Night Frost (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 2)

by Basil Copper

  “We’d better get Colonel Clay,” I said. “This is more in his department.” I led the way back to the car.

  I had to turn it around in the roughness of the narrow road. Stella’s face was concerned in the moonlight.

  “That was a body, wasn’t it?” she said. “What does it all mean?”

  “The end of my holiday,” I said, setting the car bonnet back towards the Catamaran.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Night Frost

  1

  The night was alive with people. Up on the road a blaze of headlights illuminated the path down towards the beach. At the edge of the trees a portable generator hummed, feeding a set of powerful arc-lights, their cables trailing like snakes across the white sand, competing with the moon. Up the hill an ambulance, the red cross a vivid splash on its white-painted sides, edged delicately down the path as near as possible to the beach.

  Colonel Clay stood frowning in the light of the lamps. I told him my story for the second time. He pulled at his lower lip. A muscular native police sergeant, his khaki drill outfit impeccably creased, passed me on his way up with a message for the doctor. He muttered a soft apology as he brushed against me in the shadow. Two more native constables stood guard on the sheeted form under the arcs.

  Up on the road I could hear a patrol car radio spitting out static and instructions into the night. The soft mumble of the surf came to us from far out, advancing and receding under the stars.

  “We really can’t have this sort of thing,” said the Colonel, more to himself than to me, as I finished speaking. “I don’t like this on my patch at all.” I looked at him sharply; his face gave nothing away, but I could detect a faint edge of humour in his voice. I glanced back at the sheeted figure again.

  “It is rather bad form,” I said blandly. The Colonel didn’t blink or alter the inflexion of his voice by a fraction; a true diplomat, he went smoothly on as though I hadn’t interrupted.

  “We really ought to get that lass of yours back to the hotel,” he ventured. “We may be some time out here—that is, if you don’t mind the trouble. It really is most good of you…but a man of your experience…you know what I mean.”

  There was a brief silence as he looked at me again. I didn’t let him down.

  “No trouble,” I said. “I’m at your disposal. I was getting a little bit bored with the holiday anyway.”

  “Right, then,” said the Colonel cheerfully. “Let’s get up top and sort a few things out.”

  He turned to the two constables on guard. “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “The doctor will be here soon. I’ll be up at the radio car for the next twenty minutes if you want me. But one of you must stay here all the time. I don’t want him left.”

  The men saluted smartly as he passed out of the arcs and joined me in the shadow. We went up off the beach.

  “I’d better get this sand sifted,” he muttered as we stumbled up the path. “It will be difficult to find the bullet but it may be helpful.”

  He was talking about the bullet which had been fired at me. I’d pointed out the spot roughly, as best I remembered it, working from the position of the body, and he’d already had the area staked out with little flags. I was beginning to see that he was pretty efficient in his Olde Englishe way. A man in a white drill suit jumped out of the ambulance door as it met us as far down the track as the driver dared to go. He nodded at Clay who introduced him to me.

  “This is Doctor Griffith. Michael Faraday—I expect you’ve heard about him lately.”

  The doctor grinned as he shook hands. “Glad to know you,” he said. “Quite a celebrity.”

  He glanced down towards the beach. “You seem to have a nose for trouble.”

  “It follows me around,” I said. I liked the look of the doc. He was about forty, with black, close-cropped curly hair and a powerful, open face. He had broad shoulders and walked like an athlete. I found out later he’d been a good all-rounder and an outstanding polo player. A good man in a corner, I figured.

  “What’s all the panic?” said Griffith.

  “There’s a man down there,” said the Colonel evenly. “I want to find out all about him. He was a sheet of ice when Mr. Faraday here blew across him.”

  Griffith goggled. “Impossible!” he exploded. He looked from me to Clay and back to me again. “You’re kidding?”

  I shook my head. “Not only was he as cold as a statue’s ass in January but I broke a piece of ice off him.”

  Griffith’s face was a picture.

  “There isn’t time to go into all that now, Colin,” Clay told him curtly. “We’ll explain presently. I want you to get down there before he melts entirely and tell us what you think.”

  Griffith seized his bag from the front seat of the ambulance and set off for the beach at a rush. Two ambulance attendants followed at a more leisurely pace, carrying a stretcher with leather straps. Stella was sitting in the back of the patrol car when we got up to it, listening to the police radio. A constable sat stolidly behind the wheel looking down towards the beach. He looked as bored as all hell.

  “Sorry to detain you, my dear,” said the Colonel affably. “I think it might be best if I had you driven back to the Catamaran. We’re likely to be here half the night.”

  Stella looked at me helplessly.

  “Sorry about this,” I told her.

  “Don’t apologise,” she said. I couldn’t see her expression in the dark but her voice sounded amused. “And don’t try to tell me you aren’t enjoying yourself.”

  “Long vacations aren’t really in my line,” I said, “and this case does present some interesting problems.”

  “Like what?” she said.

  “Like the corpse being frozen,” I said.

  “It must be pretty cold in the water this time of night,” Stella began. “I can’t see what’s so unusual.”

