Hilary And The Hurricane_a novelette

by Jack Treby

  I stifled a laugh. ‘Of course.’ So it was a magic chest too. ‘And the right time is 1938?’

  He nodded seriously. ‘On the date of the anniversary. A small flame will appear, hovering over the spot where the treasure is buried, just after sundown. Only when you see that can you dig and hope to find it.’

  ‘Right.’ Bizarrely, I was beginning to think that Mr Turton might actually believe what he was saying. He was either a complete imbecile or a very accomplished liar. ‘And yet you are willing to risk your inheritance on the vagaries of a few cards?’

  The man shrugged. ‘If I lose, I will have seven years to win it back.’

  That at least showed some sense. In the four weeks I had been playing poker with him, this was the first time I had come close to winning. If we carried on meeting like this, Turton was bound to recover the map at some point.

  Our host, Mr Woods, was looking at his wristwatch. We had agreed to wind things up by half past six. The fireworks were due to start at eight thirty and we all wanted to get home beforehand, for a quick change and a bite to eat. ‘Will you accept the stake?’ Turton asked.

  I chuckled to myself, eyeing the map on the table. ‘Mr Turton, that is without doubt the most ridiculous story I’ve heard in years. You may fool the tourists out on the cayes with that kind of patter, but I don’t believe a single word of it.’ His face fell. ‘However, it wouldn’t be sporting to end the game without giving you at least a chance of winning your money back.’ I reached forward and grabbed the map, rolling it up neatly and sticking it in the pot. ‘So I accept.’

  Turton was grinning from ear to ear. He raised his cards once again. ‘In that case, Mr Buxton, I will see you.’

  I took a deep and satisfying breath, and then placed my cards face up on the table. It was the theatrical flourish I had been waiting for. Mr Turton’s face crumpled to dust as he took in each of the four Kings. Whatever he had in his hand, he couldn’t match that. ‘Two pairs,’ he mumbled and slumped back into his chair.

  ‘Bad luck! Well, I think that’s everything,’ I crowed, reaching forward to gather up the last of my winnings. Lady Luck really was shining on me this afternoon. ‘Thank you, gentleman, a most enjoyable game.’

  The police station on the north side of the river was a large multi-storey affair squatting amiably a couple of hundred yards from the bridge. Sebastian Coulthard had directed me to the front desk and, once the seriousness of the situation was explained, I was quickly ushered into the office of Superintendent Sempill. Coulthard remained outside, to give his own statement to the desk sergeant.

  The superintendent greeted me with a quiet nod. He was a broad, muscular fellow with a crop of dark hair and a sober manner. It was a sign of the seriousness of the crime – and perhaps an acknowledgement of my status – that I was being dealt with by the top man. ‘Please take a seat,’ he told me, in a calm, authoritative voice. JH Sempill was the head of the British Honduras Police Force. He had the air of a man who had seen everything. He looked incapable of being ruffled; just what one hopes for in an officer of the law. His manners, too, were impeccable. ‘I hope you are none the worse for your ordeal,’ he said, as I settled myself in a light wooden chair opposite him. ‘May I get you a cup of tea?’

  A whisky would have been more to the point, but that was an unlikely proposition in a police station. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. I pulled out my cigarette case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Please do.’

  I offered him a stick but he declined it politely. I lit mine, took a quick drag, and then outlined the events in the alleyway, giving a brief description of my two assailants. A sergeant seated off to the left took notes. ‘I didn’t see them all that clearly, I’m afraid. The man with the knife had a rather unpleasant wart on his nose. Oh, and he may have been left handed.’ That thought had just occurred to me. ‘He held the knife in his left hand, anyway.’ I shuddered, remembering the way he had lunged at my face. Why was it, I wondered, that I kept coming into contact with such despicable people?

  The sergeant looked up from his notepad. ‘Doesn’t sound like any of the usual suspects, sir.’

  Sempill was inclined to agree.

