With Intent to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I think it could be blood, Mr. Sanford,” Larkin said, very somber now and speaking as though there had been no delay in his reply.

  He said other things in soft tones to the technical man but Sanford was no longer listening. Lingering traces of shock over the tragic death of Police Constable Pierce may have turned his thoughts inward because somehow the inspector’s assumption added little to the tension he already felt. He was still watching, bewildered and trance-like when he realized Larkin was eyeing him narrowly now as the assistant carefully worked on the stain with a knife blade.

  “I asked you,” Larkin said, “if you knew anything about this stain?”

  “No,” Sanford said, concentrating now. “Never saw it before. I swabbed down here yesterday morning and it wasn’t there then.”

  “And you came back when?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. With Williamson.”

  “You did not notice it then?”

  “No. If I had I’d have wondered about it.”

  “You went from here to the hotel with Williamson. What time was that?”

  “Somewhere around seven I’d say.”

  “And you came back about eleven twenty—”

  “And when I did,” Sanford said, interrupting, “I found the lock on the door had been forced.”

  Larkin moved at once to make his own inspection of the lock and when he came back he nodded and said: “Yes.”

  “And I can’t tell you whether the stain was there or not,” Sanford said, “because I only had the light on long enough to be sure no one was here.”

  The technical man had finished with the stain and was now examining the companionway ladder. He had a magnifying glass in his hand and the sight of it reminded Sanford of a caricature he had once seen as a boy that depicted Sherlock Holmes with his deerstalker cap and a similar magnifying glass. When the man moved on into the cockpit, Larkin continued.

  “You say there was an agreement with Pierce to keep an eye on the boat. Do you think he would ordinarily come aboard?”

  “I doubt it. I imagine he’d flick his flashlight on to see if things looked all right.”

  “And if the lock was broken and he noticed it—”

  “Oh,” said Sanford. “Yeah. If he noticed the lock he might have stepped aboard to have a look around.”

  “Exactly. And if someone was waiting, someone who did not belong here—”

  “It would take a pretty husky guy to lug him from here to that junkyard,” Sanford said, but before he could add to the thought the man in the cockpit interrupted.

  “Inspector. Will you take a look at this, please?”

  Larkin joined his associate. Sanford could hear them discussing something in low tones and when they reappeared Larkin said: “We’d like to make a further examination of the interior if you have no objection.”

  “I have no objection,” Sanford said, “but if you think I had anything to do with what happened to Pierce you’re out of your mind. This just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I agree,” Larkin said as his assistant moved up to the sliding doorway and entered the small forward cabin. “This stain may not be blood. There is a similar stain on the cockpit rail but I think we have enough for the government pathologist to run his tests. He can tell us whether it’s blood, and if so whether it’s human blood, and what type.”

  Again he was summoned by the technical man and after he had stepped into the doorway he beckoned to Sanford.

  Once beyond the narrow opening they had to duck a little since the forward cabin did not have full headroom. The two bunks, angling with the sides of the boat, made an inverted V when seen from the doorway, and as Sanford glanced in the technical man lifted the edge of a mattress from one berth to reveal a handkerchief someone had tucked there.

  “All right, Harold,” Larkin said. “Let’s see it.”

  With no further capacity for astonishment, Sanford watched the inspector hold up the handkerchief and try to shake it out. In this he was not altogether successful because it had once been wet and had dried in creases. From where Sanford stood it looked like an ordinary machine-made, man’s handkerchief with neither initials nor visible laundry marks. A good third of it was stained with dark irregular patches and the color of those stains left little room for doubt as to what had made them.

  “Not yours, Mr. Sanford?” Larkin said. “May I see the one you’re carrying?” he asked when Sanford stood there dumbly shaking his head.

  Larkin examined the clean one Sanford produced. “Do you have others aboard?”

  “I think so.”

  Sanford backed away and opened a small drawer above one berth. There were four clean handkerchiefs there and he offered them to the inspector. “I’ve got more clothes in the back of my office than I have here,” he said. “If you want to take a look around you’re welcome.”

  Larkin seemed not to hear the remark but when he had looked at all the handkerchiefs and returned them he said: “Will you wait a minute, please? I’ll see if I can get in touch with the superintendent by car radio.”

  Sanford watched him go and then, mentally shaking himself, moved over to inspect himself in the mirror over the washbowl. He put away his shaving things. He wet his hair and combed it. He kicked off his sandals and put on socks and loafers. He came out to the cockpit, secured the hatch, and closed the doors. When he remembered that the lock had been forced he made a mental note to find some means of repairing it before the day was out.

  Larkin was just turning away from the remaining police car as Sanford came ashore. He still had the microphone in one hand and as Sanford stopped beside him he said:

  “Superintendent Kirby would like you to accompany him to the houseboat. He’d like you to meet him at the police launch and wants to know what time.”

  Sanford thought it over but not for long. He was not hungry but he knew he had to do something about the gnawing emptiness inside him while he had the chance.

  “I’ll get some breakfast,” he said. “Tell the superintendent I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

  12

  His breakfast of fresh pineapple, toast, and three cups of coffee did little to lessen Barry Sanford’s lingering bewilderment, but he felt much better physically as he boarded the police launch at the appointed time and the helmsman backed into the river and pointed the bow downstream.