  Colonel Clay chuckled in the darkness and Stella stopped in mid-stride.

  “Sorry my dear,” he mumbled. “You must forgive my rudeness.”

  “What the Colonel’s trying to say,” I said, “is that there’s no such thing as frost in the Bahamas. At least there’s no such thing recorded in history, either night or day. Even I know that.”

  “You mugged that up out of the Tourist Guide,” said Stella.

  “You bet your sweet life I did,” I told her. “As it happens, these parties tried to mislead the Colonel here as to the moment of death by quite a few hours. But for the accident of us being at the cove they would have succeeded too. As it is, all they’ve done is give us a valuable clue as to the place of death. I don’t say the place of murder, because we don’t yet know how he died.”

  “I still don’t get it,” said Stella.

  I explained, “The condition of the body means that it must have been refrigerated. That in turn presupposes a plant big enough to take a body, which rules out a domestic refrigerator.”

  “And there are only a few commercial refrigeration plants on the island fitting those requirements,” said the Colonel.

  “Which narrows down the search considerably,” I finished. I didn’t quite do a soft shoe dance in the dust of the trail there, but I felt like it. And I must have looked like it too, for Stella gave a little ironic clap as we stopped talking.

  “All right, boys,” she said. “I’m on my way. See you in the morning.”

  I put my head in at the window and kissed her goodnight.

  “Where does that get you?” she asked as the patrol car motor purred into life. She was referring to our theory, not the kiss.

  “We don’t know yet,” I said. “But it might make all the difference to someone about establishing an alibi.”

  “Not a bad guess,” she said out of the retreating car. “Have fun.”

  Colonel Clay looked after her admiringly. “A delightful young woman,” he said. “May I congratulate you on your good taste.”

  “She’s an excellent secretary, too,” I said. He looked at me and coughed suddenly.


  “Quite so. Shall we join the doctor?”

  I could see he was busy under the light of the arcs, so we loafed down the path to the cove.

  “If this is murder, and it certainly looks like it, the refrigeration idea must be important to someone as an alibi,” I said. “I saw this party back in the hotel courtyard this afternoon. That was around four. Give or take an hour or so, it’s reasonable to suppose he was alive until about half-four—leastways he was still breathing when I saw him. It was around midnight when he was dumped in the cove. That leaves an interval of at least seven hours—he could have been anywhere or seen anyone in that time.”

  The Colonel moodily scuffed the toe of his shoe in the sand and kicked idle patterns in its surface. Way over to the right several constables were sifting the sand in large wire meshes under a couple more arc lamps which had been set up to cover the area round the flags.

  “This is a small island,” he said, “but there’s a big visiting population in the hotels and particularly in the yachts which call daily. It will be an easy matter to trace our friend from his hotel registration—in fact it’s being done at this minute—but the two men you saw could be anywhere right now. That won’t be so easy. However, I’ve alerted the harbour authorities and the coastguard and all shipping movements have been stopped until we’ve been through everybody’s credentials. Not a dinghy will be going out until we’ve checked.”

  I looked at him with more respect. He lowered his voice as an ambulance man passed us carrying a pile of blankets and added, “You say you’ve got a theory about these two men in the rowing boat?”

  “Nothing so strong as that,” I said. “Let’s just call it a hunch. When you left us at the Bonefish yesterday I thought I recognised a former Chicago mobster in a man that came into the bar. He met another character in there—a big fellow more than six feet tall. I couldn’t swear to it, but the couple in the row-boat looked very much like them, though it was hard to make out in the available light. If I were in charge of this case that’s where I’d start looking.”

  He nodded. “I’ll get on to that just as soon as I get back to the office,” he said.

  I had a sudden thought. “You’re vetting the air passengers?”

  “Surely,” he answered. “There isn’t another flight out for two days. But all the booking reservations will come to me first.”

  I mentally gave him another high rating.

  “No sense in alarming these birds unnecessarily,” I said. “I’ve got a chum in the Chicago police. I could make a few discreet inquiries by phone for you—at the Government’s expense,” I added.

  He smiled thinly. “I think we can go along on that,” he said. “Thank you very much, Michael.”

  It was the first time he had used my Christian name. I thought it was quite an accolade coming from him.

  “I’ll get on to that early tomorrow morning,” I said. “In the meantime what’s the drill out here? Have you got enough facilities for handling a large-scale murder hunt?”

  He looked at me from under dark brows. “Are you interested in giving us a hand? Is that what you mean? There’d be nothing in it for you—in the way of fees, that is.”

  I laughed. I didn’t feel at all insulted. “My holiday’s on the U.S. Government and I’ve got all the time in the world if you’d like to have me.”

  He pondered a moment. “You understand I’m really only an amateur policeman. Diplomacy and government in the out-islands are really my line. My correct procedure is to call the experts in from Nassau.”

  He looked past the doctor and the arc-lamps and the toiling constables out to where the moon’s reflection was broken into a billion fragments by the ceaseless motion of the sea.

  “I’ll have to radio them a report later tonight,” he said softly. “But I think we can handle it by ourselves if you’re game.”

