Uninvited Guest

by George Harmon Coxe

  “What?” he said, aware that Sally had spoken.

  “Would you please,” she said with dry good humor, “tell me what this is all about?”

  “Yes,” said Scott, and he did, feeling more like a fool with each word he spoke. Sally did not help his mood any when she chuckled.

  “Freddie?” she said. “You thought Freddie might—”

  “Somebody killed Julia,” he cut in doggedly. “How do you know it wasn’t Freddie? Somebody tried to brain you with an oar. You say you don’t know who it was.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “The point is, does the guy know this? Maybe he thinks you’re holding back because you don’t want to put the finger on him. How does he know you might not change your mind?”

  “Pooh. That’s silly.”

  “Okay. So I’m a silly guy. I saw someone come out of here and I didn’t know who it was, and when I found out I still had to be sure you were all right. I couldn’t go to sleep until I knew.”

  He said all this quickly and when he ran out of breath he reached out and caught her arms. Before she knew what was happening he had pulled her close and kissed her soundly, a thing he had wanted to do for a long time. It was not an expert kiss nor a passionate one, but he found it highly satisfactory and now, not waiting for her reaction he stepped back and started to turn away. Then he stopped.

  It was too dark to see her face or to know what she thought. He thought he saw the soft curve of her smile but when she remained silent he said:

  “I’ll go quietly if you’ll tell me why Freddie came in?”

  “He said he wanted to talk to me a minute.”

  “He drove you home. He had plenty of time to talk.”

  “He had the time but he didn’t. He hardly said a word. He seemed very unlike Freddie tonight.”

  “And Lambert was unlike Lambert tonight.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “So what did Freddie want to talk about?”

  “Well”—she hesitated, her voice thoughtful—”he sort of hemmed and hawed. He couldn’t seem to get started. It was almost as if he had come to say something else and then changed his mind. That was my impression but what he actually did was apologize for telling Major Briggs about the pillow. He said he hadn’t realized it would make it difficult for me. He knew I hadn’t had anything to do with Julia’s death and he was sorry if he involved me in any way.”

  “All right.” Scott opened the door for her and waited until she was inside. He studied her a moment, half closing one eye. “About that kiss,” he said. “That’s just a starter. There’ll be more. The best way to avoid them is to keep out of my way.”

  She looked right back at him, amused glints in her green eyes. “Thanks for the warning,” she said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “And another thing,” Scott said, gruff now. “That door was unlocked when I knocked. Lock it. I’ll wait.”

  He pulled the door shut. When he heard the key click he started quietly along the gallery, feeling very pleased that he had come and the incident with Freddie forgotten.

  CHAPTER 17

  AT TEN o’clock the following morning Major Briggs sat behind his desk rubbing his palms gently together and feeling rather pleased with himself. In the preceding hour he had managed to get a complete and reasonably satisfactory statement from Luther and now, as an aide announced Alan Scott, he was quite ready to pass along the information that progress was being made.

  When the door opened he watched his visitor cross the room, answering his good morning and taking in the rubber-soled shoes, the white duck trousers, and cord coat. The blue eyes were steady and direct in the newly tanned face and that made him wonder why it was that Americans always made such a fetish of getting the greatest possible tan out of the least possible time. He admitted that it gave Scott a look of health and vigour but all this had actually been there before; it showed in the way the man moved and carried himself.

  Now that the case was beginning to take on a likely pattern he was also ready to admit that he liked this young man and the way he conducted himself. It was one of his jobs as a police officer to be suspicious of people when suspicion was warranted and it was not always too difficult to know when a person was lying. It was the same with character, though this took more time, and while he had believed in the beginning that Scott had lied, he had not long considered him as a murder suspect. What he did not quite understand was why Scott had lied, but that was a thing he hoped to answer shortly.

  “Yes,” he said now in answer to Scott’s question. “Our friend Luther talked quite nicely considering how he must have felt. He still looked somewhat seedy from the effects of that drug—whatever it was—but before I tell what he had to say I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  He paused as Scott settled back and crossed his legs, having his full attention now and wondering how best to phrase his question.

  “Suppose I start,” he said, “by asking if at any time you felt that you were under serious suspicion in this matter of Julia Parks’ death?”

  “No,” Scott said.

  “An innocent person seldom does unless circumstantial evidence becomes strong enough to scare him. In spite of what you say, you lied to us.” He waited for some denial; when none came he continued:

  “Now in this business we learn early that when an intelligent person lies to us we can very quickly get the truth, provided we keep him lying until we can trip him upland point out an inconsistency or two. The reason is that, confronted with inconsistencies, the intelligent person admits them, and having admitted them seems to realize the futility of further argument. A stupid man, on the other hand, will admit no inconsistency. If he makes up his mind to say he was home in bed at such and such a time, he will continue to say so no matter how many witnesses swear he was somewhere else.”

  He paused again, rubbing his palms together until he realized he was doing it and recalled his wife’s objection to the mannerism. What was it she said? That it made him look smug and complacent, and altogether too superior? He must watch it in the future.