  It was an ancient and soundly constructed craft and very spic and span. It was not fast but it carried the flag, and it was sufficiently seaworthy to reach all of the outer cays when necessary. This morning it had a crew of two, and neither Superintendent Kirby nor Inspector Larkin, who were making the trip, had much to say. Kirby, neat and polished as always in his khaki shorts and jacket, made no reference to the murder or the findings that had been made aboard the Cay Queen. His usual affability was absent once he had offered a good morning and his thanks for Sanford’s willingness to make the trip to the houseboat.

  Tom Silva apparently had seen them coming, for he was on deck to take a line and help swing the launch alongside the boarding ladder. It was not until then that Kirby broke the conspiracy of silence that had existed between him and Inspector Larkin.

  “You were aboard here yesterday morning,” he said to Sanford. “You have met these people … Who are they, and what is their relationship with Hubbard?”

  Sanford told what he could and Kirby nodded. “I don’t suppose there’s one chance in a thousand that anyone here can help us but with a man like Hubbard you never know. If any of them was ashore last night—”

  “All of them were,” Sanford said.

  Kirby said: “Oh?” and his keen blue eyes opened wide: “How do you know?”

  “I saw them. They had dinner at the Ft. James.”

  Kirby bunched his lips a thoughtful moment before he turned and went up the ladder, and once on deck he spoke to Tom Silva.

  “You take the guests back and forth in the outboard, don’t you Tom?”

  “That’s right, sir.” />
  “What about last evening? I’d like it all. When they left, when they got back, the whole schedule.”

  “Yesterday afternoon, maybe three-thirty, I take Mr. Cushman and the two Mrs. Hubbards ashore,” Silva said. “Mr. Cushman and the blonde Mrs. Hubbard come back here about five-thirty. I guess the other one stayed ashore. Then maybe six-thirty I take the rest ashore and Mr. Hubbard tells me to wait by the hotel pier.”

  “And after that?”

  “Maybe nine-thirty, a quarter of ten, Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Cushman and the two Mrs. Hubbards come back here. But one Mrs. Hubbard, not the blonde one, says she has forgotten something and wants to go back to the hotel. Then maybe at quarter of eleven she and Mr. Janovic and Mr. Aldington leave the hotel for good. We come back here and they tell me I am through for the night.”

  As Kirby turned away Pete Janovic moved through the main doorway, his muscular thighs and thick shoulders straining the fabric of his shorts and half-sleeved jersey, his blond hair glistening in the sunlight.

  “Hi, Barry,” he said cheerfully. “You’re riding in style this morning, hunh?”

  Sanford said hello and introduced Kirby and Larkin. Janovic acknowledged the introduction and looked impressed. “If you want to see Mr. Hubbard he’s not down yet,” he said, “but come in anyway. There’s breakfast and coffee on the sideboard if you could use some.”

  Howard Aldington, immaculate as always in eggshell slacks and a blue polo shirt, was sitting on one of the divans reading what was apparently a two or three-day-old copy of The Wall Street Journal. Beyond, on the left in the dining-room, Sanford could see Laura Maynard and Fred Cushman standing at the sideboard and now Laura put aside her cup and saucer and started forward, followed by Cushman. She was wearing navy shorts and a beige blouse, long legs bare, and Sanford was again impressed with her lithe and splendid figure. She looked at him, the green eyes questioning as he completed his introductions and Aldington said:

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and see if Blanche can come down, Laura? Tell her to tell King that there are two gentlemen from the police department who would like to speak to him.”

  As she started for the stairs, Cushman, his amber eyes sober but questioning, took over the duties of the host. He invited them to sit down and asked if he could get them coffee. Kirby and Larkin declined and now Aldington took his conversational cut.

  “I’m one of Mr. Hubbard’s attorneys,” he said. “I take it that this is some sort of official call so if you’ll just state your business perhaps I can save Mr. Hubbard the trouble.”

  Kirby started to answer and then turned as Laura Maynard came down the stairs. “Blanche will be down in a minute,” she said. “She’ll speak to King.”

  Kirby, who apparently had not cared for Aldington’s last remark, now answered it, his tone proper but stiff.

  “This call is official, Mr. Aldington. We are investigating the murder of one of our police constables whose body was found this morning near Mr. Sanford’s ketch.”

  Aldington peered at him. “You must be joking,” he said. “I don’t mean about the constable. Naturally we’re sorry to hear about his death but I find your assumption that we might know anything about it—”

  Kirby cut him off. “There is no assumption involved. In Constable Pierce’s nightly rounds he stops at the hotel and covers the nearby streets and the hotel pier and one side of the riverfront.” He digressed to give a brief but accurate description of the dead constable and said: “I understand all you people were ashore last night. You were all on the street or on the pier at one time or another. We’re trying to trace the constable’s movements. It occurred to us that one of you might have seen him. If so we’d like to know where and when …”

  He might have continued if Blanche Hubbard had not interrupted. She had come halfway down the stairs, in pajamas and robe now, the blonde hair piled high. Without makeup the white puffiness of her face was apparent even from a distance and the blue eyes seemed wide open and a little sick.

