by Cave, Hugh
"Dad, he uses dope. That makes people stupid."
Mr. Devon glanced back at the crowd on the post office veranda. Then he turned toward the police station and said, "I think we'd better . . ." But after taking a step in that direction, he stopped again. "No. Let's go home and do some thinking first, son. This is one of those times when the harder you push, the more likely you are to break something. For the moment, perhaps we should go easy."
At the house, Peter went looking for Zackie and again found him in the kitchen, talking to Miss Lorrie. Peter told them what had happened, being careful to repeat all he could remember of the scraps of talk on the post office veranda.
Miss Lorrie looked worried. "Me nuh like this," she said. "It was Mr. Lee who found the handkerchief, you say?"
"That's what the woman said."
"It look bad. Real bad." She turned to Zackie. "You suppose you father dropped that stolen handkerchief on purpose, to get you in trouble?"
"Maybe he just dropped it."
"Well, maybe. But him mad about the pig, and because you is living here now 'stead of looking after him like before."
"What do you think will happen now, Miss Lorrie?" Peter asked.
"Well, me think we likely to have a visit from Corporal Buckley. That is what me think."
An hour later, the tall man in charge of the constabulary station came striding down the Kilmarnie driveway.
It was Mr. Devon who answered his knock on the door. In the doorway, Peter's father said very calmly, "Hello, Corporal. Trouble again?"
Buckley was equally calm. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Devon. May I come in?"
"Of course."
The corporal entered but remained standing until Mr. Devon motioned him to a chair by the fireplace and said, "Sit down, won't you?" Mr. Devon sat facing him. Peter was at the table. The corporal nodded to him.
"What seems to be the trouble, Corporal?" Mr. Devon said. It was like a game, Peter thought. The two men liked each other, but each was doing something the other did not wholly approve of. Corporal Buckley was determined to catch a thief, even if the culprit was Zackie Leonard. Mr. Devon, though not at all convinced that Zackie was innocent, was nevertheless trying to protect him.
Now Corporal Buckley took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. "Mr. Devon, I've come about this."
Mr. Devon took the handkerchief. "What about it, please?"
"This letter P on it. The article belongs to your son, doesn't it? Our country people don't own handkerchiefs with initials on them, Mr. Devon."
"May I ask where this was found, Corporal?" Mr. Devon said quietly.
"In a house owned by Mr. Lee, who owns what our people call the 'Chinaman's shop' in the village."
"I see."
"The same shop Zackie Leonard tried to steal from, Mr. Devon."
Again Mr. Devon said, "I see," and nodded. "You're not accusing my son of being the thief, then?"
"Not your son, Mr. Devon. Zackie."
"But this is Peter's handkerchief, as you suspect."
"Your son lent it to Zackie, I suppose. Or Zackie stole the handkerchief, too."
Both men had been speaking quietly, as if discussing something of no great importance. Now Mr. Devon said in the same casual tone, "What was taken from the shopkeeper's home, Corporal?"
Buckley's voice changed a little, Peter thought. It took on an edge. "Money, mostly. More than sixty dollars. A radio. Some liquor."
"Zackie Leonard doesn't use liquor. I'm sure he doesn't."
"He could have stolen it to sell, Mr. Devon."
"To sell, yes. Well, all right. What do you propose to do now?"
"It is my duty to take him to the station and question him." There was a small silence, and then Buckley added, "Mr. Devon, I think you know I like the boy. But I'm in charge of the constabulary here, and I've got to find out who is doing this stealing. Otherwise you may soon find someone else running the Rainy Ridge station."
Mr. Devon slowly nodded. "I understand, Corporal. Myself, I think the boy's father, not the boy himself, is probably the one who took the handkerchief from here. We foolishly left the front door unlocked the night of the big rain, and I believe Merrick Leonard chose that night to come prowling, expecting us to be off guard."
"But why would a grown man steal a handkerchief, Mr. Devon?"
"In this case, to punish his son."
"Because of the pig, you mean?"
