No Mask for Murder

by Andrew Garve

  “Ah!” Garland’s tense body relaxed. “That was bad luck for you.”

  “These black fellows are very difficult to train,” said Jarvis, stroking his brown thigh.

  Garland nodded. “It’s the same in all departments. So actually the clues don’t amount to very much?”

  “No doubt something will turn up,” said Jarvis. “One of the things I wanted to see you about was this piece of paper. We found it under the body. It seems to be something to do with your department, though it’s a bit difficult to read because of the bloodstains.”

  Garland took the paper, inwardly cursing his carelessness. He wondered how many more things he’d overlooked—and he had believed he’d made a good job of the killing! He glanced at the typescript. “Yes,” he said, “it’s part of a report on the typhoid epidemic.” With an ironical expression he added, “One of our million or so documents.”

  Jarvis held out his hand for the paper. “I’d better keep it for the time being.” He looked at it again with a puzzled air and remarked, “It seems odd that Dubois should have been studying a thing like that at the Blue Pool.”

  “He was unusually conscientious,” said Garland.

  “I dare say,” conceded Jarvis, “but this is just a fragment, and there were no other papers on him. In any case, you’d think he’d have put it away when the other man arrived. You don’t suppose he might have been discussing it with the fellow?”

  “He might have been,” said Garland. “It’s not a secret document. But I don’t see that it could have had any bearing on the murder. There’s nothing controversial in it—nothing to argue or quarrel about.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Jarvis. “In any case, there were no indications of a quarrel. Again, we’ve only the waiter to rely on, but he seemed to think the two men were quite amicable.”

  “Perhaps they drank too much,” Garland suggested. “You know how quickly these stabbing quarrels flare up at Fiesta after a few rekis.”

  “They both appear to have been quite sober,” said Jarvis. “No, from the information we have it looks like a carefully planned murder, for some reason that we don’t know about. There seems to have been an appointment—the table was reserved by telephone in the name of Grainger. We’ve worked on that, but without result. I was wondering, Dr. Garland, if as Dubois’ superior you know anything about his affairs that might suggest anyone’s having a motive for killing him.”

  Garland appeared to consider, and then slowly shook his head. “He never talked to me about his private life.”

  “I’m thinking rather of his public life,” said Jarvis. “He doesn’t seem to have had a private life in the usual sense. No women that we can trace, at any rate. Most unusual. No, I wondered if you knew of anyone he’d got on bad terms with in connection with his work in the department, or outside it.”

  Again Garland shook his head. “Dubois had a finger in a lot of pies,” he observed, “and I should think he was almost certain to have made enemies. He was ambitious, you know, and he had rivals who might have been glad to get rid of him. Any number. But as far as I know, there was nothing specific. I’ve never heard of any quarrel or threats or anything like that. In the department, he was always most amenable and co-operative.”

  Jarvis got up. “Well, I suppose the only thing to do is to go on making inquiries. I’d better talk to some of the relatives; they may know more about his affairs.”

  “That’s possible,” Garland agreed. Then he remembered that “relatives” might include Johnson Johnson, and his face became sombre.

  “Anyhow,” said Jarvis, “I’m very grateful for your help, Dr. Garland. You must have a lot of things on your mind today.”

  Garland’s laugh sounded harsh in his own ears. “Yes,” he said, “I have.” He added tactfully, “But it’ll be a bad lookout when we white people can’t give each other a helping hand. Good day, Jarvis—and good luck!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mrs. Sylvester was giving her opinion of Fontego’s newspapers to a group of ladies gathered under the Garlands’ mango tree. “If you ask me,” she said, although no one had, “they are paying far too much attention to this murder. What else do they expect to happen at Fiesta? They should be campaigning against the thing itself.”

  Celeste was listening with an air of lively satisfaction. She had found the telephone, after all, too arid a medium for full enjoyment of the latest sensation. It would be much more fun, she had decided, to watch people’s faces during discussion of the murder. She had therefore invited for tea, besides Mrs. Sylvester, Maisie Andrews—the pretty fluffy wife of the Attorney General—Delia Smythe, a raven-haired divorceé who was at present married to a rich cocoa planter, and Susan Anstruther.

