Angel Death

by Patricia Moyes

  Ingham sat back and frowned into his coffee mug. “We may have this wrong, man,” he said, “but this is what we think. The big guys back in the States recruit young people—probably already hard-drug addicts and willing to do almost anything for a regular fix. Attractive youngsters, from good family backgrounds, and experienced sailors. They either charter a boat, or they’re provided with one, Stateside. It’s just about impossible for us to pick them out from the genuine tourists. That’s how it starts.”

  “Where do they get the drugs?” Emmy asked.

  It was Henry who said, “Colombia is a good source of supply, I believe.”

  “Far too good,” Ingham agreed. “There’s really no problem about getting it loaded onto the boat and out of there. Then they turn up in our waters as vacationing yachtsmen on a first-time visit.”

  “First time?” said Emmy. “Always first time?”

  “First and last. They don’t use the same boat twice. They don’t have to, there’s so much money in the organization behind them. One load delivered, here or on another island. Then—poof! No more boat.”

  “That seems rather extravagant,” Emmy said.

  “A few times the boat has been reported lost and then repainted and refitted under another name—but that’s when we catch them,” said Ingham. “The only sure way is to destroy the boat. You doubt that the wreckage in Exuma Sound came from the Isabella. Me, I don’t doubt. The Isabella is at the bottom of the sea, and Miss Vanduren and her friend are off on another boat, with another load of horse and another identity. What’s more, they now have the great advantage of being dead.”

  Henry said, “All right. You’ve got the drugs as far as the Seawards. What then?”

  “Then,” said Inspector Ingham, “they are picked up by another innocent-seeming private yacht returning to the States from a Caribbean cruise. It would take the most monumental Customs operation to stop this.”

  Henry said, “A private yacht like the Chermar?”

  “She would have done very well. Except, of course, that she would no longer be in the hands of her real owners.”

  “You think that Martin and Cheryl Ross were really Janet Vanduren and Ed Marsham?” Emmy asked.

  “Why not? That’s the way it works.”

  Emmy said, “That’s all very well, but Janet Vanduren was a perfectly respectable girl, a doctor’s daughter… ”

  Herbert Ingham looked at her sadly. “You have children, Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “No, but—”

  “You think parents today know what their children do? You think a respectable father means a respectable son? Ask my friend Mr. Anderson. Ask Mr. MacKay—he’s a big lawyer on this island. We busted his daughter this evening. For heroin.”

  Henry said, “In view of all this, I think I must tell you that Betsy Sprague recognized Janet Vanduren.”

  Ingham’s head came up with a jerk. “Recognized? Where?”

  “First of all, in St. Matthew’s on the Isabella. And then, after the Isabella had been lost—here, just last week. But by then, Miss Vanduren had become Mrs. Ross and had acquired a new boyfriend.”

  “You never told me this,” said Ingham angrily.

  “I didn’t want to start anything until I was sure,” Henry said. “Anyhow, what difference would it have made? The Chermar had already sailed, and Betsy Sprague was already…” Henry paused. “You haven’t yet told us the worst, have you, Inspector Ingham?”

  Ingham said nothing, but clasped his coffee mug and studied his naked feet.

  Henry went on. “Where do these new identities come from?”

  “Passports can be forged, and there’s a market for them among illegal immigrants.” Ingham did his best to sound convincing.

  Henry said, “Martin Ross told the Immigration Officer that he was British, working in Washington, married to an American wife. All that can easily be checked out. And what about the friends who raised the alarm when the Chermar didn’t show up in St. Thomas? Do you really believe that the Rosses never existed?”

  An endless pause. Then Ingham said, “You are right, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Ross existed, and the Chermar was their boat. They are almost certainly dead, like many others.”

  “Lost at sea,” said Emmy bitterly.

  “Exactly. Lost at sea. It happens. Try to prove it was murder, and you get nowhere. Publicize it, and you lose your tourist trade. Oh, shit,” said Inspector Ingham, becoming very human and very West Indian, “those bastards. Those bloody bastards.”

  Henry said, “There remains Miss Janet Vanduren. If it was Miss Vanduren and not somebody impersonating her.”

  At once, Emmy said, “Betsy recognized her.”

