Hilary And The Hurricane_a novelette

by Jack Treby

  I shook my head and peered blearily across at the window. The sunlight was a surprise after all the rumours that had been doing the rounds in the park last night. A “moderate storm” had evolved, in the retelling, to a full blown “hurricane”, though no-one seemed unduly alarmed at the prospect. ‘Belize is immune to the really bad weather,’ some idiot of a sailor had asserted dubiously. ‘Because of the reef.’

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pulled down my night shirt.

  Maurice had by now moved across to the wardrobe and was picking out my day’s ration of clothing, the usual waistcoat, jacket and tie. Maurice was a craggy faced Frenchman in his mid fifties, meticulously turned out but with a depressingly sombre manner. He folded a pair of trousers and placed them tidily on a stand by the window, before glancing out briefly onto the street.

  I pushed a foot down onto the wooden floorboards and, with a heavy yawn, joined him at the window. The apartment occupied the first and second floor of a three storey building, a white-washed wooden monstrosity, decent enough by local standards, if a little threadbare. We were a couple of streets back from the Foreshore area and the height of the bedroom afforded us a decent view across the lower rooftops. I could just make out the offending bandsmen in their smart uniforms leading the procession along Regent Street, from the courthouse through the parade of shops in the direction of Government House. Banners and placards were out in force to match the bunting, and hundreds of locals in straw hats – adults and children alike – were following the tuneless orchestra as it made its way slowly along.

  The marchers would be greeted at Government House by Sir John Burdon, the governor of British Honduras, a rather frail looking individual whom I had met just the once. ‘I think I’ll give the speeches a miss,’ I mumbled. The leader of the parade was scheduled to read out an address in praise of Sir John and His Majesty the King. It was an admirable display of loyalty – the local people showing gratitude to the Empire for the peace and stability we had brought to this little slab of the Americas – but I would happily have foregone all the pageantry, especially that damned brass band. ‘I’ll settle for the boxing this afternoon,’ I added, eyeing the clouds suspiciously. The sky was fogging over now, the sun disappearing behind the cotton wool. Judging by the state of the windows, it had already been raining this morning and I suspected it would not be long before the inclement weather resumed. There was nothing, however, that would stand in the way of the festivities. ‘Hurricane, my foot,’ I muttered.

  Once I was dressed, Maurice served me my usual breakfast: toast, marmalade and a couple of eggs. He had been sitting up reading a book when I’d returned to the apartment shortly after midnight. Sebastian Coulthard had insisted on walking me home. It was quite unnecessary – the local man was a terrible fusspot – but in the circumstances it would have been churlish to refuse. Maurice spotted my slightly dishevelled state at once and I told him all about the attack. He had not deigned to pass any comment on the incident last night, and I had decided in any case to put the matter behind me as I headed off to bed. After a good night’s sleep, however, my concerns were beginning to grow once again. What if it hadn’t been a robbery? What if someone had been deliberately targeting me, rather than Mr Turton or any of the others?

  ‘You don’t think it might have something to do with that business in Guatemala?’ I asked Maurice, slicing off the top of a boiled egg with my knife.

  The valet considered for a moment. He was over by the sink, making a start on the washing up. ‘It is a possibility, Monsieur,’ he judged, wiping the edge of a butter knife with his dish cloth. Maurice was never one to understate a danger. He at least had no interest in molly-coddling me. ‘The general would not have taken kindly to being locked up like that.’

  ‘Lord, no,’ I agreed.

  The general – Julio Tejada – was a police inspector in Guatemala, with whom I had had quite a run-in a couple of months ago. I had been caught up in a particularly unpleasant series of murders on a coffee plantation in the north central highlands. Tejada was the investigating officer, but he had no interest whatever in upholding the law. He was a brute of the highest order. To cut a long story short, I had got on his bad side. In order to escape his wrath, I had been forced to lock him up in an outhouse on the estate, him and his illiterate sergeant, using their own handcuffs to bind them. I had then fled the country as quickly as I could and Maurice had come with me. ‘You think he might be out for revenge?’