  ‘You don’t think they were local men?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say for certain,’ the superintendent admitted. ‘We have a lot of young men in Belize right now who are at something of a loose end. Unemployment is high, because of the depression. There has been a spate of burglaries and petty thefts, but nothing of this magnitude.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘As a rule, this is a peaceful community, and I intend to keep it that way.’ There spoke a life long policeman. Sempill had come up through the ranks, by all accounts, starting out as a constable in Bermuda. ‘Whoever these people are, they will find themselves subjected to the full force of the law. Of course, it may be that they are visitors to Belize.’ The sergeant nodded his agreement. ‘There are a lot of tourists here at the moment, for the anniversary tomorrow. It would be easy enough for someone to slip in unseen. We’ll have to keep an eye on the docks.’

  ‘Someone off a boat.’ I nodded. That was a plausible proposition.

  ‘The man with the knife. You think there may have been more to this than robbery?’ Sempill asked.

  ‘I think there may have been. I had the impression he wanted to do me some serious harm.’

  The superintendent frowned again. ‘Do you have any enemies in British Honduras? Is there anyone that you might have offended?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Well, not in this country, anyway. I had a bit of a run in a few months back with some rather unpleasant people in Guatemala.’ A policeman, in point of fact, which I didn’t feel inclined to confess to the superintendent. The authorities in Guatemala were a world away from the dignified and conscientious fellows of the British Honduras Police Force. For all their native hue, these men had the reassuringly stolid character of the traditional British Bobby. ‘But they’re hardly likely to head all the way out here, just to get their own back on me. I doubt I’m that important to them.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we have to consider every possibility. How long have you been in Belize, Mr Buxton?’

  ‘Ooh, about two months now.’

  ‘And what is your line of business?’

  ‘I have no line of business. I’m a free agent.’

  Sempill’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are unemployed?’

  ‘No, not exactly. I have a private income. I’m a gentleman of leisure.’ That did not sit well with him, I could tell. As a God fearing man, the superintendent was unlikely to approve of idleness, whatever its form. But I was telling the truth, up to a point. I had applied for a position at the governor’s office, when I had first arrived in the colony, but I had been soundly rebuffed. The Colonial Secretary, a Mr Pilling, had been apologetic but firm. I had received good notices from London, he said, and a personal letter of recommendation from Freddie Reeves, the Second Secretary of the British legation in Guatemala City. But I had left the country in quite difficult circumstances and the head of the mission there had provided a scathing assessment of my abilities. It wouldn’t be politic, the secretary explained, to offer me anything just now, but if I were to come back in a year or two, once all the fuss had died down, he was sure to be able to find me something. I cannot pretend I was too disappointed. The good fellows of the Royal Canadian Bank had been kind enough to cash a rather large banker’s draft for me – the only good thing to have come out of my recent trials in Central America – and that would see me right for some time to come. ‘I’ve just been enjoying the peace and quiet. Until this evening.’

  ‘And the only thing that was stolen during this attack was the map you were carrying?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I repeated what I had been told about the thing, with the appropriate caveats. ‘A load of nonsense, of course,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a common enough deception,’ Sempill informed me, darkly. ‘The holder of the map claims it is worth a fortune, but cannot be
used for some years to come, for various mystical reasons. The holder needs the funds now, however, and is willing to sell the map to a passing tourist, with strict instructions not to use it until a certain date, well into the future. The tourist then charters a boat straight to the caye, digs in the place the map directs and finds absolutely nothing. He comes back to the seller, only to be told it is his own fault for digging at the wrong time, and the treasure is now lost forever.’

  ‘I see.’ That did make a kind of sense. They were a superstitious lot in this part of the world and anybody foolish enough to believe in the buried treasure would probably also swallow the notion of its magical disappearance.

  ‘Mr Turton has been spoken to several times about this.’ Sempill grimaced. ‘It seems the warnings have gone unheeded.’

  ‘It’s hardly a serious matter,’ I said. I did not want to get my gambling partner into hot water. ‘I’m more concerned with these two men. Oh, there was a third fellow too, loitering in the street behind us, watching the whole thing. He definitely wasn’t a local. Might have been Hispanic. White, even.’