  “Betsy’s an old lady, and she hadn’t seen Janet for some years—”

  “If Betsy said it was Janet Vanduren, then it was.” Emmy was quite definite.

  Inspector Ingham seemed to come to a decision. He said, “How long are you planning on staying in the islands, sir?”

  “Just another week.”

  “Well, sir, with your permission I’m going to ask the Governor to contact Scotland Yard and request that this case be put officially in your hands, and that you stay as long as necessary to clear it up.”

  Henry half-smiled. “What case?” he said.

  Ingham smiled back. “Not the Rosses,” he said. “That’s outside our jurisdiction. It would have to be the case of the vanishing lady, Miss Sprague.”

  There was a pause. Ingham went on. “You see, sir, you have the enormous advantage that you’re not known. Nobody on St. Mark’s except Anderson, Cranstone, and myself knows who you are. You’re a perfectly genuine tourist from England, and you can go on being just that. My trouble is my face is too darn well known. I can’t operate freely. But you—”

  “All right,” said Henry. “I don’t like it, but for Betsy’s sake I can’t refuse.”

  “Good,” said Ingham briefly. He stood up, stooping slightly under Windflower’s abin roof, and looked at his watch. “Half-past ten. I’ll call the Governor right away, and he can contact England at around five A.M.—it’ll be ten in the morning in London then. I daresay he’ll want to have a talk with you tomorrow. I’ll get Anderson to let you know where and when. From now on, you and I shouldn’t be seen together. Thank you, sir.”

  Inspector Ingham climbed out of Windflower’s ockpit, and the Tibbetts watched his tall figure striding down the jetty in the moonlight.

  Emmy said, “If it wasn’t for Betsy, I’d be furious. We’re supposed to be on holiday.”

  “If it wasn’t for Betsy,” said Henry, “I’d have refused.”

  John Colville had described the new Governor as a quiet, intellectual type, and Henry—sipping sherry with His Excellency Sir Alfred Pendleton in the airy, old-fashioned drawing room at Government House—found himself in complete agreement. Sir Alfred might be unconventionally dressed in white drill shorts and a green open-necked shirt with blue dolphins cavorting over it, but still his neat features and rimless spectacles suggested a university don.

  “The Assistant Commissioner was most helpful,” he said, in his slightly clipped voice, “and not at all put out at being telephoned on a Sunday morning. You are to be given every facility, and funds as well as men will be made available to you—within reason. These are not wealthy islands, as you know. I sincerely hope, Chief Superintendent, that you can help us—not only to locate Miss Sprague, but to solve our drug problem. Do you have a plan of action?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Henry, “and my very first move will mean funds, I’m afraid, sir. I want to go with my wife to Miami by the next available plane and talk to Dr. Vanduren. I’m hoping to get photographs of Janet Vanduren and her fiancé, among other things.”

  “Very sensible,” said Sir Alfred, as if bestowing an Alpha. “There will be no problem about that. And then?”

  Henry considered. At length, he said, “I have a theory, sir, that I haven’t yet mentioned to Chief Inspector Ingham. I believe that the Rosses were selec
ted as victims for a specific reason.”

  “Because they resembled Vanduren and Marsham physically?”

  “No, sir. They didn’t. Miss Vanduren had to dye her hair and change her companion to keep up the physical resemblance. I believe the reason was that the Rosses had British passports.”

  Pendleton looked puzzled. “Why would that be an advantage?”

  Henry said, “Inspector Ingham explained to us that he feels these islands are being used as a staging-post. The real destination of the drugs is the United States.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, then. To bring their cargo and dump it here, the smugglers prefer United States passports because that makes them seem like genuine tourists, and the authorities don’t want to harass foreign visitors. Also, British tourists are rarities and likely to be remembered.” The Governor nodded. Henry went on. “However, when it comes to the second part of the trip—from here to the States—it’s obviously an advantage to be British. American Customs authorities are very strict with their own nationals, but—once again—they go lightly on foreign tourists. Mr. Ross had an especially desirable status.”

  “In what way?”