"And for neglecting him. I imagine that's the way he would think of it. Until the pig incident and its aftermath, the boy had been dutifully giving his father money for food and liquor and ganja, looking after him as if he were the parent and Mr. Leonard the child. When the handouts stopped, the man became angry, blaming Peter and me, as well as Zackie."
The policeman nodded. "But I still have to question the boy, Mr. Devon. Where is he, please?"
Mr. Devon looked at Peter, who had been listening to every word. "Do you know where Zackie is, Peter?" "No, Dad."
"I'll just have a look downstairs, then," Buckley said, and went into the hall, where the stairs led down to the kitchen.
Peter rose from his chair by the fireplace, but fright kept him standing there for a moment. Then, with a glance at his father, he, too, walked into the hall. But he stopped at the top of the stairs to listen. Voices came up to him from below.
"Me nuh know, Corpie." That was Miss Lorrie's voice. "Him was here awhile ago, but him gone now."
"Gone where?"
"Me can't even guess. Down to Mango Gap, maybe, to look for him worthless daddy. Or to the coffee works or Rainy Ridge or—how you expect me to know what that boy goin' do, for heaven's sake?"
"Miss Lorrie, I hope you're not hiding him from me."
"No, me not hiding him, Corpie. Look for youself, if you likes."
Peter heard the yard door close as Corporal Buckley departed. Then he went downstairs and found Miss Lorrie leaning against the kitchen counter, looking a little scared.
"Is Zackie really gone, Miss Lorrie?" he asked.
She nodded. "When him hear Corpie talking to you daddy, him did grab some food from the fridge and run. Him know them think him is the tief, Peter. Him never even take the dog."
"You mean Mongoose didn't follow him?"
"Uh-uh. When me see Corporal Buckley coming down the driveway, me did shut the animal up in the storeroom so him wouldn't bark. You want to let him out?"
Peter nodded. "But where will Zackie go?"
"Who can say?" She took a big breath and exhaled a noisy sigh. "There must be a million places a boy like that can hide, knowing the bush like him do. And the police won't find him, either. But . . ."
"But what, Miss Lorrie?"
"It was wrong of him to run, Peter." She shook her head and sighed again. "Likely this will convince everyone him is the one doing all this tiefing."
Peter thought about that as he went to let Zackie's dog out. Was she right? She probably was, he thought sadly. Should he try to find Zackie and persuade him to come back?
He couldn't make such a decision by himself, he decided. He would have to talk to his father. Still thinking about it, he opened the storeroom door and was almost knocked down by a small brown-and-black missile that shot out between his feet.
Zackie's dog didn't even look to see who had let him out. Racing into the kitchen, he went streaking around in search of Zackie. Frustrated there, he shot out to the flower beds in the yard, then up to the garage. Only when certain Zackie was nowhere in the yard did he slow down and come back to the house.
Peter was standing at the kitchen door by then. The dog sat down a few feet from him and looked up, with both ears drooping. Then slowly the ears rose again and Mongoose came forward. Rubbing himself against Peter's right leg, he voiced a single soft bark.
TWELVE
During the next four days Peter spent most of his time searching for his friend. With Mongoose trotting along at his side, he walked every track on the plantation, looked in every fertilizer shed, visited
the two nearby villages of Mango Gap and Rainy Ridge, and even spent part of a morning at the coffee works.
There were many places at the coffee works where Zackie might hide. There was the cooper's shed, where the barrels were made—the co-op never shipped its Blue Mountain coffee in bags, the way less expensive coffee was shipped. Then there was a big room where the red cherries, after being picked from the trees, were run through machines called pulpers that pressed the beans out of them. While watching the pulpers in action, Peter found it hard to believe that when coffee was first discovered, people ate the pulp because it gave them a lift, but didn't experiment with the beans until years later.
And there were other places on the co-op compound where Peter looked for Zackie. One was the big room where the coffee beans were washed. Another was the room where they were dried electrically. Still another was a long hall where women sat at long tables and picked out the broken or discolored beans before any were shipped. Not that he expected to find Zackie hiding under a table. He only hoped one of the workers might say something like, "If you looking for Zackie, Peter, me did see him"—and tell him where. Or perhaps he was hoping that Zackie, if he was anywhere around, would see Mongoose and be unable to resist calling out. Or that Mongoose would smell him or sense his presence and go racing to him.
