“Salt?”
“Hurricane winds coming in from the sea carry enough salt to burn up vegetation,” he explained. “We see it in Florida.” A pause. “Well, we’ve been lucky.”
“You call this lucky?”
“It could have been a lot worse. There are roofs off, of course, and telephone poles down and many roads impassable—but only five deaths that we know of.”
Emmy said, “How do you know all this? Is the radio—?”
Vanduren shook his head. “No, the radio station is still out of action. Our only communication is by VHF and radio hams.”
“Then how—?”
“Can’t you guess? I’ve only just gotten back from the hospital.” Vanduren smiled. “There are oaths and oaths, Mrs. Tibbett, but I guess the Hippocratic is about the most binding there is. In an emergency like this, a doctor can’t simply crawl under the sheets and go to sleep, even if he is masquerading as an import-export broker. I came clean.”
“You told them your name?”
“Not my real one. I just said I was a doctor—that was enough last night. I had the hotel inform the hospital just before the phones went, and they sent a jeep for me. It’s quite a shambles down there—but mostly just fractures from falling trees and walls and cuts from broken glass.”
“Did you see my husband?”
“I didn’t see any of the regular patients—I was in the Emergency Room all night. However, I didn’t forget you, Mrs. Tibbett. I insisted on coming back here for breakfast.”
“What’s that to do with me?”
“Just that there’ll be a jeep along to pick me up and take me back in about half an hour. I thought you might like to ride along with me. There’s no other way to get there unless you walk.”
“Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, Doctor Van—”
“Venables, Mrs. Tibbett. Dr. Leonard Venables. Well, shall we have breakfast?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT WAS A bumpy and somewhat scary ride. The young driver from the hospital handled the jeep with airy expertise, but most of the way the road conditions were nightmarish. Boulders, electricity poles, tangles of fallen telephone wire, sheets of tin roofing, all cluttered the streets of the battered island. Where roads had been paved, the weight of the rushing mud and water had cracked the surfaces into crazy ruts and potholes: the dirt roads resembled riverbeds, with cascading streams carving out rocky ravines over which the intrepid jeep leaped and bucked like a goat. The sides of the road were littered with overturned vehicles and such bizarre sights as a wheelbarrow resting upside-down on the roof of a truck or a wire fishtrap lodged in the window of a small wooden house. There was no sign of life. People and animals alike were taking shelter where they could find it, still not prepared to venture out into the desolation.
Dr. Vanduren had described the hospital as a shambles, but in fact Emmy was surprised to find how competently and methodically the staff members were coping against fearsome difficulties. The battlefield aspect of the grounds was already something that had become familiar, and so lost its power to shock. Inside, there were a lot of people, among them crying children and scared-looking mothers clutching tiny infants, waiting to see a doctor, but there was no panic, just a minimum of disorder. The hospital personnel looked gray with tiredness, but the nurses’ caps and aprons were as white and starched as ever, and their smiles as frequent, if slower.
As Emmy and Dr. Vanduren came through the main entrance, the doctor was instantly accosted by a nurse, telling him that he was urgently needed in the Emergency Room. He gave Emmy a small, encouraging smile and disappeared down the corridor. As he did so, Dr. Harlow came hurrying out of one of the emergency wards, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He saw Emmy and said, “Ah, Mrs. Tibbett. Glad you’re here. You should go and see your husband. Can’t stop now… ” He was gone.
Henry’s small ward had been transformed. More beds had been brought in, so twelve patients were now crammed into the space which had been barely enough for eight. The newcomers—two of them children—were bandaged and had various limbs in plaster. The transistor radio still blared out music. The old gentleman still sat on the edge of his bed conducting his monologue, but—or so it seemed to Emmy—with rather more spirit and enjoyment than before. To the institutionalized, all and any excitement is a welcome source of exhilaration.
