“Yes.”
“I’ll tell Mike you called.”
“If you like,” Dunning said and then he had turned and was hurrying down the steps to disappear in the shadows of the trees beyond.
For another minute or so, as Dave came round the front and flipped his cigarette into the sand beyond the veranda, he wondered some about Dunning and the reason for his call. There had been a moment or two when he had been convinced that Dunning had been carrying a gun but this, he knew, could easily have been his imagination. Then, because he still felt the need of a drink, he stepped through the doorway and started groping for a lamp. Something on the floor close to a small round table glinted brightly as reflected light caught it. He thought it might be a piece of glass, but because he was more intent on getting some light than anything else he found a floor lamp close by and snapped it on. It was then, as he blinked against the sudden brightness, that he saw Mike Ludlow.
3
THE SIGHT of the sprawled and motionless figure across the room held Dave immobile during the next few seconds. Even though he could not see the face from where he stood, something about the size and shape of the man told him this had to be Ludlow, and as the shock hit him he said: “Mike.” Then spoke again, his voice tightening: “Mike!”
From farther up the beach he could hear faintly the steady unmelodic thumping of the steel band, but here there was no sound but the dance music that came from the unseen radio. When he realized that he was holding his breath he let it out. With this reaction there came an odd muscular release and he began to move away from the lamp, circling around the dining-room table, seeing the full length of Mike Ludlow now, and pushing one foot after another until he was close. Still not believing what instinct and his fears were trying to tell him, he glanced about for some weapon and found none.
Hopeful somehow that his friend had passed out, even though he had never seen it happen, he knelt down and leaned forward. It was then that he saw the small stain that had spread irregularly from a tiny hole in the shirt front and again he spoke the name, not knowing that he did so, and took a bulky shoulder in one hand. When he tried to shake it there was only the soft inert feeling of unresponsive flesh and muscle, and so he reached for the wrist, lifting it and finding it limp and warm to the touch.
There was no pulse. He tried three times before he was sure. He released the hand and pushed back only far enough to slide the nearest chair under him because there was a great weakness in him now and he needed some support. Not meaning to, he found himself looking at the sun-bleached blond head. The hair was much longer than he remembered it, just as the once handsome face was heavier and puffier and somehow less fit. There was a mustache, too, where none had been before and the body had a bulk he did not recall.
The sadness came as his thoughts slipped backward. He could not help it now that the shock was gone. There was a scratchiness in his throat and in his eyes, and he knew somehow that the feeling of grief came less from the simple fact of death than of the irretrievable passing of his youth and the illusions that had once been shiny and very real and openly accepted.
Mike had been a large part of that youth, Mike who could do most things better than anyone else and was ready to try at the drop of a hat. That Mike had been indestructible. He had played four years of football without ever being benched for an injury; even in the final game he had played the last ten minutes with a broken nose and a wrist fracture that no one knew about but him. There had been a girl named Gloria Hayes who had been a part of that youth and Mike had taken her, too. Now it was over and the illusions were gone, ended in some violence—this too had been a part of the man—and brought to its ultimate climax by a tiny hole in the chest.
He was not sure how long he sat there and let his thoughts run on. He remembered looking again for a gun, moving only his eyes because his body was not yet ready. He glanced at the open sideboard and this time he saw the keys in the lock and noted the liquor bottles on the shelf, and the place mats, and the silver serving pieces and carving set. Finally, aware that he had waited long enough, he took a new breath and forced himself to his feet. It was then, as he looked about for the telephone, that he heard the sound of a car somewhere behind the bungalow.
He heard the car door slam as the motor was cut. Seconds later there was the sound of footsteps in the hall, a man’s steps by the sound of them, not loud but carrying some weight. He could hear them falter once and visualized the man glancing down at the bags and topcoat he had left there; then the steps came on until the owner was framed in the doorway that Dave had not closed behind him.
He stopped when he saw Dave, his eyes opening, a man of average height with a heavy figure that was not yet fat. He might have been forty and his broad nose looked as if it had been broken at one time. Thick brows nearly met above the black eyes, his jowl had a bluish look underneath the tan, and there was a mark on one cheekbone that looked as if it could have been a bruise. He wore light-colored slacks and a figured sport shirt, and Dave felt sure that this was the man he had seen talking to the policeman when he had gone through customs.
“Hi,” he said in accents that were unmistakably American. “Mike around?”
Dave’s reply was a silent one and made with his head. He watched the other’s glance swivel and take in the still figure on the floor. Without moving, the man’s body seemed somehow to recoil. For another five full seconds he remained as he was, his gaze fixed. He started to take a step, apparently thought better of it, and stopped. Finally his eyes came back to Dave’s.
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Somebody shot him.”
“Shot him?” The black brows bunched. “Are you sure?”
“No, but that’s what it looks like to me. I found him like that when I turned on the lights about five minutes ago.”
“Are those your things in the hall? You a friend of his?”
“I used to be.”
“And you figured on staying with him?”
“It was an idea I had. I cabled him yesterday afternoon and flew down from New York today. Payne’s the name. Dave Payne.”