  “This was so in your case. You lied, but confronted with the evidence of the hotel watchman, you changed your story and told the truth—or at least most of it. You were innocent and you lied. You went to the hotel room and searched it. You persisted in certain other investigations of your own, fortunately for us, I might add, in the case of Luther last night. I would be interested to know why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you involved yourself. Surely it was not just curiosity. You’re not a detective. You have no police experience. Or have you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not an attorney.”

  “I’m in the advertising business.”

  “Then why—”

  “I’ll tell you.” Scott sat up and uncrossed his legs. His smile was fixed but his gaze was untouched by that smile and to Briggs there was neither truculence nor defiance in the voice as it continued: “I was worried about Miss Reeves.”

  “Ah,” said Briggs. “I wondered about that.”

  “I knew about the pillow she tossed over Julia’s face. When I found her dead I went to Miss Reeves and told her not to say anything to you. I was afraid you’d jump to conclusions. I thought you might think it was an accident and blame her.”

  “You didn’t think it was accidental,”

  “I thought it was murder but I couldn’t prove it. I went to the hotel when I saw my chance because I hoped to find something that might give me some clue as to who was responsible.”

  “Apparently you didn’t trust us to do the same thing in an official way.”

  He saw the grin come then, reluctantly it seemed, and somewhat sheepish. He saw the empty gesture of the hands and heard Scott say:

  “Let’s say I was worried and upset and not very smart. It was a silly thing to do; I admit it. I got this crazy idea and I followed it up.”

  Briggs nodded, understanding now the reasons for Scott’s actions
. “You’re quite attached to Miss Reeves?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Perhaps you’re in love with her.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You didn’t want her to be blamed for Julia Parks’ death. You weren’t satisfied with the progress we were making so you conducted these investigations of your own, not so much to find out who was guilty—in case it was murder—but to prove it was indeed murder.”

  “I guess that’s aboutit.”

  “Good.” Briggs smiled. “Now I can relieve your mind.” He hesitated seeing Scott lean forward expectantly. “That was a good show you put on last night with Luther. Helped us tremendously so I think it’s only fair to tell you that we know Julia Parks was murdered.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so last night?”

  “It didn’t occur to me.” Briggs chuckled. “You may remember that we were otherwise occupied at the time. We had a full report from the surgeon shortly after you left here yesterday afternoon.”

  “And what convinced you?”

  “Those stains on the pillow you noticed.” Briggs slid his elbows across the desk, his gaze intent on Scott’s angular face. “There was a smear or two of lipstick, as you suspected. But the larger stain was something else. Chemical analysis proved it.”

  “Oh.” Scott swallowed. He scowled a silent moment; then his eyes opened. “Blood?”

  “It seems,” said Briggs, “that our murderer didn’t realize that very little pressure would be needed to suffocate a person who is unconscious and helpless as Miss Parks was. The very weight of the pillow, if it were large enough, might be sufficient. But, not knowing this, we think our man put his weight on the pillow. The pillow over her face, his hand or fist in the center of the pillow and over her mouth and nose, and his weight on his hand.”

  He leaned back and said: “There was a tiny laceration on the inside of the woman’s upper lip. The lip must have been pulled over her teeth by the movement of the pillow. The pressure cut it.”

  He watched the look of relief pass over Scott’s face as the muscles relaxed, and now a smile grew there, the teeth flashing white.

  “Then that eliminates Sally.”

  “It would seem so.” Briggs picked up some papers on his desk and his manner was at once businesslike. “About our friend Luther,” he began.

  “Yeah,” Scott said quickly. “Did he say who hired him?”

  “Waldron.”

  Scott’s gaze slid past Briggs to fix on some point outside the window, and if he felt any surprise he did not show it. “Waldron knew Julia had passed out on the schooner.”

  Then he was telling a story Briggs had not heard before, explaining how he had met Waldron the night Julia died, how he and Morgan and Waldron had discussed the woman and the Griselda, how Waldron had left shortly after Keith Lambert arrived.

  “How much longer did you and Lambert stay?”

  “I’d say a half hour at least.” Time enough.

  “Have you talked to him yet?”

  “I’m about to pay him a call.” Briggs reached for his cap and stick. “Come along if you like. You can ride with me and I’ll have a man drive your car. I expect you’d like to know what Luther had to say.”

  Scott felt strangely weary as he leaned back against the cushions of the Major’s car, but it was a physical weariness and could not diminish the warm, inner exultancy that had come with his thoughts of Sally. He was glad now that he had done the things he had, gladder still that all that was behind him. What happened nowr was police business and no concern of his, for with Sally in the clear he was through, finished, done.

  He was still curious about Luther and Waldron but he understood that Briggs would tell him in good time, so he slumped down in his seat and watched the passing scene as Briggs turned on Broad Street and headed for Chamberlin Bridge. Crossing this he glanced seaward and discovered three ships anchored in the bay. One was a Harrison Line freighter, the second a neat, trim-looking passenger-cargo ship of the Canadian National line, its white hull and superstructure glistening in the morning sunlight; the one on the left was the French liner Colombie, also white, in for the day from Havre by way of Southampton and Martinique before continuing southward. A few minutes later as they skirted the esplanade, Briggs began to talk.