The screens around Henry’s bed had been replaced, and Emmy slipped quietly between them, anxious not to disturb her husband. Despite what Dr. Harlow had said, she thought it likely that he might still be asleep. On the contrary, he was sitting up in bed, writing with feverish concentration on a large pad of lined yellow paper. He looked up as Emmy appeared.
“Oh, well done, darling. How on earth did you get here? They told me—”
“I have my methods.” Emmy smiled. “You look a lot better. What’s the great literary effort?”
Henry laid the pad down on the bed and said, “It’s quite simple, darling. I’ve remembered.”
“You have? Everything?”
Henry made a wry grimace. “How do I know? There may be a lot I still forget—but I’ve remembered the most important things.”
“But how—?”
“It was the hurricane. Ask poor Dr. Harlow. He went through a hell of a night with me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dr. Harlow explained to me that there are two sorts of amnesia: one caused by a concussion, the other by emotional trauma or drugs. You never get back memories lost by a concussion—which is why I can’t remember anything about my last hours on Windflower, and I never will. But the other sort of amnesia can sometimes be overcome by triggering off the memory by applying the same sort of conditions that were in force when recollection was destroyed. I’ve probably got that all wrong in medical terms—but what happened is quite easy to understand. I lost my memory in a hurricane, and it needed another one to jolt it back into some sort of working order. I don’t suppose it’s often that anyone goes through two hurricanes in a week—but we did.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t remember a lot about last night,” Henry admitted cheerfully. “Doc Harlow says that when the storm really started going great guns, I regressed—that is, I went absolutely crazy and began reliving the first hurricane over again. You can imagine that the last thing these unfortunate people wanted was a raving lunatic around the place—but there I was, and they had to put up with it. I’m trying to piece together from what the doctor and nurses heard exactly what I was reliving as far as the actual hurricane experience went—but that’s not really important. What matters is that when it was all over, and I woke up and came to myself again, I found I could remember at least some things from the period before the first storm.”
“That’s wonderful, Henry.”
“I’m not sure that it is. It’s pretty grim, and action will have to be taken right away—and a fat lot of hope there is of that with every policeman and official on the island entirely concerned with the hurricane. However, we can but try.”
“Well…tell me.”
Henry wrote a final word, then drew a line at the bottom of the text with a flourish. He handed the pad to Emmy. “You’d better read it. Screens have ears. We’re not private.”
Emmy took the pad and started to read. When she had finished, she looked at Henry for a moment and then said, “I…it’s fantastic. Are you absolutely sure, Henry?”
“Absolutely. I heard them discussing it all.”
“But…have you any proof at all?”
“There’s the Katie-Lou. That’s why I knew I must remember the name.”
“Yes, I know. But that’s just a load of… ” She caught Henry’s warning eye and amended quickly, “That’s just one cargo. It has nothing to do with—all this.”
“It’s a part of it. But not, as you can see, the serious part.”
Emmy hesitated again. Then she said, “Henry, I hate to say this, but…well, you were very ill, you know. Could it possibly all
be just a part of your hallucinations? I mean, it’s such a farfetched—”
She stopped. Henry’s face had taken on a look that she had never seen before. A hard, sneering expression, totally unlike him. In a strange voice he said, “Oh, yes. If you survive, you’ll tell them the story. Do you think anybody will believe you? You poor idiot…nobody will believe you, ever… ”
Emmy leaned forward and took his hand. “I’m sorry, darling. Of course I believe you.”
Henry’s face relaxed. He passed a hand over his brow. “I was off again, wasn’t I? Well, if you don’t believe me, I’m really sunk.”
“I just said I did.”
“That’s good. The thing now is to arrange a meeting with the Governor. I don’t see any point in talking to anybody lower, do you?”
“No,” said Emmy. “Unless we can convince Sir Alfred—” Emmy looked at the thin cotton screens and remembered the apparently harmless patients occupying the rest of the ward. She decided to say very little. “We do have,” she added, “a useful ally.”
“An ally?”
“A doctor. Do you remember that I told you I had seen him at the marina?”