  “King’s not in his room,” she said. “His bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  Kirby was the first to move, striding quickly to the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m Superintendent Kirby, Mrs. Hubbard,” he said. “May I come up, please, and take a look at your husband’s room?”

  He was already moving as he spoke and when the woman turned and started back upstairs he was right behind her. Howard Aldington also was moving in the same direction and now Kirby stopped and spoke to Inspector Larkin, telling him to check with the servants and see what they had to say.

  Sanford looked at Laura but her attention was still centered on the stairs. No one said anything for the next several seconds. Because he hoped to get a chance to talk to her alone he spoke to her.

  “Maybe I’ll change my mind about that cup of coffee, Laura. How do I get it?”

  “In here,” she said and started for the dining-room. He went along with her but before he could say anything he was aware that Cushman and Janovic, as though of the same mind, were behind him. He accepted the cup of coffee and Janovic poured one for himself. Cushman, a look of puzzlement clouding his eyes behind the brown-rimmed spectacles, seemed occupied with his own thoughts. There was another moment when Laura Maynard’s gaze met Sanford’s and he thought the green eyes seemed soft and solicitous and somehow unduly concerned. Before he could think more about that look Janovic broke the silence.

  “What the hell could have happened to him?” he demanded. “He came back here with you and Blanche and Laura around a quarter of ten, didn’t he, Freddie?”

  “Yes,” Cushman said, not looking at anyone.

  “So what happened then?”

  “There was a plate of sandwiches here and I came in and got one before I went upstairs. King and Blanche had already gone up. So had Laura.” He glanced at the girl. “She said she was going back to the hotel in a few minutes and asked the boatman to wait … I went upstairs with my sandwich and went to bed,” he added.

  “Well,” Janovic said, “Laura did come back to the hotel and she and I and Aldington came here together later.”

  They turned toward the main room then as Blanche Hubbard came down the stairs, followed by Aldington and Superintendent Kirby. At the same time Inspector Larkin appeared in the hallway that led to the service quarters. They all met near the center of the room and Kirby took a moment to take a quick but observant look at everyone present.

  “What did you learn, Inspector?” he said to Larkin.

  “The two maids that come when there are guests here were taken ashore around five,” Larkin said. “The couple who are here permanently don’t know anything except that they got a call over the intercom from Mr. Hubbard sometime before ten telling them to turn off the outside deck lights. But there’s nothing unusual in that,” he added. “When anyone’s ready to go to bed the outside lights go out”

  “According to Mrs. Hubbard,” Kirby said as though talking to himself, “she said good night to her husband in the upstairs hall. They haven’t shared the same room for some time now. She went into her room and her husband went into his. His clothes were on a chair and she says they are the same ones he wore at the hotel last night.”

  He turned to Cushman to continue the questioning but Sanford was no longer listening to the information he had already heard. He watched the others covertly, one after the other, but their faces told him nothing and he could not get Laura to look at him. Finally, aware that the questioning was over, he heard Kirby say that the police would be in touch with them later and if any of them should remember any details that might seem important he should get in touch with Kirby’s office by radio telephone immediately.

  No one said anything as Sanford followed the two officers out on the deck and into the police launch. Tom Silva was there to help the deckhand with the lines. They eased away from the nearest sport fisherman and then, as the throttle was advanced, they swung wide toward the lighthouse and the river mouth.

  As on
the trip out, nothing was said. Kirby, apparently immersed in his thoughts, sat very still, his ruddy face impassive while Inspector Larkin remained respectfully silent. The deckhand stood forward on widespread feet until after they had passed the lighthouse on the starboard side. It was then that Sanford saw the circle of men just beyond the seawall on the same side of the river. The deckhand saw the group too and pointed, saying something to the helmsman. The remark seemed to rouse Kirby and now he came to his feet.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing over there, Inspector?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. Shall we have a look?”

  He turned to the helmsman to ask if there was enough water to pull alongside the wall. The helmsman said he thought so and swung the wheel as he cut the throttle.

  The deckhand put out a couple of fenders as the launch lost weigh, and as the distance narrowed he yelled at some of the onlookers to take a line. He had more help than he needed and now Kirby, using a grabrail on the cabin top, moved forward and stepped up on the wall, followed by Larkin.

  When Sanford got ashore the circle of onlookers had opened to admit the two policemen and all Sanford was able to see at the moment was a black and shiny object that had been stretched out on the ground. Knowing now that something was radically wrong, but refusing to speculate, he moved up and looked over the head of a Negro boy in a tattered jersey and ragged shorts. The babble of conversation which he had been hearing subsided with the arrival of Kirby and now he noticed the two other husky Negroes standing to one side in dripping shorts and glistening torsos. Then he knew what it was that was so black and shiny and still in the overhead sun.

  A man in a frogman’s suit was stretched out on his back, arms outflung. At that time Sanford did not see the slit in the rubber fabric at the chest; he only knew that someone had removed the faceplate and pushed the hood back; that the closed eyes and still features, blue-white now, belonged to King Hubbard.