Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  Henry was intrigued. ‘‘Holder-Watts mentioned a demonstration,” he said. “What was it in aid of?”

  “Goddam nothing,” said Stanton. “That’s what I mean about Martin. Demonstrating’s become a profession with him. As far as I remember, the banners said ‘Go home Uncle Eddie’ and ‘Kill the White Bitch’—plus the usual anti-police signs, of course.”

  On an impulse, Henry said, “If he’s being brought in here, could I see him?”

  “See him? You can tango with him for all I care. You’ll get nothing out of him, though. He’s a jailhouse lawyer—knows his rights.”

  “What about plea-bargaining?” Henry said.

  “What?”

  “We’ve heard a lot about it lately,” Henry said. “You’ve got some . . . what’s it called . . . some clout around here, haven’t you?”

  “Some,” admitted Stanton, through rotating jaws.

  “Well, supposing you told Martin that the police would only ask for a nominal fine on the streaking charge . . . or indecent exposure or whatever it’s legally called . . .”

  “Obstructing the traffic,” muttered Stanton.

  . . if in return Martin would talk to me about the evening of Lady Ironmonger’s death. Could you do that?”

  Stanton meditated. “Sure could. What’s in it for you? I thought that case was all sewn up.”

  “It is,” said Henry. “It’s just a question of tying up loose ends, and I think Martin could be helpful and save me a lot of time, if he’ll co-operate.”

  Outside in the corridor, sounds of scuffles, shouts, protests and snatches of song grew louder as a posse of some sort approached, and then faded as it passed down the passage toward the cells.

  “There he goes,” Stanton remarked gloomily. “He’s yours and welcome. I’ll just go do that bargaining you spoke of. Then we can let him go on bond so he won’t keep us awake all night. Be seeing you.” He rose to his feet and went out of the office. Five minutes later he was back.

  “O.K. Come with me. He’s all yours.”

  Franklin D. Martin was sitting on a wooden bench in a cell, wearing nothing but a gray army blanket and a broad grin. He seemed highly delighted, both with his prowess as a streaker and by the legal arrangements which had been made. As to the motivation of the Tampican Embassy demonstration, however, he was less than lucid.

  “Because, man . . . like . . . well, man . . . there it was . . . we don’t miss a chance . . . well, man . . . like this Ironmonger is in Whitey’s pocket, like, with a white woman in his bed . . . you dig? . . . like, man . . . here’s a chance, I said . . . like . . .”

  “What you mean,” said Henry, “is that it was a good chance to get your name in the papers. There were a lot of famous people at the reception, weren’t there?”

  “Right. Right on, man.”

  “You know most of these people by sight, don’t you?” Henry asked.

  “Saw a fair lot I knew. . . . Senator Belmont, I sure know him . . . fascist racist pig . . .”

  “You saw him that evening?”

  “Sure did. Drove up in a big fat Cadillac, I’m telling you, man, like he was the King of England.”

  “Mr. Finkelstein?”

  “The Jew boy? Sure, sure, I know him. Sure, I saw him. He rides around in a Volkswagen. He’s O.K., man.”

  “The Otis Schipmakers?”

  “Do me a favor, man,” pleaded Martin. “Don’t make me throw up.”

  “You saw them?”

  “Sure. They arrived in a Lincoln. Con-tin-ent-al, man. And with a black brother hu-mil-i-ated by driving them in a fancy outfit.” Martin spat on the ground.

  Henry said, “You seem to have seen a lot of people arriving. I’m more interested in when they left.”

  “Most I didn’t see, man, thanks to the pigs busting me.”

  “What did they bust you for?”

  “Nothing, man. Just a matter of a blade of grass, like.”

  Henry grinned. “O.K. But I suppose you saw Winston Nelson and the Barringtons leave?”

  “That the black guy with the silver Clievelle and the two old white folks?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sure, I saw them leave. Just before I got busted.”

  “You know Sir Edward Ironmonger?”

  “Man, he’s my best friend.”

  Henry found himself smiling. Martin was undeniably endearing. “I mean, you know him by sight. Did you see him that evening?”

  “I did not. Nor that fancy black whore of his. Seems she shot the white bitch and then did herself in, man, and good riddance to both.”