Henry looked at her blankly. “At the marina? When? I don’t remember anything about a doctor.”
Emmy said, “All right. It doesn’t matter. But there is someone on this island who can help us. Now, you try to get some rest, and I’ll try to get the Governor to listen to us. May I take this?” She indicated the yellow pad.
In the moment of Henry’s hesitation, Emmy remembered vividly Dr. Vanduren’s remark, “It’s unfortunate that we have to trust each other.” She felt a spurt of anger that a purely moneymaking concern should have the power to cause even a momentary doubt in a relationship of love and trust that had taken a quarter of a century to build up. Then she remembered what she had just read and was aware that it was not only money at stake. It was power, and power is the great corrupter.
Then Henry smiled, squeezed her hand, and said, “Yes, darling. Take it. After all, it’s in my mind now—I can always write it down again. Just don’t lose it.”
Emmy said, “I’ll be back when I have anything useful to report.”
Transport on the island was minimal and strictly official. No chance of a taxi, Emmy was informed by the hospital receptionist. No buses running. Might get a ride, but probably have to walk.
It was not so dreadful. Fortunately, the hospital was on the same side of town as Government House; and it took Emmy little more than half an hour to walk up to the wrought-iron gates and small sentry box that guarded Her Majesty’s representative.
A polite black manservant asked Emmy to wait—not, this time, in the shabbily elegant drawing room, but in a small and sparsely furnished waiting room. After about twenty minutes, the Governor’s secretary appeared—a neat, attractive island girl, as beautifully coiffed and turned-out as if Hurricane Beatrice had never been. She informed Emmy that the Governor was sorry, but she must realize that he was far too busy today of all days to bother about anything but the hurricane damage.
Emmy said that she quite understood, but that this business was even more serious than the hurricane. The secretary smiled, with a little less friendliness, and repeated that she had her instructions and there was nothing to be done.
Emmy fell back on her last line of attack and proffered Henry’s yellow note pad. Would the secretary agree to take this to the Governor and ask him to read it?
Reluctantly, the girl took the pad and left the waiting room. Ten minutes later, she was back to say that the Governor would see Mrs. Tibbett briefly.
Sir Alfred Pendleton was in his office, sitting in shirt-sleeves at his desk. He was obviously exhausted, worried, and angry. Henry’s notes lay on the desk in front of him, and as Emmy came in he slapped the pad crossly with the palm of his hand.
“Mrs. Tibbett,” he said without preamble, “last time we met I asked you and your husband to leave these islands alone. That was before we were hit by a severe hurricane. Do you think I have nothing better to do than waste my time on this sort of drivel?”
“Sir Alfred, it isn’t drivel—it’s true.”
Controlling himself with an effort, the Governor said, “Just consider the facts, please. Your husband became involved officially in these islands while investigating the disappearance of a lady who had not disappeared at all.” Emmy opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a gesture. “He then proceeded to have a mental breakdown, in which he behaved irrationally and irresponsibly, incidentally breaking the law. Do you deny that?”
“No, but—”
“He had a miraculous escape during the first storm and entered the hospital, claiming amnesia. And now…now…he maintains that he has recovered his memory and comes up with the biggest taradiddle of nonsense that I’ve ever heard in my life. Frame-ups, police corruption, rebellion, independence from Britain, plantations of marijuana, drug capital of the world, Mafia money…my dear Mrs. Tibbett, you must think me very naïve. These are the ravings of a madman. Now please get out of my office, and as soon as the first plane can take off, take your husband back to England for a long convalescence, which is what he undoubtedly needs.”
The Governor mopped his brow and glared at Emmy. She said, “Sir Alfred, I firmly believe that all this is true.”
“Then you’re as crazy as he is. There’s not a shred of proof—”
“There’s the Katie-Lou, sir. In Bob Harrison’s yard. You’ll see it says there that she’s loaded with marijuana, and that she’s to be the decoy which—”
“Mrs. Tibbett, I have tried to be both patient and fair, but—”
“The boat’s there, Sir Alfred, I saw her myself. If you’d just have Inspector Ingham search her—”
“There’s no question of any of my policemen being spared for such a—”
“Or Mr. Harrison. He could make a search. You can contact him on VHF radio. The dope won’t be hard to find. It’s supposed to be found.”