  ‘It is possible, Monsieur.’

  I frowned, considering the idea. ‘But surely he wouldn’t come all this way, to British Honduras, just to get his own back? We’re well outside of his jurisdiction here.’

  ‘It would not be an official visit, Monsieur. And he is not a man to overlook such a public humiliation.’

  That was true enough. If word got round that he had been trussed up like a chicken, it could well serve to damage his reputation. ‘But even so, coming all this way...I can’t see it, Morris.’

  ‘It is perhaps a little unlikely,’ the valet conceded, grabbing a fork and giving it the once over. Tejada was too high up in the Guatemalan police force to involve himself in such a petty vendetta, no matter what his personal feelings. ‘But it is always possible that he might send someone in his place.’

  ‘What, you mean that sergeant of his?’ I scoffed. Sergeant Velázquez. ‘He was the biggest fathead I’ve ever met.’

  ‘The general has other men under his command. More intelligent men.’

  My mind flicked back to the previous evening and that third man I had seen, loitering with intent on the far side of the street. Could that have been one of the general’s men? Or even Tejada himself? There was certainly something familiar about the fellow. But no, this was pure fantasy. ‘I don’t buy it, Morris. Tejada was a brute but he’s not a fool. He wouldn’t go to all this trouble. Not when it could all blow up so easily in his face.’ If a police inspector was caught pursuing a personal vendetta in a foreign country, there could be major diplomatic repercussions.

  ‘If you say so, Monsieur.’

  ‘And you know, thinking back, that third fellow might not have been involved at all. Lots of people hang around on street corners, smoking cigarettes. No, I think Mr Coulthard is probably right. It was some sort a local dispute, which I just happened to get caught up in. It may have been Turton they were after, or his map. Or maybe they just wanted the winnings from the poker match.’

  ‘But whoever these ruffians are, Monsieur, it seems to me that there must be more to this matter than a simple robbery.’ Maurice had clearly been exercising his grey cells overnight. ‘It may be true that they intended to present the incident as a robbery, but I believe their real intention was altogether more sinister.’

  I took a sharp breath. ‘You think they wanted to kill me?’

  ‘We cannot ignore the possibility, Monsieur. One of the men grabbed the map to help create the illusion of a robbery gone wrong, but if Monsieur Coulthard had not stepped in, I believe you may not have survived the encounter.’

  ‘Good God.’ For all his lack of emotion, Maurice had a knack for phrasing things in the most alarming fashion possible. I glanced nervously at the sitting room window. It was starting to rain again, but the brass band was still thumping away in the distance. ‘Perhaps it would be better to stay indoors today,’ I said. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘That might well be a good idea,’ Maurice agreed.

  At that moment, the telephone rang.

  The wind was whipping up a little as I approached the Swing Bridge. There was a smattering of rain too, but I had chosen not to take my umbrella. In this kind of weather, it would be impossible to keep hold of the thing. A broad brimmed hat would have to suffice, rammed down as tightly as I could manage.

  A sign pinned to the post at the near end of the bridge confirmed the inevitable: a hurricane was expected this afternoon and it looked like the remaining festivities would have to be cancelled. The weather w
as only going to get worse as the day progressed. From what I could gather, this would be the first serious storm to strike British Honduras in living memory. No-one knew quite what to expect. There were still plenty of people about on the streets, however, crossing the bridge in both directions, laughing at the strong wind and clutching their hats to their heads, as I was. The school children were in particularly fine spirits, in their lily white uniforms and straw hats, wearing colourful ribbons of red, white and blue which fluttered in the wind. They were heading off to their respective schools, ready for the children’s parade which was due to take place shortly after midday. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the parade was likely to be called off. The little girls and boys skipped past me without a second glance. Even when a loose tile from a nearby roof skittered off and crashed to the ground in front of them, they just giggled and carried on, with all the careless exuberance of youth.