  “I checked by telephone earlier this morning with friends in Washington, sir. Not only was Mr. Ross a very real person, but he worked for an international organization, and therefore had a G-four or semidiplomatic visa. This carries Customs privileges. As Martin and Cheryl Ross, the smugglers could have waltzed into the United States with no trouble at all.”

  “So you think the Chermar came here to pick up a load, rather than drop one?” said Sir Alfred.

  “She may well have dropped a load as well,” Henry said, “but with British identities I’m convinced she was headed for America. As we know, she never got there. My theory is that when Betsy spotted Janet Vanduren, the couple had actually come ashore to pick up their cargo. Betsy’s interference made that impossible. She had to be bustled on board, taken to sea, and murdered. Then the Chermar had to be disposed of posthaste—and the Ross identity with it. What I’m banking on is the fact that they’re bound to try again.”

  “You mean, they’ll come back to St. Mark’s?”

  “They’ll have to. The cargo is still on the island, waiting to be picked up. The girl can dye her hair again overnight, the man can shave off his beard—they were only here for one night. Nobody is going to recognize them.”

  “They’ll need new identities and another boat,” Sir Alfred remarked. “It’s not so easy to pick up a couple of British passports around here.”

  “I intend,” Henry said, “to make it very easy indeed.”

  “You…what are you suggesting, Tibbett?”

  “Emmy and I,” Henry said, “may not be exactly young, bronzed, and fit, but we are British and we are chartering a privately owned American boat. If we trail our coats invitingly enough, I think we stand a good chance of being picked as the next victims.”

  The Governor did not exactly smile—Henry had the impression that he was an infrequent smiler—but he compressed his thin lips, and the corners of them tilted upward. He said, “I like that. I like that very much, Tibbett. I suppose you realize that there will be considerable danger if your plan should work.”

  “Of course. That’s why I think I should be armed and equipped with a ship-to-shore radio, which Windflower doesn’t possess at the moment. If my plan succeeds, police and Coast Guard should keep a constant listen-out and be prepared to act quickly. You can arrange that with the United States authorities?”

  “Of course. They are as anxious as we are to catch these people.” Sir Alfred stood up. “There’s a plane at three for San Juan. You’ll have to stay there overnight and catch the early-morning flight to Miami. You can get back to San Juan tomorrow evening, and here early on Tuesday. Your line of communication with Inspector Ingham will be through Anderson, the Harbour Master. Ingham will report to me. Good luck, Tibbett.” He held out his hand. Then, almost shamefacedly, he said, “Wish I was coming with you. Not to Miami. I mean, on the boat trip.”

  A chord of memory stirred at the back of Henry’s mind. He said, “In World War II, sir, weren’t you—?”

  Sir Alfred looked at his feet and actually blushed. “Buckmaster’s outfit, special operations in Occupied Europe,” he said. “Spoke French, you see…well, good-bye, Tibbett.”

  Dr. Lionel Vanduren’s house was a white-painted rambler, which sprawled attractively over an undulating green lawn in a well-to-do suburb of Miami. The doctor himself—a huge, grizzled man who seemed to be made out of rawhide—opened the front door to greet the Tibbetts. He held a table napkin in his hand, explaining that he was having an early lunch—it was a little before noon—as he had afternoon surgery at one.

  “Got your phone call from the airport,” he announced unnecessarily. “Better come into the dining room.”

  Dr. Vanduren led the way into the dining room, motioned the Tibbetts to sit down, and took the chair at the head of the table, where he proceeded to attack a plate of cold ham and salad. Between mouthfuls, he said, “Now then, what’s all this? Some sort of cruel hoax, by the sound of it. All I know about you is that your name is Tibbett, you’re British, and you think my daughter may have been seen alive in the Seaward Islands. Well, get this. I don’t care who y’are or where you’re from, and you can tell that to the Queen of England with my compliments. My daughter, Janet, and her fiancé were drowned in Exuma Sound when the Isabella went down. Probably a fire on board. It gave my wife a complete breakdown—she’s still in England with her mother—and I’m damned if I’m going to have her upset by any goddamn stupid stories that Jan may still be alive. Got it?”

  Henry said, “You know Miss Betsy Sprague, don’t you, Doctor?”