  Susan said, “But Dr. Dubois was one of the hopes of the Colony. He had brains. I can understand their making a fuss—it’s really quite a tragedy.”

  Delia Smythe made a sound that was like a snort. “I don’t see that it matters to us what these black men do to each other,” she said. “They’re always cutting one another up on the estate. Only last week a man called Willy something lost his temper over some trifle—I dare say the rice wasn’t cooked properly—and he chopped his wife’s hand off with a cutlass. Nobody seemed to mind. They patched things up—the relationship, I mean, not the hand—and he visited her in the hospital and held the other hand and she forgave him.”

  “Yes, but this case of Eke is different,” persisted Susan. “He wasn’t the sort of man to get involved in a violent quarrel, and you can hardly class him with the labourers on your estate. It looks as though this was a civilised murder—you know what I mean—with a proper motive and everything.”

  “Well, I agree with Delia,” said Mrs. Sylvester firmly. “Why should we bother? I don’t think we ought to concern ourselves with these people’s squabbles.”

  “They’re human,” said Susan.

  “Oh, darling, don’t exaggerate,” drawled Celeste.

  Susan smiled in spite of herself. It was impossible to talk seriously when Celeste was in a flippant mood.

  “Anyway,” Celeste proceeded, “it’s not the murder that’s interesting, but the people who saw it happen and didn’t say anything. Isn’t it a fascinating thought that there are two white people here among us in the Colony who actually watched a murder committed and perhaps even know who did it and yet daren’t open their mouths for fear of scandal?”

  “I’m not surprised they daren’t,” said Mrs. Sylvester. “I’ve heard that the Blue Pool during Fiesta is the absolute limit. People just don’t care what they do there.”

  Celeste looked interested. “Have you been talking to someone who’s been there, Marion? Do tell us what goes on.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Sylvester. “You know what a reputation the place has got as well as I do.”

  “It looked very dull to me, I must say,” remarked Susan.

  Four pairs of eyes swivelled toward her. “Susan!” cried Maisie Andrews. “You don’t mean to say you were there?”

  “I didn’t go inside,” said Susan. “It was too noisy and everyone seemed drunk.”

  The group relaxed. “Surely you weren’t alone, Susan,” said Mrs. Sylvester. “Even you couldn’t be so foolish as to wander around town without an escort on Fiesta night.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” said Susan calmly. “I was showing Dr. West some of the sights.”

  “That must have been very nice for you both,” said Celeste.

  “I wish I had your nerve,” sighed Maisie Andrews. “Bob would be livid if I even went near the place.”

  “It’s different for you, Maisie,” said Celeste. “The wife of the Attorney General, and all that. If you’d wanted to go you’d have had to dress up and pretend it wasn’t you at all—the way these people did, in fact.” Celeste’s eyes were wide and innocent. “Were you in costume, Susan?”

  Susan laughed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we weren’t even masked. You can’t pin anything on me.
”

  “We’ve only your word for it,” said Delia Smythe. “You admit you were near the place.”

  “That shows she has a clear conscience,” Maisie Andrews observed.

  “Oh, I’d trust Susan anywhere,” said Mrs. Sylvester. “It’s just the pioneering spirit with her. She’s the very best type of Empire-builder.”

  “Heaven forbid!” cried Susan.

  “When you come to think of it,” said Delia Smythe, “we’ve none of us any proof that we weren’t there. At least, I haven’t. What were you doing, Celeste?”

  “Wishing I had a boy friend to take me out,” said Celeste lightly. “Now if Dr. West had offered to take me to the Blue Pool I’d have gone like a shot.”

  “What a chance he missed,” smiled Susan.

  “Celeste’s all talk,” said Delia Smythe, who at least had a divorce to her credit.

  “You mean I’m discreet,” said Celeste.

  “You hope you are,” returned Delia.

  “At least I haven’t been found out,” said Celeste, enjoying herself.

  Delia shrugged. “It saves a lot of trouble once you are. Hiding things is a bore.”