  I pulled out my fob watch and checked the time. It was just gone half past ten. It would be a while yet before the weather really deteriorated. According to the notice on the bridge, which I had taken a moment to peruse, the worst of it wasn’t expected until after midday. Even so, better to deal with the matter in hand as quickly as possible, so I could hurry back to the apartment and make sure that Maurice had got everything properly shuttered up. Anyone with an ounce of sense would already be battening down the hatches.

  Given the choice, I would not have ventured outside at all on a day like this, but that damned telephone call had forced my hand. I have always disliked telephones. They are invariably the harbingers of doom, and never more so than on this occasion. Ordinarily, I would not have allowed one in the house, but sadly the device had already been installed when I had rented the apartment.

  Maurice was altogether too quick to answer the call. ‘It is the police station,’ he informed me sombrely, as I was polishing off my egg.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Buxton,’ a voice on the other end of the line boomed at me, as I picked up the receiver. ‘Sergeant Thornberry here. I am sorry to trouble you, sir.’ Thornberry spoke with the brisk formality of a seasoned officer. ‘The superintendent asked me to call you. We’ve apprehended a man we believe may have been one of the ones who assaulted you last night.’ A constable had been patrolling the Foreshore area, apparently, shortly after dawn and had seen two men conversing with a local fisherman. One of these men had a pronounced wart on the side of his nose.

  ‘That’s the fellow,’ I said.

  The constable, having heard the description, moved in to investigate, but as soon as the two men saw him coming they attempted to run off. He managed to apprehend one of the bounders but the fellow with the wart had got away. ‘According to the fisherman,’ Thornberry continued, ‘they had been making enquiries about hiring a boat to Turneffe.’

  Ah yes, the island where Mr Turton’s improbable treasure was supposedly buried. ‘That’s not a surprise,’ I said. Those two clowns were clearly taking the map seriously. Perhaps that had been their target after all.

  The sergeant enquired if I would mind stopping by the police station at eleven, weather permitting, so that I could formally identify the man. I had little choice but to agree. At least one of the ruffians was under lock and key. By the sounds of it, it was the fellow who had beaten me with that bamboo stick. It would be a pleasure to point him out in a line up. My neck was still feeling a little sore.

  I crossed the bridge and made my way briskly along Queen Street. The palm trees were swaying heavily now and the white timbered buildings either side were starting to creak. The rain was getting heavier too, but I was used to tropical downpours and I had seen worse than this in Guatemala. The thought of a full on hurricane, however, was enough to quicken my pace. Best to get this over with and head off home as soon as I could. I wanted to be indoors when the worst of it hit this afternoon.

  I arrived at the front office a few minutes early. The police station was buzzing with activity, as preparations were drawn up to deal with the storm. It was a new experience for them too, of course. As I had suspected, the school children’s parade was to be abandoned and efforts were being made to contact Mr Metzgen, the Grand Marshall of the procession, so that he could pass on the news to the various schools and make alternative arrangements for the youngsters.

  Major Sempill greeted me in a rather perfunctory manner. ‘Mr Buxton. What can I do for you? I am afraid we are a little busy this morning.’

  ‘Yes, I’m not surprised. I’ve come to identify your man.’

  The superintendent looked blank. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The man you arrested this morning.’

  Sempill was perplexed. ‘I don’t understand. We haven’t arrested anybody.’

  My mouth drooped slightly. ‘You haven’t? But...your sergeant told me you’d caught one of the men. He telephoned me. He said you wanted me to come here at eleven to identify him.’

  ‘You spoke to one of my officers?’

  ‘Yes, a couple of hours ago. A Sergeant Thornberry.’

  The superintendent frowned. ‘We have no-one here of that name.’