  He turned back to me and held out his hand. “To hell with Nassau!” he said. “We don’t want to overstrain their resources.”

  We stood and watched the doctor. He put back the canvas over the dead face and straightened himself.

  “I’m going to wash up,” he said. “Come along if you like and we’ll talk.”

  The three of us set out down the beach to where the moon-shimmer on the water met the land.

  Griffith was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Damned ingenious, you know. I see what you were driving at back there.”

  “All right, doc,” said Colonel Clay. “What did you find?”

  “He’d been refrigerated right enough,” said Griffith, striding out so that the Colonel had to lengthen his pace to keep up.

  “And if he hadn’t been found until morning the sun and natural corruption would have removed all trace.”

  “Interesting,” grunted Clay, “but was it murder, man?”

  “Sorry,” said Griffith. “I was so damned fascinated with the idea that I almost forgot your end. No doubt about it. He’d been killed by a small splinter of ice fired direct into the heart. The entry wound was so small, we might well have overlooked this aspect once corruption set in.”

  The Colonel’s jaw dropped. We had reached the frothing whiteness of the surf now and it was loud in our ears. Griffith dropped to one knee and washed his hands in the sea. He took soap and a small scrub brush from his pocket and briskly scoured his finger nails.

  “It’s, an old trick,” I said. “The ice melts of course, leaving little trace. Verdict; heart failure. And with the refrigeration period not taken into account, it would have confused the issue still further. Time of death might have been estimated at two o’clock this morning. Instead of, as it may well be, around six last evening.”

  “Not bad,” said Griffith, standing up and waving his hands about to dry them in the warm air. “I put it at around seven.”

  “Emulating your secretary, I’m afraid I don’t quite get this,” said Colonel Clay as we started to walk back across the beach to where the arcs made a white splash in the darkness.

  “Simple, really,” I said, “when you follow out the line of reasoning all the way. Refrigeration—the confusion of time to create an alibi. The splinter of ice — an old gag in lethal circles. Fired by air pressure from a special type of gun. A gun used in killing cattle. Cattle are also killed and refrigerated in deep-freeze plants. And Chicago. The stock-yards, the meat slaughtering centre of the world. Incidentally, the place at least one of the men comes from.”

  The Colonel looked at me in amazement and his steps suddenly became tottery.

  “Good God above, and I thought the Americans were dumb,” he muttered. “I can see that your reputation hasn’t been exaggerated.”

  “I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered,” I told him. “One or two of us have been known to solve a crime now and again.”

  Griffith burst out laughing and Colonel Clay joined in. “I’m sorry, Michael,” he said, grasping my arm. “But between us I think we’re going to have this business sorted out within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I warned him, “but you may have a point there.”

  We had now reached the spot where the constables were working. The body had been removed to the ambulance and we could see it reversing slowly and jerkily up the beach path. Constables were already removing the main arcs. Three men patiently sifted through tons of sand looking for that elusive bullet.

  “We still haven’t followed this business right through,” I reminded the Colonel. “Leaving aside the identity of the corpse or the fact that the killers may be Chicago professionals, we’ve got three big leads. The place of death, which shouldn’t be too hard to find on a small island like this; the time factor and the alibi, which may pinpoint someone to whom the extra hours may have been important. And the most interesting speculation to me, where were they taking him when Stella and I happened along? He may not have been found for some days if they had dumped him in a house or a beach hut. Or they could have buried him, in which case he might nev
er have been found.”

  I frowned. “No, that won’t do, because it would have made refrigeration and the time-factor superfluous.”

  Colonel Clay sighed in the gloom. “All right,” he said, “let’s not make it too complicated, shall we?”

  He went nearer to the three constables and watched the operations from close range. I figured those fellows must have shifted about three tons of sand in the last couple of hours.

  “Let’s call it a night,” he said at last. “I don’t think we’re going to be in luck.”

  The constables thankfully got to their feet and started packing up their equipment. Clay came over and joined me and Griffith, who was putting the last of his instruments back in his case. There was a strong smell of alcohol, heavy on the night air.

  “I’ll have another team look again in the morning,” Colonel Clay said. “You never know, they might turn it up by daylight. Leave the flags,” he added in a shout to the men behind him.

  When we got up to the road again the patrol car which had taken Stella back to the Catamaran was in its old position. The radio was still spitting out instructions and static and the driver looked as bored as ever. I glanced at the luminous dial of my wrist-watch. It was already creeping on for half past three and I was beginning to feel the effects of delayed tiredness.

  Griffith had his own car so we said goodnight.

  “Report by nine o’clock,” he told Clay. The police driver started his engine; I got in my own car with Colonel Clay and the cortege started back down the twisting road in the moonlight. The soft, broken mumble of the sea carried clearly to us above the soft hum of the engine. We had to go slowly because we were directly behind the ambulance. The red crucifix stencilled on the rear door jolted and gyrated on the bumpy road, as though pinned there by the spotlight of our headlamps. It seemed a long way back down to the hotel.