Man on a Rope

by George Harmon Coxe

  With that he walked quickly through the room and out onto the veranda. From there he could see the Landrover—a somewhat bloated version of the American jeep—with its canvas top and buggy-whip antenna. Two Negro constables in blue uniforms and caps were already moving up the path and he noticed that one wore a corporal’s chevrons on his sleeve.

  This one touched-his cap. “You telephoned, sir?”

  “This way,” Barry said and took them into the house.

  He told what he thought he should as the corporal examined the body for signs of life, and then, when the other constable started through the house and the corporal went to the telephone to call headquarters, he moved as far away from the body as he could and sat down, feeling physically exhausted and emotionally spent.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEPUTY SUPERINTENDENT MARK KERBY was a thin, straight-standing man in his late thirties with a close-cropped mustache, thinning sandy hair, and a sprinkling of freckles on his forehead and nose. He was dressed in shorts, knee socks, and belted jacket complete with shoulder pips. His boots were polished, there was a swagger stick under his arm, and his voice was crisp and accented but not aggressive as he introduced himself and his assistant, a well-built, light-complected Negro in a neat tan suit. “Inspector Cantrell,” was the way Kerby said it, a rank, Barry knew, that was equivalent to sergeant.

  The doctor arrived by the time Barry had given Kerby a brief fill-in, and as he went about his duties, Kerby asked Barry and Louis Amanti to wait. Now he turned to Albert, who had been brought forth from the shack he occupied at the rear of the property and now stood patiently, his black face impassive, his big body clothed in faded trousers, a patched shirt, and slippers.

  “You’re Albert?” Kerby said. “You’ve been with Mr. Lambert a long time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, suppose we go into one of the other rooms and have a chat, Albert. Perhaps you can help us.” He nodded to Cantrell, who took a notebook from his pocket and followed his superior from the room.

  Barry went back and sat down. So did Amanti. The two uniformed constables had already departed in the Landrover. The two plainclothesmen who had arrived with Kerby stood by the desk and watched the doctor. A third man with a camera recorded the scene from various angles, and a fourth was busy at the desk with a fingerprint kit.

  During the next few minutes Barry paid little attention to what went on about him. He was aware that an ambulance arrived and he watched the body being removed. The doctor left after a word with Kerby, followed by the photographer. The fingerprint man kept busy, but all the time Barry was wondering what he was going to say and how much, if anything, he should tell about the deal between Lambert and Hudson. He saw Albert come out and stand near the hall, and now there was a huddle between Kerby, Cantrell, and the two plainclothesmen, with Kerby saying:

  “Ian Lambert—Boyd McBride—Mrs. Muriel Ransom. You can use my car.”

  The plainclothesmen departed and now Kerby was ready for Barry.

  “How did you happen to find him, Mr. Dawson?” he asked. “By that I mean, how did you happen to be here at all?”

  “He phoned me while I was having dinner with Miss Sanford—”

  “That’s the young lady that works for you?” he said to Amanti. “And what time was that?” he continued to Barry.

  “Sometime after eight thirty, I guess,” Barry said, and told what had happened.

  “And you found him dead when you came at nine thirty?”

  Barry hesitated, but not for long. He knew now that he was not going to speak of his first visit, not so much because he thought it would incriminate him but because he was ashamed to admit his panic and his foolhardy flight. It would be too hard to explain such actions under the circumstances and he decided to omit this part unless forced to do otherwise.

  “I didn’t come here at nine thirty.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was a shower that started about that time.”

  “So there was,” Kerby said. “How long would you say it lasted?”

  “Maybe ten minutes—more or less.”

  “You were at your hotel? And how long after the rain stopped did you start?”

  “When I was sure it had stopped. Not more than a few minutes.”

  “Then would you say you came here at ten minutes of ten, or before that?”

  “Maybe it was ten minutes of ten. I couldn’t say for sure.”.

  “I see.” Kerby glanced at Cantrell to see if he had his notebook out. He tapped his thigh lightly with the swagger stick and said: “Albert tells me there was bad feeling between you and Mr. Lambert. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you threatened him. You were about to attack him when Albert interfered.”

  Barry had sensed that this was coming and he understood that, however he tried to explain it, it would sound bad. He could feel the perspiration on his face now and when he reached for a cigarette his hands were damp. He took his time with his light and when he had it he stood up, a muscular but not bulky man of twenty-nine, with short brown hair, bleached at the edges by the sun, and dark-blue eyes that had a deep-set look because of the straight and prominent brows. His face was angular and too bony to be called handsome, but his jaw was well shaped and solidly made, set stubbornly now beneath the brooding eyes.

  “Yes,” he said finally, “I guess I threatened him. Not to kill him or—”

  “Exactly what did you say?”

  “I guess I said I’d knock his brains out,” he said, glancing at Albert and knowing he might as well tell the truth about this. “It’s an American expression,” he said lamely. “All it means is that you’re going to take a sock at someone.”

  “I see. And would you mind telling us why you should want to do this?”

  “We were in on a deal together. He had this claim up on the Ireng, and the equipment, and I—”

  “Pardon me,” Kerby said, interrupting. “But you’re a geologist, aren’t you? You worked in Surinam before you came here?”