  “I think Luther told the truth,” he said. “It’s not hard to tell with that sort and I doubt if he had enough resistance or originality this morning to think up this particular story. You were right about his seeing Waldron. The hour of day or night matters very little to these people so he can’t be sure of the time but he did see Waldron come ashore in a skiff the night of the murder. More important, Waldron saw him.”

  He braked sharply to avoid a donkey cart and said: “According to Luther, Waldron told him that he had borrowed the skiff which had been tied up at the landing stage of the Aquatic Club pier. He did not say where he had been but he asked Luther to row the skiff back where he—Waldron—got it. He gave Luther a bill—Luther did not look at it until later—and asked him to say nothing about the skiff or having seen Waldron. He also asked where Luther lived . . . Well, Luther did as directed. No one noticed him and when he found Waldron had given him a ten-dollar bill he was ready to cooperate further.”

  “Then,” Scott said, “the next morning I told Luther we wouldn’t be taking the cruise for a few days.”

  “Exactly. And remember, Luther knew nothing about any murder. There was nothing in yesterday’s Advocate about it. So when Waldron drove up yesterday morning with a bottle of rum in his car, Luther was ready to listen.”

  “Waldron had a proposition.”

  “And one that would appeal to Luther. He told Luther he was in the market for a boat. He wanted Luther to go to British Guiana and see if he could locate a small sloop that would be a good buy for Waldron, It was quite a long story the way Luther told it but what it amounted to was that Waldron wanted a sloop. Luther knew boats. He was to try to find one in British Guiana and failing there, to try Port of Spain. To make the story more convincing Waldron gave Luther a fifty-dollar advance and the promise of a job as skipper of the sloop if Luther found one. The important thing was that Luther arrange passage yesterday if possible on whatever schooner might be heading south. He was to meet Luther that afternoon and pay for the passage etcetera, etcetera.”

  “All this was before you had Waldron down to your office.”

  “Exactly. We had not yet brought Waldron into the case but he was afraid we might and he was already making plans for Luther, the only person who knew where Waldron was the night before. Well, Luther found the Estelle was sailing early this morning—the information I got from the immigration man last night was wrong; Luther was listed as a passenger and had clearance but he was down not as Luther but as L. Lyman, his right name. Beyond that all Luther knows is that Waldron paid for the passage and that he—Luther—began touring the bars. He remembers going to the dance but that’s all. He doesn’t recall seeing you or know how he got aboard the Estelle.”

  Scott thought it over, understanding how all this could happen when a man like Waldron was behind it. “Waldron must have got to that mate somehow.’

  “It would seem so,” Briggs said. “Probably hired the mate to make sure Luther was aboard.”

  “What’s the mate say?”

  “Nothing. Pleads ignorance of the whole business. We’re questioning the crew but don’t expect much in that direction either.”

  “I think Waldron came to that dance too,” Scott said.

  “Might well have. The mate locates Luther, sees he’s drunk and phones Waldron for further directions.”

  Scott was ready to accept the premise when he remembered the telephone which rang as he was leaving Waldron’s place the night before, but before he had a chance to comment on this Briggs swung the car off the highway and came to a stop behind the bungalow.

  “Well, here we are,” he
said, and waited for the plainclothes C.I.D. man to bring Scott’s car alongside.

  When the man got out Briggs, whistling softly and rapping his calf with his swagger stick, led the way round the bungalow and up the steps of the front veranda overlooking the beach. He knocked three times, said: “Hmm,” and tried the knob. When the latch clicked he stepped inside, glanced round, then continued on into the room.

  While the plain-clothes man closed the door and stood beside it to await further orders, Briggs went on into the bedroom with Scott at his heels. He glanced in at the bath and, still whistling softly, came back to the front room to have a look at the kitchen. Back in the bedroom once more he stooped down to pick up a metal wastebasket. He stopped whistling and showed Scott the charred paper fragments which had apparently been burned in the basket.

  “It looks,’ he said with startling unconcern, “as though our bird has flown his coop.”

  Scott opened the wardrobe. Suits and slacks still hung there but not as many as the night before, and the two bags were gone. He spoke of this as Briggs went through the drawers in the chest and did the same thing with the vanity.

  “Gone all right,” Briggs said. “A futile bit of business too, if you ask me. I’m afraid he’ll find it a bit difficult getting off the island,’

  “He’s had since last night,” Scott reminded him.

  “True.” Briggs thought it over. “I suppose it’s possible but we shall soon see.”

  He stepped to the telephone, dialed a number. When he had his connection he started the official wheels moving with a series of instructions and requests for reports. Scott moved to the native-built desk and opened the two vertical doors on either side. He had glanced through the inner shelves the night before and now he began to examine them with more care. Briggs, seeing what he was doing, spoke to the plain-clothes man.

  “Lend a hand, sergeant. See what you can find of interest.”

  The man hunkered down in front of one door and began to remove papers and clippings from the shelves, glancing at each one before putting it aside. Scott was doing the same and what he found was a pile of receipted bills from local merchants, tear sheets from the Advocate of articles that had interested Waldron, a road map of the island, programs from race meetings. He had not quite finished when the telephone rang and Briggs relayed his first report.