  ‘Lord.’ I stared at the policeman. So the call had been a hoax. But the man had spoken in a convincing British Honduran accent. I had not had the least suspicion of him. ‘But why would anyone pretend...’ I stopped. The answer was obvious: somebody wanted to get me away from the house. And since I had not been waylaid on my way to the station, then it must have been the apartment they were after. There was a fair chunk of money stashed in the flat, albeit under lock and key. Perhaps that was what they were looking for. Would they know Maurice was there? Yes, he had answered the telephone. But I suppose it was easier to deal with one person than two. Lord, maybe it was Maurice they were after. Perhaps, after all, this was something to do with that business in Guatemala. My valet had been as much involved in that as I had. Perhaps they were intending to pick us off one at a time. ‘I need to get back to my apartment,’ I breathed, without really thinking.

  Sempill lifted a hand in warning. ‘I wouldn’t advise doing anything rash, Mr Buxton. If someone has been deliberately impersonating a police officer, you might well be in grave danger. I’ll send a constable with you. I’ll see if we can spare someone.’

  I brushed away the offer. ‘You’ve got your hands full this morning, Major. In any case...’ I had a far better idea. ‘Perhaps I could use your telephone?’ For once, the infernal device might actually prove useful. It would be safer for me simply to call Maurice from here.

  A sergeant pulled up beside us, a barrel of a man waving a small piece of paper. ‘Sir, we’ve got a message through to St John’s College and I’ve spoken to Mr Metzgen. But I’m afraid the phone lines have just gone down.’

  I growled. That was that, then. I couldn’t warn anyone from here. I would have to return to the apartment.

  ‘That’s all we need.’ The superintendent sighed.

  I was already heading for the door.

  A decent valet is difficult to find even in England and I had no desire to start looking for a replacement. I was not about to get involved in a fight, however. If there was any sign of a forced entry, as I approached the building, I would rally the neighbours to help me. There was no point both of us getting killed. The sky had darkened considerably, in the few minutes I had been inside the police station, and the wind had also stepped up a notch. It was now approaching gale force. I had just secured my hat in place, on the front steps of the building, when a particularly strong gust whipped it straight off my head and into the ether. I grunted angrily, but there was nothing I could do to recover it. A couple of bins rattled past me, their contents spewed out onto the road. That was another reason to get home as quickly as I could: to get out of the storm. If only the telephone lines had not been down, I could have sat the whole thing out in the safety of the police station.

  I quickened my pace, moving rapidly back along Queen Street, heading for the bridge. For the second time in less than twenty four hours, I failed to
notice two rather large individuals sliding after me. I suppose they must have been skulking in one of the buildings on the opposite side of the road. There were plenty of unattended verandahs to provide cover for anyone who wanted to observe the entrance to the police station. The first I was aware of either man was when they appeared either side of me and linked their arms in mine. I barely had time to utter a protest before I felt the nub of a revolver jabbing into my stomach. I stared down in horror. The gun was visible in outline through one of the men’s jacket.

  ‘Keep quiet!’ its owner hissed. ‘Do not make a fuss.’ It was the villain with the wart. He flashed me his irritatingly vacant smile.

  I had been played for a fool. If I had not been so concerned for my life I would have cursed myself for my stupidity. The telephone call had not been to get me away from the flat; it was to lure me out into the open, at a time and place of their choosing. Had I not arrived a little early at the police station, they might have grabbed me before I even went inside. I had to admire their nerve, abducting me like this in plain view of the station. Where they were taking me? Some quiet corner, where they could dispatch me with impunity? At least they hadn’t slit my throat out in the street. Perhaps, my feverish mind speculated, there was more to this than murder. Could it be that they needed me alive? The second man punched me hard in the stomach before I could properly examine the idea.

  A passing merchant regarded the three of us in surprise, but the man I had now christened “The Bamboo” raised his free hand in greeting and the merchant passed on, clutching his hat against the wind.

  We did not get as far as the bridge. Instead, we turned south, heading for the Fort. There were less people about here, among the warehouses and customs sheds. Nobody was working today, apart from the police. In the distance, I could see the spray of the sea at it struck the sea wall.

  The two men directed me towards one of the larger warehouses, a storage facility for one of the big chicle companies. I was pulled around the far side of the wooden structure and the Wart covered me with his revolver while the Bamboo pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the side door.