  Surprised, Henry said, “Where did you hear that?”

  “Don’t ask me no questions, man. Just don’t. You got a fix?” Henry judged it was time to leave. Back in Officer Stanton’s office, he glanced through a file, and made some quick notes. Police reports indicated that Franklin D. Martin and his protesters had arrived outside the Embassy in Oxford Gardens at 6:10 p.m. on the evening of the reception. They had behaved themselves reasonably well, and no action had been taken against them. By a quarter to seven, most of the demonstrators had dispersed, and the rest were sitting on the sidewalk. Everything appeared to be quiet and orderly until a policeman noticed what he judged to be the smell of marijuana.

  Several demonstrators who were smoking quickly stubbed out their cigarettes when the officer approached. Two of them, of whom one was Martin, were clever enough to drop them through the grating of a street drain, so that they could not be recovered. Four demonstrators in all were arrested, and arrived at M Street Police Station at 7:28 p.m. The two whose reefers were retrieved and analyzed were charged with illegal possession of the drug. The other two, including Martin, claimed that the police had no proof except the allegation that the smell of marijuana still clung to their clothes, and that this would not be enough to convince a court. Reluctantly, the police agreed and the two men were released.

  Henry thanked Stanton, signed a receipt for Dorabella’s handbag and a copy of the fingerprint report, and took a cab back to Georgetown.

  13

  The little Piper Aztec aircraft rose smoothly from the runway at St. Mark’s, and headed out over the Caribbean, whose waters gleamed in the bright sunlight like a carpet of jewels—sapphire, aquamarine, emerald and amethyst. Small islands of brown rock and green scrub rose here and there to break the shimmering surface, ringed with curved sandy beaches and creamy white breakers. Sometimes, a protective coral reef was clearly visible beneath the water a little off-shore, taking the buffeting of the waves upon itself, and creating a calm lagoon whose shallow waters were pale and transparent as green tourmaline.

  The goodlooking young black pilot turned in his seat ever)’ so often to point out a particular island or strait to his passengers, who occupied the four seats in the tiny cabin behind him. Two of the passengers were Henry and Emmy Tibbett. The others were a handsome and obviously wealthy couple in their thirties, who—unlike the rubber-necking Tibbetts—seemed to know the area well and to find it unremarkable.

  The man’s face was vaguely familiar, and Henry felt reasonably sure of his identity. His hunch was soon confirmed. After a few minutes in the air, the man said, “You folks headed for Tampica?” —a rhetorical question, since Tampica was the aircraft’s sole destination.

  Henry and Emmy agreed that they were.

  “Going to stay at Pirate’s Cave?”

  “Yes.”

  The man beamed. Henry and Emmy had passed the wealth test, and were now members of the club. “Well, since we’re about to be fellow-guests, I reckon we should introduce ourselves. I’m Otis Schipmaker, and this is my wife, Ginny.”

  “Glad to know you,” said Henry, who picked up local idiom as a magnet picks up iron filings. “We’re Henry and Emmy Tibbett. I believe I met your brother Homer at the Barringtons’ house back in Washington, D.C.”

  “And you’re friends of Margaret Colville’s,” Emmy chimed in. “We’ve been staying with her.”

 
; “Well, well, well. It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Otis Schipmaker was now thoroughly relaxed, having well and truly established the Tibbetts’ credentials. “You from England?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Well, you’ll be quite a rarity in Tampica—certainly at Pirate’s Cave. Apart from a few government officials, you don’t get to hear many British voices on the island. What with the naval base and tourists, it’s just about all American—and of course the currency is in dollars.”

  “You know Tampica well, do you, Mr. Schipmaker?” Emmy asked, quite innocently. Henry had not repeated to her the conversation at the Barrington home.

  There was a little pause. Then Otis cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been there before, yes. Some years ago. This is Ginny’s first visit. We usually go to St. John’s, but we thought we’d like a change of scenery this time.”

  “And of course, the naval base conference this week makes it a particularly interesting place to visit just now,” said Henry, rather less innocently.

  Ginny Schipmaker laughed. “You’ve hit it right on the head, Mr. Tibbett,” she said. “Otis is running in the primary this spring.”

  “What’s that?” Emmy was mystified. “Some sort of race?”