  “I’m sure I could never keep a secret from Bob,” said Maisie Andrews.

  “He wouldn’t be much of an Attorney General if you could,” remarked Mrs. Sylvester.

  “What I mean,” floundered Maisie, “is that if I had been at the Blue Pool secretly with a man, and the police were looking for me afterwards, it would be so much on my mind that I should just have to blurt out the truth sooner or later.”

  The tyres of a car screeched as it turned into the concrete drive. “That will be Adrian,” said Celeste. “I wonder if he’s heard any news.”

  A moment later Garland approached. He knew all the women, and his informal greeting was a general acknowledgment.

  “Heavens, it’s hot,” he exclaimed, sinking into an empty chair. “I think the rains will be early this year.”

  “Never mind the rains, darling,” said Celeste, handing him a cup of tea. “Has the case been solved? That’s what we want to know. I’m sure you’ve done nothing but discuss it all day.”

  “I’ve seen Jarvis,” Garland admitted. “He doesn’t seem to have much information. My own guess is that the murderer will get away with it.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early to be so sure?” asked Celeste. “In this Colony someone always talks in the end. That reminds me, Maisie was just going to blurt out something as you came in.”

  “I wasn’t going to do anything of the kind,” cried Maisie indignantly. “All I said was that if I knew anything I should blurt it out. But I don’t.”

  Celeste laughed. “We’ve been having a lovely time, Adrian,” she said, “wondering which of us was at the Blue Pool in disguise last night. Any one of us might have been, you know. Or all of us. Don’t you think it’s a delicious thought?”

  “You’ve got a single-track mind,” said Garland good-humouredly. “You were saying the same thing when I left you this morning.”

  His eyes travelled round the circle. Celeste was right—it was a fantastic situation. Four women, and any one of them might be the secret witness who didn’t want to talk. Mrs. Sylvester was a bit plump, perhaps, but the others filled the bill all right. Any one of them might at this moment be putting on the act of a lifetime, knowing that he was the murderer. It was nonsense to pretend you could tell what people were thinking from their faces—particularly women. And so it would go on, for days and weeks, wherever he moved in white circles. As long as he remained in the Colony he would be wondering. Of course, the time might come when the woman would give herself away by a word or a look. It would be very tempting for her to drop a hint during a quiet tête-à-tête, no doubt. If ever that happened, an entirely new situation would arise. He would have to make up his mind, then, what to do. He wondered if any of these women had a white and purple beach wrap. He couldn’t very well ask, and there was no point in speculating—he had quite enough on his hands as it was.

  He put down his cup and got up. “I think if you’ll excuse me, Celeste, I’ll go and freshen up. I’m getting rather tired of talking about this murder. All I know is that it’s going to make things very difficult at the office. I shall be worn out before the end of the week.”

  “Poor darling,” said Celeste, “you’ll have to go fishing again. It always takes your mind off things.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Johnson Johnson was perched on the gunwale of Papeete’s dinghy, trying to get the outboard motor to start. He was stripped down to a pair of khaki shorts, but the sun was fierce and his back glistened with sweat between the shoulder blades. His face wore a look of profound concentration, intended to give the impression that he knew what he was doing. As he tinkered, he hummed a little tune of his own devising.

  He was feeling rather cheerful on this Saturday afternoon. On the whole it had been a most satisfactory week. He couldn’t remember a Fiesta that he had enjoyed so much. He had spent the whole of the two days in one calypso hut after another, building up his store of experience by listening to the experts. What was more, he had accepted an open challenge to a calypso “duel” by the “Black Jaguar” and had held his own in the ribald personal exchanges for nearly twenty minutes. He had tasted for the first time the honey of public applause. As a result of his success he had been interviewed by a representative of a popular illustrated sheet and had had his picture in the paper. It was true that no financial offer had come his way so far, but he was hopeful. His fellow residents in Paradise Heights had no longer any doubts that they had a talented composer in their midst, and were showing greater respect than ever. Even Delta, the pretty girl who had ignored him when she was washing her hair, had at last begun to smile on him. It was all most satisfactory.