  “For American Minerals. We were hoping to find manganese in commercial quantities. Before that I worked here.”

  “And you resigned your position and came here to prospect for diamonds?”

  The decision had by no means been that simple, but the motives behind the move were personal and somewhat painful, and Barry had no intention of going into them now.

  “I thought I’d take a crack at it,” he said.

  “Could you tell us the nature of this agreement?”

  “Lambert had the lease and the equipment—pumps and hose and the diving suit and an extra helmet for an Amerindian diver to help me. He furnished that part and I did the work and we were supposed to split the profits.”

  “And why should you threaten him?”

  “Because I found out when I finished that I’d been gypped.”

  “In what way?”

  Barry took a breath and sat down on the arm of the chair. “I’ll tell you,” he said morosely. “I’ll keep it simple. The agreement I read said we were to split the profits after payment of supplies—food, canned goods, things like that. It was right over there at that table”—he pointed to the oblong table in the center of the room—“and when I started to sign Lambert’s pen was dry. He asked me to get another at the desk. While I was doing that and my back was turned, he switched agreements. I signed, thinking I knew what I signed, and he folded my copy and handed it to me and I stuck it in my wallet. I didn’t look at it again until I decided to call it off—because I found out I could make more money as a day laborer in the States than risking my neck in a jungle river. When it came time to settle up I found out I was stuck for all the supplies. I was so burned up when I realized how he’d tricked me that I probably would have taken a poke at him if it hadn’t been for Albert.”

  Kerby glanced at the lawyer, who had been quietly listening. “Did you draw up this agreement, Mr. Amanti?”

  “No, sir. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I u
nderstand this threat of yours was made two or three weeks ago,” Kerby said, turning back to Barry. “And yet, from what Albert tells me, you were up here all afternoon appraising diamonds for Lambert.”

  “Not for Lambert,” Barry said, certain now that the story must come out. “For Mr. Hudson. Arthur Hudson. He’s an American who’s staying at the hotel.”

  “Hmm,” said Kerby with some surprise. “That’s very interesting. I take it then that Lambert had a supply of diamonds and that he was to make some transaction with this Mr. Hudson after you had appraised the stones.”

  “I don’t know anything about any deal,” Barry said. “I was only hired to do the appraising.”

  “Lambert trusted you?”

  “I guess he had to.”

  “And what was the amount of your appraisal?”

  Barry gave Kerby a thin, humorless smile. “A hundred thousand in gem-stones. Ten thousand in industrials—pretty good industrials.”

  For the first time Kerby’s reaction was obvious. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly and his intent gaze was suddenly narrowed. Only his voice remained calm.

  “Well, that’s quite a neat packet, isn’t it?… And do you know what happened to these diamonds, Mr. Dawson?”

  “Lambert sealed them in an oilskin pouch. The last I saw of them he was locking them in that drawer safe.”

  Kerby spoke to his fingerprint man, asking if he had finished with the safe; then he stepped to the desk and tried the handle. It was instantly apparent that the safe was locked, and as Kerby straightened, Albert spoke up.

  “Mr. Lambert told me I should look here, sir,” he said, “in case anything happened to him and the safe had to be opened.”

  He was at the desk as he finished, and now he pulled the center drawer free, reversed it, and pointed to a series of numbers that had been penciled on the back panel.

  “Very ingenious,” Kerby said. “Thank you, Albert.”

  It took but a few seconds to manipulate the knob and open the safe. Then Kerby was peering inside, his frown again fixed. Finally he looked up and considered Barry.

  “No pouch here now.” He looked at Albert. “You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you, Albert?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you knew about the diamonds.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “These were polished gem-stones?” he asked of Barry. “Then I wonder who did the work.”

  “I did, sir,” Albert said quietly. “Mr. Lambert, he have me learn. From my brother, sir.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Kerby, who seemed to guess what must have happened. “Your brother has worked for Clarke & Company for some years now, hasn’t he? Suppose you tell us the rest of it.”

  Barry, who had been wondering just how Lambert had managed to have the diamonds cut and polished, listened with interest as Albert explained how Lambert had bought the proper equipment four years ago and set up a shop in a corner of Albert’s shack, how the brother had come evening after evening until Albert became skilled enough to try his hand unaided.

  “It took more’n a year,” Albert said. “Even then I had to be careful and go slow. At first, that is.”

  “How long,” Kerby said, “had you worked on the collection Lambert had in that pouch?… Come, man!” he added when the Negro hesitated. “Speak up!”

  “A long time, sir. I couldn’t rightly say. I could only work in the evening.”

  Kerby did not like it; his expression showed it. Lambert had been accumulating diamonds over the years, apparently intent on eventually defrauding the government. In order to insure secrecy he had paid for the proper equipment and the training of his servant. That he had been successful in his scheme was now obvious.

  “Inspector.” Kerby looked at Cantrell. “See if you can get Mr. Hudson on the telephone. The Windsor Hotel. Tell him we’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

  He gave his thigh another rap with the swagger stick as Cantrell got busy, and now he gave his attention to Louis Amanti.