  “Race for nomination to fight for a senate seat,” Ginny explained. “He’s about to make the issue of the naval base a plank in his platform, so of course he has to be here. The U.S. delegates are all staying at Pirate’s Cave. But would you believe it, I had to talk him into it? He wanted to go and sit on his fanny in Caneel Bay, just like every other year.”

  Schipmaker looked uncomfortable. “I’m supposed to be on vacation,” he muttered.

  “Honey,” said his wife, “politicians are never on vacation, and well you know it. Besides, I want to see Tampica.”

  “There it is now.” The pilot’s voice broke into the conversation. “See? Ahead and slightly to the right. That’s Tampica.”

  Henry and Emmy craned to look out of the window. Tampica was a comparatively large island, some fifteen miles long by five miles wide. In the center, it rose to a swelling scrub-covered mountain, devoid of human habitation, over which they could see a narrow dirt track winding its precipitous way. A couple of Jeeps were making their way over the mountain, from one end of the island to the other. Immediately below the plane, Henry and Emmy saw a sizable township clustered round a harbor crammed with yachts and fishing boats, looking like toys in a child’s bathtub.

  “Tampica Harbour, capital of Tampica,” explained the pilot. “That big building up on the hill is The Lodge, the Prime Minister’s official residence. And just around the point there, you can see the naval base at Barracuda Bay.”

  The naval base was impressive. It was situated on a beautiful bay whose twin curving headlands promised excellent protection and whose sapphire-dark water was clearly deep to within a few yards of the shore. Several big, gray naval vessels rode at anchor, while others were tied up at the dockside. A complex of large buildings clustered around the docks, while others—less officiallooking—climbed the green hillside behind the waterfront. Henry saw at once what Michael Holder-Watts had meant. It was easy to imagine the somber warships replaced by white-painted, flag-fluttering cruise liners, and the barracks converted from military austerity to luxury hotels.

  The pilot went on, “And now you can see Pirate’s Cave Bay, and the hotel.”

  It did not look like a hotel. It looked like a crescent of firm golden beach, edged with palm trees and dotted with small cottages. Then, as the little airplane lost height, it became plain that the palm trees on the beach were in fact artificial structures, like giant umbrellas, and that beneath them on canvas beach-beds lay probably the most expensive expanse of near-naked flesh in the world, tanning itself to perfection in preparation for an evening of dancing under the tropical stars. The beautiful people were making sure that they remained just that.

  The aircraft swung left in a tight circle, and Emmy exclaimed, “What’s that bit of dirt road going nowhere?”

  The pilot grinned. “That’s the airport, ma’am.”

  “It can’t be!”

  “It certainly is. That’s why we use these little airplanes.”

  “But you couldn’t land a helicopter on that!”

  “Want to bet, lady?” The pilot flashed a huge smile at Emmy, and put the Piper’s nose down. The airstrip was no wider than a country road, unpaved and extremely short, and the farther end of it terminated in a nasty-looking wall of rock. Nevertheless, the plane came gently down to a smooth landing, and had lost all but minimal speed long before the rock wall loomed. The pilot taxied around to the left and there was the Terminal Building—a small concrete shed, over which the green and purple flag of Tampica fluttered in the trade wind blowing in from the purple sea.

  Inside, along with Tampican customs and immigration officers, were several personable young white Americans, dressed in spotless white shorts and wearing tee shirts embroidered with the Pirate’s Cave emblem—a pirate with skull and crossbones on his hat, dancing a hornpipe. The same device was painted on the small fleet of Jeeps and the minibus which stood in the parking lot, waiting to transport guests to the hotel. It seemed that a slightly larger plane from St. Thomas had recently landed, as well as another Aztec from Tortola, so that a group of ten brightly-dressed tourists were waiting for the arrival of the Antigua plane to complete the party for the drive to Pirate’s Cave.

  One of the young men hurried up to greet the Schipmakers and the Tibbetts, his apparently informal and relaxed manner cleverly disguising the fact that he was very much on duty, and was coping with official forms and passenger lists and immigration regulations in such a way as to make the whole procedure absolutely painless for the new arrivals. This done, he turned to Otis Schipmaker and said, “Mr. Tibbett? The official car is waiting outside. If you and Mrs. Tibbett. . .”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy.” Henry could not decide whether Schipmaker w?as merely amused, or whether there was a hint of annoyance. In any case, there was a new respect in his voice as he said to Henry, “You must forgive me, Mr. Tibbett. I didn’t realize you were here officially for the conference.”

