes, not very nice, but there it is. The point is, the decapitation took place at least two and a half hours after the fellow died. That doesn’t mean to say . . .’

  ‘It couldn’t have been the same person – I mean who did the injection and the . . . er . . . the other thing.’ Molly nodded. ‘No, I see all that, but why take the risk of coming back; or why not –’ she paused again, then added with a shudder – ‘cut his head off straight away?’

  ‘Our theory is there were two people involved. What we’re not certain of is whether they were acting independently.’

  ‘Or as a ghoulish team. What a quite unbelievable place this is. Nuns shoving pot, maniacs with hypodermics, people mutilating dead bodies.’

  ‘I’m not sure yet about the nuns.’

  ‘You mean you’ll keep an open mind till after the convent orgy.’

  Treasure countered with a withering glance – quite lost on his wife who was looking the other way. ‘I mean I left Small and the Customs chap knee deep in shredded cigars, and all they’d found was tobacco. The really curious thing was Paul O’Hara’s reaction. Apparently he was furious when they seized his cargo – complained to the Governor, raised hell with Joyce. Then when they started the search he as good as said that if there was ganga in the cigars he’d been made an innocent dupe.’

  ‘But there wasn’t any ganga.’

  ‘Not up to the point where I left. You’d have thought O’Hara would have been relieved.’

  ‘Or more furious.’

  Treasure nodded. ‘Or both – but he was neither. He looked to me to be in a state of shock.’

  ‘What’s curarin?’ Molly switched the conversation back to an area where perfidy had been evidenced more clearly.

  ‘The active ingredient in curare. It’s a vegetable extract.’

  ‘Like Marmite?’ – Molly’s favourite breakfast spread. ‘Not quite. It’s the stuff the Indians used to put on poisoned arrows – maybe they still do. Anyway, it’s the first thing they test for out here when they run a poison check.’

  ‘Why did they think Mr O’Hara was poisoned?’

  ‘They didn’t. Not at first, that is. They had his medical history, and once they’d established he couldn’t have died from decapitation they thought he’d had a heart attack. The obvious symptoms fitted, apparently,’

  ‘You mean he hadn’t turned green from the vegetables or anything?’

  ‘No, but I gather some of his organs were too rigid.’

  ‘Really.’ Molly drew out the word. ‘So that’s what curare does. I’ll bet Mrs Dogwall never travels without some.’

  ‘Very droll,’ Treasure observed drily. ‘D’you want to hear the rest?’

  ‘Yes, please, I think you policemen are marvellous.’

  ‘Well, they did the routine poison checks and came up with curarin first go. Like marijuana, you can grow your own in this part of the world, apparently – though I imagine you need to know a bit about botany,’

  Molly was serious again. ‘So if poor Mr O’Hara hadn’t lost his head . . . sorry, I mean . . .’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for that I doubt there’d have been an autopsy – in fact I know there wouldn’t. Small said as much.’

  ‘So your two arch criminals were working against each other.’

  ‘Mm, or just unknown to each other.’

  ‘That’s what I meant. How do you inject somebody with something without his screaming blue murder?’

  ‘Any number of ways if the subject’s asleep.’

  ‘You mean you put a pillow over his head and ask him to hold still when he wakes up?’

  Treasure thought for a moment. ‘Something like that, perhaps. Remember that TV programme we saw about the Circadian cycle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ he insisted with a touch of impatience. ‘It was about the times of day when one’s metabolism is least resistent to strain, and . . .’

  ‘Oh yes. They said that was why most heart attacks happen in the middle of the night – and you were frightened to go to bed for weeks after.’

  ‘I was nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Well, you kept taking your pulse at the most extraordinary times.’

  ‘That’s the point – or nearly – according to the autopsy report. I saw the telex. O’Hara had very bad angina. Somebody stuck a huge shot of curarin into him when his body was least able to take a shock. A strong dose of the stuff apparently paralyses the lungs. Well, obviously it would do for O’Hara quicker than for most people.’ Treasure paused. ‘Yes, you might have to use a pillow – or a pad over his mouth, but not for very long.’

  ‘But surely he’d have made some sort of noise.’

  ‘Perhaps, but not enough to wake Peregrine.’

  ‘Who was at the bottom of his Circadian cycle,’ Molly offered knowingly.

  ‘Who would have been in a very deep sleep since he hadn’t had any to speak of for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘He says something woke him at five-thirty.’

  ‘The second visitation – the one Sarah saw. Incidentally, that clears Peregrine completely in Small’s eyes, thank heaven.’

  ‘But surely he never seriously thought . . .’

  ‘No, but if a local copper had been in charge he’d have been perfectly entitled to hold the boy on suspicion – and probably would have done.’

  ‘Just because he was there?’ Molly demanded incredulously.

  ‘During both crimes, remember.’

  ‘And stayed so everyone would know. He wouldn’t have been so stupid.’

  Treasure was far from convinced about the last point but he let it pass. ‘He didn’t stay. He ran like hell.’

  ‘That was afterwards. Anyway, you said he’s in the clear. What about all the other suspects? Do they really have alibis?’

  ‘Most people are in bed between one and three in the morning tucked up with witnesses.’

  ‘Including this good Father Babington? All part of t
he convent service . . .’

  ‘No, Babington was by himself.’

  ‘And Joe O’Hara’s brother – he’s a bachelor, isn’t he?’

  ‘But not a celibate, apparently.’

  ‘Oo, how juicy. Was he shacked up with a floozy?’

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘But you’re going to because we have absolutely no secrets from each other.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Come on, dish the dirt.’

  ‘He says he was entertaining the Buckingham House kitchen maid.’ There was doubt in Treasure’s tone.

  ‘How boring – and not necessarily convincing. If she’s anything like Sarah, she’d probably say whatever he told her.’

  ‘We had the same idea – but there’s corroboration of a sort. He’s been exercising seigneurial rights with this particular female for some time – says she’s the reason he stays at the house when he’s here. He certainly didn’t go there to enjoy his brother’s company. He could have stayed on the yacht.’

  Molly drew a long face. ‘Sounds fishy to me. Anyway, your fiendishly clever plan is going to smoke out the villain.’

  They were drawing close to the guest-house. ‘It could do, and Small wants to give it a try. He’s precious litde else to go on, poor chap.’

  ‘Then tell me . . .’

  ‘I’m not telling you any more because I don’t want you any more involved.’ This time Treasure was serious. ‘But you’re to do as I say. Don’t leave Government House for any reason at all after dinner. I shall be disappearing, but you’ll have plenty of company.’

  ‘The Dogwalls are being moved up there.’

  Treasure nodded. ‘At Small’s request to Rees – for their own safety. It’ll be a bit of a squash, apparently.’

  ‘Which shouldn’t bother Mrs Dogwall,’ Molly said archly. ‘What about Peregrine?’

  ‘We’re short-handed so he’ll be with me.’ This was the only part of the plan Treasure contemplated with misgiving. ‘In the circumstances, Small only trusts a handful of his policemen.’

  The couple stopped at the paved way that led from the beach to the guest-house. Treasure studied the elevation of the long bungalow with more interest than its plain appearance seemed to warrant.