“Alan Crawford,” the other said, and now he started to move slowly round the body, not bending over or touching anything but keeping his eyes busy. Dave watched him a moment before he said:
“I saw you at the airport, didn’t I?”
“You could have,” Crawford said. “I had sort of a deal on with Mike,” he added. “He told me he had a friend coming down this evening and I thought he’d probably meet the plane. That’s why I was there. I wanted to talk to him a minute and when he didn’t show I decided to take a run out here.”
The way Crawford told it, it all sounded reasonable enough. It also sounded almost too casual, and Dave wondered about it until he realized that this was police business now and that he had not yet called them. He found the telephone on a stand near the hall door and dialed the operator. She connected him immediately with police headquarters but the voice that replied was so thick with its Bajan accent that it took him a minute or so to get his announcement over and receive a reply that he could understand.
Crawford had been moving around while Dave was talking. He had stepped over to snap off the radio and the accompanying silence brought a relief all its own. Now, as Dave replaced the telephone, he saw the man moving down the hall from the direction of the back bedroom.
“It looks like a woman was in that bedroom for a while and not too long ago,” he said.
“What makes you think so?”
“The smell for one thing. You know, like perfume. Also there are three cigarette butts in an ashtray—American butts—with lipstick on ’em.… What did the cops say?”
“They said to wait.”
Crawford was still moving and now he hunkered down beside a small table that was littered with magazines, most of them out of date. He glanced up, pointed, and now Dave remembered that he had seen something there on the floor glistening in the reflected light when he c
ame in off the veranda and looked for a lamp. What he saw was a wedge-shaped piece of mirror that was no more than an inch long and looked very thin; a foot away the bare, washed-board flooring had been sprinkled with some whitish powder. As he glanced up he saw Crawford wetting the tip of his finger with his tongue but before he could sample the powder Dave stopped him.
“Don’t you think we ought to leave the things the way they are until the police get here?”
“Huh?” Crawford’s head came round. The black eyes were opaque and unblinking, and seen close like this, Dave was certain that the discoloration on one cheekbone had come from a bruise. “Yeah.” Crawford straightened up. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
He found a cigarette in his shirt pocket and moved slowly back to the still figure on the floor. He spun flame from a silver lighter, inhaled, and let the smoke out slowly.
“A hell of a thing,” he said, still looking down, “but somehow it don’t surprise you much.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Going out like this. I mean for a man like Mike. He just wasn’t the type to die in bed. If you were around him much you had to know he was a violent sort of guy.”
4
THE FIRST official car, apparently summoned by radio, arrived in less than five minutes. Dave heard it stop out back, but its occupants detoured round to the front, coming up the steps and across the veranda and knocking at the doorframe even though both doors stood open. They entered at his invitation, two Negros in blue-black trousers, gray shirts with silver numbers on them, and stiff-brimmed caps. One was a constable, the other a corporal and it was he who took a notebook from his pocket and asked the preliminary questions.
These were surprisingly few and it was at once apparent that their chief duty was to maintain the status quo until reinforcements arrived. The constable stood by the door while the corporal went over to the body and made a brief inspection without touching anything but one wrist. When he was ready he asked who found him.
“I did,” Dave said.
“Your name please?” And when Dave told him: “What time was that, sir?”
Dave glanced at his watch, made a rough estimate of how long he had been here, and said he thought it was about nine thirty. When he had written this down the corporal asked Crawford for his name and address.
“Remain here, please,” he said, closing the notebook. “And do not touch anything.”
With a nod to the constable he went out on the porch. After a low-voiced exchange that Dave could not interpret, the constable took his station on the veranda outside the door while the corporal went back round the house, apparently to welcome the specialists.
The man who led the new arrivals and took charge of the investigation was a tall, burly Negro with a round, close-cropped head and intelligent dark eyes. He wore a neat, gray-worsted suit, a white shirt, and polished black oxfords. He introduced himself as Inspector Gomes and said he was the head of the C.I.D. He did not introduce the younger man in plain clothes who came with him, and after that there was a great deal of traffic in and out of the room, all of it colored.
A man with a fingerprint kit, camera, and equipment case entered and set up shop while Gomes was talking to the corporal. A couple of minutes later a small, neat-looking man with a doctor’s bag came in, slipped out of his coat, and turned up his sleeves. Two ambulance attendants with a rolled-up stretcher got as far as the veranda and waited there, smoking, until they were needed. Finally, satisfied that things were working properly, Gomes motioned David and Crawford to the settee which stood along one wall and pulled up a chair so he could face them.
He, too, had a notebook and he began by asking Dave his name. When he learned that Dave had just arrived on the island he asked if he carried a passport and Dave produced it. Gomes glanced through it, noted the number, and handed it back. He asked for a detailed account of Dave’s movements from the time he had left the airport and Dave gave them as best he could. After that the inspector turned to Crawford and Dave listened to the same story he had heard before. There were a few more questions and a few more answers but Crawford’s story remained basically the same, and when Gomes exhausted the subject he closed the notebook and came to his feet. He said he would have to ask them to remain here for the time being and then he went over to speak to the doctor.