  “I’m not,” said Henry quickly. “This car business is quite unnecessary, but Sir Edward Ironmonger insisted. We’ll see you at the hotel later on, I hope.”

  He shepherded Emmy out to the parking lot, where a sleek black limousine waited with the Tampican pennant fluttering from its hood and a uniformed black chauffeur holding the door open. Meanwhile, with a lot of speculative and some envious looks, the mere millionaires were ushered into the minibus for the short drive to Pirate’s Cave.

  It was the same story at the hotel. The manager himself, a dapper New Englander, hurried to greet Henry and Emmy, and to escort them to their cottage, where a big bowl of purple and yellow hibiscus and sweet-scented frangipani stood on the table, flanked by a bottle of excellent champagne in an ice bucket. Feeling a little overwhelmed, Henry and Emmy set about unpacking and exploring.

  Each cottage consisted of two adjoining apartments, surrounded by lawns and shaded by exotically flowering tropical trees. Both large bedrooms gave onto adjoining verandahs, whence paths meandered down to a bank of scrublike trees. Between them, the Tibbetts caught tantalizing glimpses of sand and sea. Quickly, they changed into their newly-bought swimsuits and ran down to the beach.

  They emerged from the shade of the trees into a brilliant world of sun, sand and water. The sea was fresh and sparkling, cool but by no means cold, and crystal clear as a tropical fish tank. Little Swordfish sailing dinghies with blue-and-white striped sails scudded over the reef-protected water, responding to the steady, refreshing breeze. Near the reef, many bright orange breathing tubes showed the presence of a school of snorkelers, as they cruised above the coral, entranced in their submarine world of brilliantly colored fish. Occasionally, their black rubber flippers and variously-garbed posteriors would break the surface as they swam, giving the impression of a b
izarre herd of porpoises. Henry and Emmy watched them enviously, and decided to borrow masks and flippers and try the sport for themselves the next day.

  For the moment, they enjoyed a swim and a lazy bask in the sun, until suddenly it was five o’clock; the sun sank with tropical swiftness, and they joined the general exodus from the beach and made their way back toward their cottage.

  Approaching from the seaward side, they were able to get a good view of the neighboring verandah, and to see that the next-door suite was a mirror image of their own. A light glowed outside the cottage, and in the rapidly deepening twilight they could see that a woman was sitting on the other verandah. She wore some sort of white flowing caftan, and had her feet up on a chaise-longue, and a drink at her elbow. As the Tibbetts approached, she stood up and switched on the outside light of the cottage, illuminating both her verandah and the path. She said, “Hi. Y’all must be our new neighbors. Come on over and have a drink.” Her voice had an attractive southern drawl.

  A few minutes later, Henry and Emmy were sitting on canvas chairs on the next-door patio, watching the golden Chinese lanterns in the gardens come on one by one, transforming Pirate’s Cave into a pantomime fairyland (and also enabling the cottage dwellers to find their way to the dining room with some degree of certainty). Their hostess busied herself with the mixing of drinks, chattering away the while.

  “I’m Magnolia Belmont. No sense in being neighbors if you can’t be friends. So you’re Henry and Emmy—that’s what I call good, old-fashioned, no-nonsense names. And from England . . . well, y’all have certainly come a long ways. Y’all on vacation?”

  “Yes, we are,” said Henry.

  “Sure are fortunate,” remarked Magnolia. “Here, taste that for size.” She handed out brimming tumblers of rum punch.

  “Delicious, thank you,” said Emmy. “Does that mean that you’re not on holi—on vacation?”

  “Well, George isn’t. That’s my husband. He’s here for the naval base conference. Senator George Belmont, y’all surely have heard of him. My, but they’re sitting late this evening. I just hope it means my poor Georgie will be able to have an easy ole time of it in the morning. He sure needs a little sun and sea while he’s here.” Magnolia rejoined the Tibbetts, carrying her drink. “Y’all come here every year, I guess.”