But nothing like that happened. Not in the coffee fields, not in the villages, not at the coffee works.
Corporal Buckley, too, was searching for Zackie. On two occasions Peter saw him on the Kilmarnie property, once far up on the main track near Zackie's secret garden, and once on the river bridge where Mark had drowned. It saddened Peter to see the policeman looking for his friend in a place that was just about sacred to Mark's memory.
And now, on the evening of the fourth day following Zackie's flight, Peter sat with his father on their veranda, watching the sun go down and wondering where Zackie could be.
"We have to find him," Mr. Devon said. "And if he's not guilty, we somehow must persuade him to come back. Miss Lorrie was right, you know, Peter. Every day the boy stays away makes it that much harder for anyone to believe he is innocent."
"You still think he may be guilty, don't you, Dad?"
"I suppose I do," Mr. Devon said reluctantly. "But in any case, we have to find out how big the problem is before we can decide what to do about it."
Peter blew out a noisy sigh of defeat. "Dad, I've looked just about everywhere I can think of."
"So have Miss Lorrie and Mr. Campbell. So he must be moving around, trying not to stay in any one place too long. Or perhaps he has left the district altogether."
"Where would he go?"
"To join his mother in Kingston, maybe?"
Peter thought about it while watching the last crimson rays of the sun disappear from the sky and the evening shadows begin to creep down the river valley. "He wouldn't have gone to Kingston without finding some way to let me know, Dad."
"He's in trouble, Peter."
"But if he's innocent, it isn't fair!" Peter protested loudly. "Why don't they question his father?"
"They have. Corporal Buckley told me so this morning. They've had him at the station twice, talking to him. But even when he's drunk or on ganja, that man is resourceful."
"I'll look again tomorrow, Dad."
"Where?"
"Well, the way I see it, he's more likely to be somewhere up there in the high bush. Not in Kingston."
"Should I go with you, do you think? There's that meeting of coffee growers at the co-op that I'm supposed to attend, but I can skip it."
Peter shook his head. "I can handle it. And I'm going back up to the garden. Something happened up there today."
"Something happened? What do you mean?"
Peter pushed himself out of his chair and stood with his back against the veranda railing, facing Mr. Devon. "Maybe it was nothing. I don't know. When we went into the hut there, I didn't see anything to tell me Zackie had been around, but Mongoose acted a little weird. I mean, we'd been there twice before and all he did was sniff. But this time he ran around like crazy, making those little cat sounds he makes. I think he might have been trying to tell me Zackie had been in the hut since we were there last. So what I'll do tomorrow—"
Hearing the sound of a car's engine in the driveway, Peter stopped talking and turned his head. It wasn't a car; it was the police Land-Rover. Another visit from Corporal Buckley, he thought.
It was indeed the tall man from the Rainy Ridge station. After sliding out from behind the wheel, he walked around the vehicle to help a passenger step down. The passenger was a woman.
She clung to the policeman's arm as the two of them came to the foot of the veranda steps. In the deepening dusk the white dress she wore showed how slim she was. She wore white shoes, too, and a little piece of what looked like white lace on her head.
The diesel generator by the garage began throbbing then. Miss Lorrie must have switched on the remote control in the kitchen, either because the kitchen was getting dark or because she had heard the Land-Rover arrive. When Peter turned on the veranda light, he saw the woman more clearly as she stood looking up at him.
Mr. Devon had risen from his chair and now joined Peter at the top of the steps. "Good evening, Corporal," he said.
"Mr. Devon, I've brought a friend." Buckley stepped forward, still holding the woman's arm. "This is Zackie Leonard's mother, Elaine Grant."
"I thought it might be. Please come up, both of you."
Zackie's mother was frightened, Peter saw. Or shy. Before putting a foot on the steps, she turned her head to look questioningly at the corporal, and only when he urged her forward did she move. They came up together.
Mr. Devon held out his hand to the woman and said, "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Grant."
"She came in by bus a little while ago," the corporal said. "Seems she had a letter from her son."