  “You were Lambert’s attorney, Mr. Amanti.”

  “I was.”

  “You knew about these diamonds?”

  “I knew he had some somewhere because he had them listed as part of his assets. I never saw them, nor did I know where he kept them.”

  “Did you know of this impending deal with Mr. Hudson?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “I understand Lambert was about to be married,” Kerby said. “That he intended to sail for England some time next week. You were helping him get his affairs in order? Were you working on anything particular at the moment?”

  “I was drawing his will.”

  “Is that what brought you here tonight?”

  Amanti shifted his weight and tugged at the points of his vest. Behind his glasses his dark eyes were obscure and his round, olive-skinned face was smooth and impassive.

  “I had made a first draft of the will,” he said. “Late this afternoon Mr. Lambert telephoned my office and asked me to stop by this evening. He didn’t say why and I didn’t ask.”

  “Yes, and was this a new will you were drawing?”

  “To the best of my knowledge it was the only will. I understood that there never had been a will.”

  “You were to be the executor?”

  “Co-executor with Barstead’s Bank.”

  “Under the circumstances—assuming you are right about there being no will—an administrator will have to be appointed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I expect you’ll petition the court to appoint you.”

  “That’s my intention.”

  “What were the chief provisions of the will?”

  “The estate, except for some minor bequests, was to be left to Mrs. Ransom, once she became Mrs. Lambert.”

  “Lambert had two children. Ian, and a married daughter in Barbados. Surely there must have been some mention—”

  “They were mentioned,” Amanti said. “The substance of the will—in the proper legal phrasing, of course—said that provision had already been made for the two children—”

  He broke off as steps sounded on the veranda, and a moment later the two plainclothesmen ushered two men and a woman into the living-room. Barry knew all of them, though not to the same extent, but in those first minutes he gave his attention to Muriel Ransom.

  She was not the same woman he had seen that afternoon. That woman had been gay and vital-looking, smartly clad and sure of her charms. This woman had the look of one who had been hurriedly summoned from bed, for the feet encased in the skimpy sandals were bare, the dress that clothed her full-blown body a simple cotton frock with little style. She wore no makeup and from beneath the edges of the scarf that tightly bound her hair some bobby pins were visible.

  The milk-white skin seemed grayish now, contrasting garishly with the dark eyes which had an upward angling slant at the corners and presented at times an almost Oriental look. They were tearstained now and wide open as they searched the room; the full, sensuous mouth which could so easily smile or pout was stiff with strain.

  “Where is he?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “What have you done with him?”

  “It seemed best to remove him, Mrs. Ransom,” Kerby said gently. “Please sit down.” He turned a chair toward her and stood beside it. “Please,” he said again. “Believe me, we would not have asked you here at this time if it had not been absolutely necessary.”

  “Who did it?” she said, her stare still sightless. “Shot, your man said. How could that be? I had dinner with him. Right here. I didn’t leave until eight thirty…. Who?” she said again.

  “That’s what we hope to find out,” Kerby said. “We want you to help us.”

  He had her by the arm now, and suddenly all resistance went out of her. Her body seemed to sag within and she stumbled slightly as she let Kerby guide her to the chair. She sat down heavily, shoulders slumping and a dry sob tearing at her throat.


  Kerby cleared his throat and stepped back, his face pink and his eyes concerned until he began to consider the two men who had accompanied Muriel. He waved them toward the empty chairs. He said they could sit down if they liked. In those next seconds while he put his thoughts in order, Barry recalled what he knew about Ian Lambert, Colin Lambert’s son, and Boyd McBride, who had been a rather constant companion of Muriel Ransom after the death of her husband until Colin Lambert came out of the back country and discovered her.

  Now, as Kerby began to explain what had happened, Barry gave his attention to Ian Lambert. He was a stocky, powerfully built man of perhaps twenty-seven, with a stolid look, heavy brows, and a truculent manner. The heritage from his Indian mother—the only Indian woman in Lambert’s life he had ever acknowledged, and that a long time ago—was apparent in the thick black hair, the black eyes, the smooth, swart skin. Like his father, he had spent most of his life in the country, and it was generally understood that there was little love lost between them.

  Boyd McBride, who now sat next to Ian, was as near his physical opposite as a man could get. A Canadian, so he said, he had come originally to British Guiana to work for the Aluminium Company as a pilot. More recently he had branched out on his own, acquiring an old twin-engined amphibian which he used for charters, and making a twice-weekly run in a company-owned DC-3 for the cattle syndicate Lambert had once owned. The “meat run” was what McBride called it, since its sole purpose was to fly fresh-killed beef from the savannas to the cold-storage plant at Georgetown. Blond, blue-eyed, and a couple of years older than Barry, he was a bronzed, good-looking man who stood a good six-feet-two and weighed two hundred pounds, most of it muscle. Just why he should be here now Barry did not know, and so he gave his attention to Kerby once more and saw that he was still talking to Ian Lambert.

  “Mr. Amanti was telling me about the will your father was having drawn before his marriage. You knew about this?”

  “I knew.”

  “According to this will, your father had made some provision for you and your sister. What was the nature of these provisions?”