  “That crazy old biddy who came to stay here five—six years ago? Celia’s old schoolmarm from England? Sure, I remember her. What about her?”

  “How well did she know Janet, Dr. Vanduren?”

  “How well? How should I know? I tell you, she stayed here about six years ago. I guess you could say that she knew Jan... ”

  Henry said, “Miss Sprague recognized your daughter on the Isabella in St. Matthew’s marina and spoke to her, back in January. That was the very day that the Isabella sailed for the last time, as far as anybody knows.”

  “I know that.” The doctor wiped his mouth on his napkin and cut himself a hunk of cheese. “The old girl wrote to Celia. Heartbreaking. With the mails taking such a time, the letter telling Celia that Jan was safe and well came just the day after we’d put out the full Coast Guard alert. It was the last positive news we had of Jan.”

  Henry said, “I told you on the telephone that somebody thought they had recognized Janet, alive and well and on St. Mark’s Island, just last week. That somebody was Betsy Sprague.”

  There was a silence. The doctor sank his large teeth into the cheese and reached for a slice of bread.

  It was Emmy who said, “Don’t you understand what we’re telling you, Dr. Vanduren?”

  “I do.” Indistinctly, through a mouthful of food.

  “Aren’t you even interested?”

  Vanduren turned to Emmy, swallowed, and said, “No, lady, I’m not. And I’ll tell you why. That old Sprague woman was crazy even six years ago. All that stuff about continental drift and oolithic limestone under the Everglades and giving away free drugs. Nutty as a fruitcake. I don’t believe for one goddamn moment that she saw Jan again. How could she have?”

  Henry said, “When Betsy spoke to her in St. Matthew’s in January, Janet was blonde. But when she saw her last week, she appeared to have dyed her hair dark.”

  Dr. Vanduren snorted. “See what I mean? Of course it was some quite different girl. You show this old Sprague creature a selection of pretty girls and just ask her to pick out Jan. She won’t be able to tell one from the other.”

  Henry shook his head. “I wish I could,” he said, “but it can’t be done.”

  “What d’you mean, can’t be done?”<
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  “Miss Sprague,” Henry said, “went off on a boat with the girl she recognized as your daughter and a young man.”

  “Don’t tell me she claims she saw Ed alive too, for crying out loud.”

  “Apparently she met Ed in St. Matthew’s, but he wasn’t the same young man who was with Janet last week. Anyhow, Betsy went off on a motor cruiser with this young couple, and none of them has been seen since. In fact, the boat has been reported overdue, and there’s a search on.”

  Dr. Vanduren was by now looking somewhat shaken and very suspicious. He said, “What’s your interest in all this, Mr. Tibbett?”

  Henry said, “Miss Sprague is a friend of ours, so naturally we’re concerned about her. We happened to be vacationing in the Caribbean, so when Betsy recognized—or thought she recognized—your daughter, she phoned me and told me. Then, instead of flying back to England as planned, she boarded this boat and disappeared.”

  After an uneasy pause, Vanduren said, “What boat was this? Who owns it?”

  “The boat was called the Chermar, owned by Martin and Cheryl Ross of Washington, D.C.”

  “Ross? Martin Ross? You don’t mean the British boy who married Neil Stockley’s daughter?”

  “Do I?” Henry said. “It’s possible. Mrs. Ross is American and comes from Florida, and Mr. Ross is British.”

  “Very fine attorney, Neil. Dead now, of course. Heart attack—only sixty-six. His girl, Cheryl, married this English guy. Celia went to the wedding.”

  Henry said, “I bought a Miami Herald at the airport, but I haven’t had time to look at it. Want to see it? There might be something. The boat was posted missing on Saturday evening.”

  Dr. Vanduren almost snatched the newspaper from Henry’s hand and turned the pages feverishly. He read for a moment and then said, “Jesus Christ. Here it is. ‘U.S. Coast Guard puts out alert for missing yacht. The motor cruiser Chermar, with the owners Mr. and Mrs. Martin Ross aboard, is being sought in the Caribbean after being reported overdue in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. Mrs. Ross is the daughter of the late Neil Stockley of Miami Beach, who…’” He looked up and glared at Henry. “What does this mean?”