"Peter told me about it."
"Being a bit shy about coming to your house on her own—never having met you, that is—she called at the station first. As I mentioned before, I knew her when we both lived in Seaforth. Someone in Kingston had told her I was at Rainy Ridge now."
Mr. Devon turned to the big double doors, which were still open but would be closed now that darkness was falling and the air had a nip in it. "Shall we go inside?" He smiled at Elaine Grant as she passed him, and Peter could see he was pleased that Zackie had a mother like her. Then Dad led the way to chairs by the fireplace, and while the corporal and Miss Grant were seating themselves, he lit the fire he had laid earlier. At that moment Miss Lorrie came up from the kitchen.
The corporal introduced Miss Grant to Miss Lorrie. Then Mr. Devon asked Miss Lorrie to sit and join in the talk. "Dinner can wait, can't it?" he suggested with a smile. "And if there's enough when we do have it, which I'm sure there will be, why don't we all share it?"
Miss Grant smiled.
When he had the fire going well, Dad sat down and looked at Peter. "Suppose you bring Zackie's mother up-to-date on what's been happening, son."
"Trying to find Zackie, you mean?" Peter said.
"That, yes, but how you and he became friends, too." He turned to Miss Grant. "I'm sure Corporal Buckley has already told you about Zackie's running away."
She nodded, looking as if she might start to cry.
"Don't worry," Dad said. "If he is not the one doing the stealing, we'll find a way to prove it somehow. Won't we, Corporal?"
"I'm sure we will."
"And if you are planning to stay here, Miss Grant, our Miss Lorrie has already said she wants you to live with her until you find a place of your own. You have come to stay, I hope."
"If I can, sir," Zackie's mother said in a low voice that to Peter sounded something like a prayer.
"There will be some problems, I'm sure," Mr. Devon went on. "Have you told her about Merrick Leonard, Corporal?"
"Yes, Mr. Devon, I have." The tall man reached out to touch Miss Grant's hand, and it was obvious he still liked
her, even though they hadn't seen each other in a long time.
"So, Peter?" Mr. Devon said. "Begin with the pig, why don't you?"
Peter found it hard at first, but it became easier as he went along. When he finished, Miss Lorrie said she had better go downstairs and see about dinner, and Miss Grant said, "Let me come with you, Lorrie. I'd like to help." So the two women went down to the kitchen, and Peter just listened while Mr. Devon and Corporal Buckley talked.
"What puzzles me," the corporal said, "is where Merrick Leonard is hiding the money he's stealing—if he is the one stealing it."
"Hiding it?" Dad said. "More likely he's spending it on rum and ganja."
"But more than a hundred dollars has been taken, when you add up all the break-ins."
"Isn't the ganja habit pretty expensive?"
"Maybe in the States, but not here. A lot of the stuff is grown in these mountains, I'm sorry to say. We try to stamp it out, but it's hard to detect, even with helicopters." The corporal frowned. "No, I don't think the boy's father has spent any hundred dollars on rum and ganja, Mr. Devon. Yet I've searched that shack where he lives, and must admit I haven't found any money or anything else that's been stolen."
Peter thought of the money box in Zackie's garden shed. "Maybe he hides it in the bush somewhere," he suggested. "Even in his yard somewhere. The time I was there, the yard was all overgrown with weeds."
Corporal Buckley looked thoughtful and said, "Maybe you're right."
There was a brief silence, and then Mr. Devon said, "What kind of work did Leonard do before he got into bad habits, Corporal? He must have been a pretty decent fellow when Miss Grant—" He stopped, and a touch of red came into his face.
"When Elaine chose him over me?" the corporal finished with a smile. "Is that what you were going to say?"
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Mr. Devon. That's exactly what happened. I wasn't a policeman then, just a young fellow who didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. Merrick Leonard was older and more settled, with a good job on a Seaforth sugar estate."
"Which he lost when he began drinking, I suppose."
"Yes. And then it was all downhill for him. The rum led to the ganja. He and Elaine broke up. She left the child with her mother and went to Kingston to look for work, as I think you know. When the mother died, Leonard took the boy and came up here."