  Then, apart from his professional success, there had been the stirring event of Eke’s unexpected demise. Who could have hoped for two family funerals so close together? And what a funeral Eke’s had been! Johnson had rubbed shoulders with quite a lot of notables and had got gloriously drunk. It had been too bad for Eke, of course, but he rather asked for it. All that self-righteous talk about working hard and making good, and then slipping off himself to watch the strip tease at the Blue Pool when he thought nobody was looking. A bit of a hypocrite, that’s what Eke had been.

  Johnson gazed thoughtfully at the carburettor jet and prodded it dangerously with a bit of wire. He didn’t really know much about engines, but Dr. Garland knew even less, so the outboard motor was always left to him. Perhaps that was why it never seemed to go very well. Actually, he was getting very fed up with working for Dr. Garland. The Doctor was pleasant enough, but there was always something he wanted doing. If it came to that, Johnson didn’t particularly want to work for anyone. Now that the interfering Eke was safely out of the way, he could try to find a job which could give him more leisure for composition.

  He blew through the jet and replaced it. When he pulled the starting cord the engine miraculously sprang into life. Johnson looked up at the cabin top of Papeete, where Garland was peacefully smoking in the shade of a sail, and his satisfied grin invited favourable comment.

  Garland watched Johnson slowly collect the tackle for the trip. They were going to try for mackerel a couple of miles off-shore. The surf was beating steadily at the mouth of the lagoon, but there was almost no wind, and from the cabin top the open sea looked calm and inviting.

  For him it had been a worrying week. Although things had seemed to be going all right, the possibility of an awkward development had been constantly in his mind. At the moment, he felt much better. For one thing, he had heard that Superintendent Jarvis had made no progress at all and had virtually dropped the case. Dubois’ death would soon be forgotten. For another, he now had Johnson under his eye. Happily, Jarvis hadn’t considered Johnson an important enough person to be talked to. Now it was too late; he’d missed his chance.

  After the carefully planned murder of Dubois, dealing with
Johnson was going to be comparatively simple. There would be a straightforward accident. No one would suspect for a moment that a man like Garland could have the slightest reason for killing a fellow like Johnson. And no one would care. Anyway, Johnson wasn’t like Dubois—he was a nobody. By to-morrow Garland’s affairs should be tidy and secure. The future seemed promising. Celeste had been noticeably more forthcoming during the past day or two—it must be the result of the promised trip to Honolulu. They ought to have a good time there; it could be perfect if Celeste decided to be nice. And there really wasn’t any reason why they shouldn’t continue to enjoy themselves. Once all the dangers were out of the way, he could announce his retirement and he and Celeste could make whatever plans they pleased. By to-morrow, the only cloud on the horizon would be the thought of the unknown woman at the Blue Pool—and that would disperse with time.

  He felt a sudden impatience to be finished with Johnson. Leaning across the cabin top he said, “Are you going to be long, Johnson? We ought to be starting.”

  “Jes’ ready, sah,” cried Johnson. He started the motor again and brought the dinghy alongside. Garland dropped down into it, looking carefully around to make sure that Johnson’s preparations had been thorough. It was important, just in case of inquiries, that everything should be precisely as it would have been for an innocent fishing expedition. Tackle, oars, bailing tin, spare petrol—yes, everything seemed to be in order. His eye dwelt on the soft plank amidships. The dinghy was really very old—hardly fit to take out in fact. That, of course, was the reason he had put in an order for a new one that very week!

  He settled himself comfortably in the bows. Johnson, seeing that his master was in an equable temper, was all smiles. A good-natured fellow, Johnson, thought Garland. Lazy, but willing. If he hadn’t babbled about things that didn’t concern him he’d have been all right.

  Garland suddenly felt he would like to make quite sure that Johnson had babbled. It would be a pity to take life unnecessarily. Besides, if it hadn’t been Johnson it must have been someone else, and it was important to get the right man. As soon as the little boat was safely through the line of surf and into open water Garland said, “Have you been sleeping in that mango tree lately, Johnson?”