Dave got a cigarette going and glanced at Crawford, who was keeping to his end of the settee, his black brows hooded as he watched the scene with brooding eyes. He seemed not to be aware of Dave, and since this was the first chance Dave had had to examine his own thoughts, he let his mind move on to ask unspoken questions that had no definitive answers.
He considered the things John Allison had told him about Mike Ludlow and the option which might be exercised on Monday. He wondered, with growing uneasiness, where Joan Allison was and where she had been tonight. He thought again of Crawford’s surmise that a woman had waited not long ago in that back bedroom. Crawford had also mentioned something about a tentative deal he’d had with Ludlow. Could this deal be tied in any way with the option, and if so, could the option have been the cause of Mike’s death? Or was there a simpler reason?
Like what?
Well, knowing Mike, like a woman. Love and hate and jealousy were fundamental motives for murder and with Mike there had always been a woman somewhere. Where, for instance, was Gloria Ludlow, whom Dave had not seen since she had left with Mike so many years before? What had happened to her and where was she now? During those years there had been two or three letters and a like number of Christmas cards. They had been postmarked Kingston and Barbados and Caracas; the last had been from Port of Spain in Trinidad. Thinking of these and of the girl he had once loved, it came to him that he had seen nothing in this bungalow to indicate that a woman had shared it, nothing that even suggested a woman’s touch.
And what about the next-door neighbors, the Britisher John Allison had mentioned? Dunning had come up onto the porch out of the darkness looking for Ludlow and his manner said he meant business. Yet Dave could not tell the police that Dunning had come with a gun because he could not be sure he had actually had one.
His thought hung there as someone came into the room and he was aware that all action had ceased. He wasn’t sure he heard heels click but suddenly everyone was facing the door. Those who had been busy straightened up, and as he focused on the newcomer, he saw a sturdy, curly-haired man inspecting the room, a white man and obviously the senior officer present, dressed smartly in khaki, with polished brown oxfords, ribbons on his chest, pips on his shoulders, and a garrison cap on his head.
When the newcomer had counted the roll he said: “Carry on,” took off the cap, placed it on the nearest table, and drew Inspector Gomes to one side.
Crawford, who had heretofore been both silent and still, shifted his weight on the settee. He crossed his knees and muttered something.
“What?” asked Dave.
“I said it’s the brass,” Crawford said, still muttering. “The Acting Commissioner. Name’s Major Fleming.”
The conference with Gomes was brief enough and when it was over Fleming came over and introduced himself. He said he would want to question Dave but first, if agreeable, he would like permission to have Dave’s luggage searched.
“Certainly,” Dave said. “Help yourself.”
“Come along then if you will. Like to have you present.”
“Looking for a gun?” Crawford asked.
“Among other things,” Fleming said, not bothering to give Crawford his attention.
Dave went along the hall and carried his bags into the back bedroom which was small and square and showed signs of having been searched. He stood by while a plainclothes man went through his things and was duly thanked by Fleming. By the time they returned to the front room the photographer had finished and the body had been removed. Fleming took time out for a few words with the doctor and then he was ready for Dave.
He began by producing a sheet of paper and as he unfolded
it Dave knew what it was. “We found this in Ludlow’s bedroom. Did you send it?”
Dave glanced at the cablegram and read the familiar words again: ARRIVING BWIA THURSDAY. WANT TO TALK ABOUT OPTION. ALSO INTEND COLLECT FIVE THOUSAND YOU OWE ME OR ELSE—PAYNE.
“Yes,” he said. “I sent it.”
“I heard something about the option you mentioned,” Fleming said. “But what about this five thousand? What did you mean when you said you were going to collect or else?”
“That’s just an expression,” Dave said. “He owed me five thousand and I thought it was time he paid up.”
He took out his wallet and removed the note that Ludlow had signed two years previous. He passed it to Fleming, who examined it and handed it back.
“A demand note with interest at five per cent,” he said. “Any security? … You were a friend of his?” he pressed when Dave shook his head.
“I’ve known him a long time. We were in school together.”
“Hmm—” Fleming considered the answer a moment and then digressed. “To get back to the option,” he said, “John Allison still owns this place, doesn’t he? And you came here to represent him?”
“I’m his lawyer,” Dave said. “I have his power of attorney with me. It’s in my bag if you want to see it.”
Fleming said that wouldn’t be necessary and asked Dave to go over again his movements since his arrival at the airport. He listened without interruption until Dave spoke of the man who had come up on the porch.
“Describe him, please.”
“I didn’t see his face. All I can tell you is that he is rather tall and thin and I got the impression that his hair might be gray.”
Fleming glanced round at Gomes. “Dunning?” he said. When he saw the inspector nod he added: “Have someone ask him if he would mind stepping over for a moment. On second thought perhaps you’d better go yourself, Inspector.”
“Shall—I tell him what happened?”
Moment of Violence Page 3