  ‘But not someone you recognised?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for certain. To be honest, Mr Sempill...’

  ‘Major Sempill.’

  ‘To be honest, Major Sempill, I’m not even sure if it was the map they were really after or...or...’ I did not feel inclined to finish the thought.

  The sergeant chipped in, to save me any further embarrassment. ‘I don’t think anyone local would have any interest in a map like that.’

  ‘More likely someone from overseas,’ Sempill agreed.

  ‘And you think they were, what, waiting for Mr Turton to come out of the building, then saw me with the map and switched targets?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, Mr Buxton. Or it may be they had a grudge against him. I will speak to Mr Turton in the morning. Yes, what is it?’

  A constable had appeared at the door with a hand written note. ‘Just had this in from the wireless office, sir.’ Sempill scanned the note and grimaced.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ I enquired.

  ‘Nothing of any consequence. It seems we are in for a spot of bad weather tomorrow. It looks like it may be a little worse than we originally anticipated.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said. Rain would put a bit of a damper on things. I had been looking forward to a bit of horse racing up at Newton Barracks. Some boxing too. There is nothing quite like watching two hefty fellows pummelling the life out of each other to brighten up the day, especially if you have a nice little wager set up beforehand.

  ‘We may still be lucky,’ the superintendent said. ‘It would be a shame to have to cancel any of the festivities.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Buxton, for reporting this. We will take it from here. I’ll have a constable walk you home, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Oh, that’s hardly...’

  Sempill raised a hand. ‘I insist. We cannot be too careful. As you say, Mr Buxton, there is always the possibility that these men were targeting you deliberately.’

  ‘Well, if you insist. But actually, I was thinking of heading over to the Fort, to watch the fireworks.’

  ‘In that case,’ the superintendent said, managing a brief smile and rising from his desk, ‘I’ll accompany you myself.’

  Fort George was the commercial heart of the city, a bloated horizontal shard projecting out from the north side of the river. It was a lively place at any time of day, a boatman’s paradise, piled high with warehouses, customs sheds and timber yards, with dozens of small and medium sized boats bumping up against each other all along the sea wall, as the mouth of the river gave out into the wider Caribbean Sea. All that was missing from the area was anything resembling an actual fort. The real Fort George had long since disappeared. In its place, a rather feeble looking lighthouse had been erected, a skinny red and white monstrosity scarcely a few feet in diameter with a dubious looking external ladder up one side. It fitted the utilitarian nature of the place, however. The cries of the merchants and sailors, and the salt of the sea air, were as familiar to the residents of the town as the sea itself. This evening, in addition to all that, the bunting was out too and the lamps. Even the lighthouse had been cheered up, festooned as it now was with fairy lights. The whole place had a festive atmosphere this evening, as befitted the eve of British Honduras’ national day.

  I was heading for the cenotaph – the war memorial – along the imaginatively named Park Street, where I had arranged to meet up with a couple of my gaming companions from earlier in the day. The crowds were thick here, children mingling with adults, even the younger ones allowed to stay up late this evening. Superintendent Sempill moved through the throng with practised ease, a path opening up before him like the Red Sea parting before Moses. There were friendly nods and smiles as we made our way along. A popular policeman. Would wonders never cease? The sky above us was as clear as any I had seen, with barely a wisp of cloud. With no moon tonight, the stars were out in force as well. ‘I think your meteorologist fellow must have got his map in a twist,’ I commented happily. ‘There’s no sign of any storm.’

  Sempill had more faith in his man than I did. ‘Not tonight,’ he agreed. ‘We will have to wait and see about tomorrow.’

  Sebastian Coulthard and his younger friend Mr Turton had arrived at the park ahead of me. Coulthard had left the police station as soon as the desk sergeant had finished taking his statement. Turton ducked down behind the cenotaph at the sight of Major Sempill and the superintendent had the good grace to pretend not to notice. There would be time enough to discuss that treasure map on the morrow. Having delivered me safely into the custody of my friends, Sempill bade me good night and made off on his rounds. Only when he was out of sight did Turton gather himself up and join us.