The Governor gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, very well, Mrs. Tibbett. I presume Harrison has the owner’s permission to go on board.”
“He must have. He’s been doing repairs.”
“And he isn’t on your husband’s list of suspects?” added Sir Alfred, with heavy irony.
“You know he’s not.”
“All right, I’ll arrange it. Go back to the waiting room and I’ll let you know what happens. I’m not denying we have a drug problem, and if we can make a good haul, I’ll be happy. But you realize that even if we do, it won’t prove any of Tibbett’s other wild allegations.”
“It’ll be a beginning,” said Emmy. “Thank you, Sir Alfred.”
It was another hour before the secretary again entered the waiting room to tell Emmy that Sir Alfred would see her. The girl spoke in a curious way, as if with satisfaction. Emmy followed her into the Governor’s office.
Pendleton was still at his desk, but he looked more relaxed. To Emmy’s surprise, Inspector Ingham was also there. Henry’s notes were on the desk.
“Well, Mrs. Tibbett,” the Governor said, “we went further than you asked. Inspector Ingham himself went to the yard and searched the Katie-Lou.”
“He did?”
Slowly, Sir Alfred went on, “And he found nothing, Mrs. Tibbett. Nothing at all that would not be among the normal equipment of a cruising yacht. From Mr. Harrison he learned that Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, the owners, had intended to return from St. Thomas today to pick up the boat—but naturally the storm has delayed them. However, the boat is repaired and ready for the water and will be launched just as soon as conditions allow.”
Ingham put in, “As soon as the Carstairs let Harrison know when to expect them, he’s arranging for the boat to be provisioned by Anderson, and they’ll be able to take her right away. It’s all perfectly straightforward.”
“Of course it is,” snapped Sir Alfred. “Goodness me, these poor Carstairs people have suffered enough through your husband and his crazy friend
s without being falsely accused of drug-running in the bargain. Mrs. Tibbett, I hope you are satisfied and that you will now go away and leave us to get on with our jobs.”
There was nothing Emmy could say. She simply nodded and left the office.
The wind had dropped to little more than a strong breeze, although the sky was still overcast and rain fell steadily. It was a wet walk up the hill back to the hospital, and Emmy made it sadly, burdened by both failure and doubt. Henry’s story was fantastic and difficult to believe. The Katie-Lou had seemed to be the only checkable thing about it—and that had proved to be wrong. Either that, or Henry was wrong to surmise that Inspector Ingham was on the side of the angels.
As soon as Henry saw her face, he said, “No good?”
“Worse than no good, Henry.” Emmy told him the bad news.
“So what did you do?”
“What could I do? I just came away.”
“What about my notes?”
“Oh…I never even thought. They’re still on Sir Alfred’s desk.”
Henry thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know whether that’s good or bad, but it may be important. If the wrong person sees them—”
“Who is the wrong person?”
“I wish I knew. Could be anybody. Could also trigger off some action.”
“Action?”
“Against you and me and the Governor. Anybody who saw those notes. Meanwhile—” Henry suddenly broke off. “Go over again just what was said—when Ingham was there, I mean.”
Emmy repeated the conversation as accurately as she could remember. Henry threw off the sheet and climbed out of bed. “Get my clothes,” he said.
Emmy said, “Don’t be silly, Henry. You don’t have any clothes here. You were flown over by helicopter in those awful pajamas from the Golf Club.”
“This is ludicrous,” said Henry. “Go and buy me some clothes, for heaven’s sake.”
“Henry—there aren’t any shops open. You’ve no idea what it’s like out there.”
“Well, the hospital must have something. I’ve got to get out of here, and I can’t roam the streets in green silk pajamas.”
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