  Refreshments were available nearby and Mr Coulthard had already availed himself of the food and drink. He was holding a second plate for Turton, which the younger man recovered with a sheepish grin.

  I shoved a hand into my pocket and dug out a few coins. I had not had the time to stop off at home for a bite to eat. Not that there would have been anything there for me. Wednesday evening was my man’s regular night off. I wondered whether Maurice would be watching the fireworks. There were quite a lot of people gathered to observe the display on the Courthouse Wharf, south of the river.

  Coulthard had told Mr Turton all about the assault in the alleyway. That was why the fellow had been so quick to hide himself when the forces of law and order had appeared. He didn’t want to get into any trouble over that map. The younger man was distressed, however, at the idea of such a violent attack. ‘That such a thing should happen!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am glad you were not seriously hurt.’

  ‘So am I, I assure you. Lost your map, though,’ I grumbled. ‘No treasure for either of us, I’m afraid.’

  A flash of humour flickered across Turton’s rather thin face. ‘I will try not to be too upset,’ he said. Now that the poker match was behind us, he felt no need to continue the charade. ‘It was a robbery, then?’ he asked. ‘Sebastian said he thought it might be a deliberate attack.’

  ‘It felt like an attack,’ I agreed, shivering at the memory. ‘I dread to think what would have happened if Mr Coulthard here hadn’t intervened. But I can’t think why anyone would have it in for me. I didn’t win that much money this evening.’

  ‘It was a dark alleyway,’ Coulthard said. ‘Perhaps they mistook you for someone else. Mr Turton here perhaps.’

  Turton gulped down a mouthful of food.

  ‘I sincerely doubt that,’ I scoffed. ‘I don’t mean to point out the obvious, but Mr Turton and I are hardly cut from the same cloth.’ Turton accepted that with a nod. ‘Are you sure there was nothing odd about that map of yours?’ I didn’t care about the confidence trick. ‘Anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No, nothing at all, Mr Buxton.’

  ‘And you don’t owe anyone any money? You haven’t upset anyone?’
/>
  His eyes shifted sideways. ‘I do not believe so,’ he said.

  ‘It was a disagreeable incident,’ Coulthard affirmed. ‘But we should leave the investigation to the police and endeavour to put the matter behind us.’

  Mr Turton was in full agreement.

  That was easier said than done, I thought. Truth to tell, now I had had some time to reflect on the matter, I was beginning to regret coming out to the park. Being out in the open, surrounded by unknown revellers, it suddenly occurred to me how exposed I was. Perhaps I should have taken the superintendent’s advice and gone home for the evening. But it was too late for that now. And besides, no-one would try anything here, in the park, with so many witnesses wandering about.

  All the same, I pressed my rear end up against a nearby refreshment table and kept my eyes wide open.

  A few minutes later, the fireworks began.

  The noise was indescribable. ‘What the devil is that?’ I moaned, opening a crusted eyelid. It sounded as if a fog horn had spooked a herd of particularly tuneless elephants, while some other idiot was busily banging a moon-sized dinner gong. It took me a moment to comprehend what I was actually hearing – some sort of orchestra playing out on the street – and more importantly, where I was. Daylight was flittering in though the shutters of my bedroom window and my man Maurice was moving across the floor to open them.

  ‘The procession, Monsieur,’ he explained, pulling back the wooden flaps and allowing a shaft of sunlight to scorch my bleary face.

  ‘Nice day for it,’ I observed sourly, lifting myself up against the pillow. I grappled for my pocket watch, which was lying on the bedside table. It was a little after eight o’clock. I scowled. I had not been intending to rouse for at least another hour, but that god awful brass band had put paid to any prospect of a lie-in. It was far too early for music, I thought, especially amateurs, but I supposed I couldn’t really begrudge the locals their prompt start. It was a public holiday, after all.