Moment of Violence

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Why not?” Fleming leaned back in his chair and studied Crawford, waiting until he had the other’s full attention. “Now, Mr. Crawford, what can you tell us? I understand you arrived here shortly after Mr. Payne discovered the body.”

  “That’s right”

  “Had you made an appointment to come here and see Ludlow?”

  “No. But Mike told me someone was coming down on that BWIA flight. I thought I might run into him there.”

  Fleming pulled out a straight-stemmed pipe and a tobacco pouch. He filled the pipe with experienced hands, put the pouch away. Not until he was satisfied that the pipe was burning properly did he continue.

  “You and Ludlow weren’t on the best of terms, were you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard some rumors about this option the Golf Syndicate was taking up on Monday. I’d been told you were supplying the funds and that when the transaction had been completed you and Ludlow would share the profits. Yet the night before last you had trouble with him up at Club Morgan.”

  “Well”—Crawford gestured emptily—”we had an argument, yes.”

  “Something more than that, the way I heard it. Isn’t that where you got the bruise on your cheek?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You struck Ludlow and he retaliated. Knocked you down, didn’t he?”

  “I was overmatched,” Crawford said morosely. “I made a mistake.”

  “Overmatched?”

  “I mean, Mike was just too big and too tough. I should have known it.”

  “But you did threaten him.”

  “So what? I was sore. Lots of people make threats.”

  “Apparently this thing tonight was more than a threat.” Fleming took two or three small puffs on his pipe. “You’ve been seeing something of Mrs.Ludlow recently, haven’t you?”

  Dave sat up, his interest quickening. He watched the scowl deepen on Crawford’s swart face and in his imagination he found himself wondering how the girl he had once known could have been attracted to this man.

  “What about it?” Crawford’s tone was blunt and argumentative. “She’s getting her divorce. It becomes final next month. Why should Mike care if I took her out once in a while?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure,” Fleming said and then, aware that a plain-clothes man had been standing by his side trying to get his attention, he said: “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “It’s about Mrs. Ludlow, sir. We haven’t been able to reach her by telephone.”

  “Then you’d better arrange for someone to wait at her house until she returns.”

  He turned back to Crawford but before he could continue Inspector Gomes came in with a man and a woman and Dave gave them his attention.

  The man—and Dave knew this was Dunning—was slender, straight-backed, and looked to be somewhere in his fifties. His hair was gray at the sides with a sunburned bald spot. He wore a well-kept mustache and he was clad in slacks, a white shirt with a scarf round his neck and, in spite of the warmth of the evening, a blue flannel blazer. Dave saw all this at a glance, but it was the woman who claimed most of his attention. About his age, he thought, with medium-blond hair, worn long, and well-shaped eyes that could have been green. She was taller than most and the print dress with its cap sleeves was snug enough to set off the rounded hips, the shapely calves, darkly tanned like her arms, and the torso which had so much to recommend it.

  Actually it was the eyes which held him. They were wide open, and red rimmed, but there was no reaction in them as she looked the room over and let them come to rest on Major Fleming.

  For his part, the major was at once polite and solicitous. He shook hands with Dunning and spoke to his wife. He arranged chairs so that they would be comfortable and said something about being sorry to bother them and that he appreciated their coming. Throughout all this nothing showed on Dunning’s face. His expression was as stiff as his back as he watched his wife sit down in the chair that Fleming had arranged. He took the second chair, leaned back, and crossed his knees.

  “You heard what happened here?” Fleming said.

  “The inspector told us,” Dunning said. “A shocking business.”

  “Yes, quite. And I asked you to come over because Mr. Payne—” Fleming broke off and for the first time showed some embarrassment. “Oh—sorry. This is Mr. Payne from the States, John Allison’s attorney—Mr. and Mrs. Dunning.”

  There was no response to Dave’s nod and Dunning said, as if there had been no interruption: “You were saying—”

  “Someone came up on the porch shortly after Mr. Payne arrived,” Fleming said. “From what he told us we had reason to believe it might be you.”

  “It was.”

  “Um—yes. Well, would you mind telling us why?”

  “I had some matters to discuss with him.”

  “May I ask what kind of matters?”

  “You may not,” Dunning said shortly. “They were purely personal and concerned no one but Ludlow and me—”

  “And me.”

  The woman’s voice was taut and low pitched. Her eyes were still wide open and fixed, but Dave got the impression that she saw nothing at all in the room. She was sitting up straight, her shoulders back to accent the line of her bust. Her hands gripped the chair arms so hard the tendons showed. After three seconds of silence that her words had created she took a breath and broke the silence.

  “He came here to kill him.”

  “Nonsense,” Dunning said.

  “He told me so,” the woman said in the same taut tones. “He had a gun and I—”

  “Alice!”

  The word was not loud but it had the bite of a Marine Corps sergeant’s and it produced the desired effect. Some of the stiffness went out of the woman’s back and then, as though the effort to control her emotions was more than she could bear, her body went slack and she leaned forward to bury her face in her hands. For a second or two they all watched her and the dry, spasmodic sound of her breathing was loud in the otherwise silent room. Even Dunning seemed shocked at her reaction but his own self-control was excellent and it was he who broke the silence.

  “You’ll have to excuse my wife, Major,” he said. “She—ah—well, I suppose she was rather fond of Ludlow in a way and this has been a frightful shock to her.”

  Major Fleming had been standing on spread legs, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked from Mrs. Dunning to her husband and back again. To Dave it seemed as if he wanted to say something but was not quite sure how to go about it. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object which he held between thumb and forefinger. When he turned to give Dave and Crawford a look at it Dave could see that it was a bullet, small and ugly-looking now but basically intact except for the nose which had been flattened slightly from some contact with a bone.

  “We were lucky,” Fleming said when he had displayed the evidence to Dunning. “It was just under the skin on his back. Unfortunately,” he added, “we have no ballistics expert on the island but it will not be difficult to determine the caliber. The inspector and I think it is a .32 or a 7.65. We found a .45 automatic in Ludlow’s bedroom,” he added after a moment, “but it had not been fired.”

  He replaced the slug and said: “According to the doctor, someone came in here between eight and nine thirty this evening and shot Ludlow. Death must have been instantaneous or nearly so.… Now, Richard,” he added, “you are under no compulsion to answer questions at this time—”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “—but,” Fleming continued, a little iron in his voice now, “you’ll have to make a statement as to what you may know about this matter. So will your wife.”

  Dunning ignored the remark. He touched his wife’s shoulder and said: “Come, my dear.” When she stirred but did not rise, he took her by the arm and helped her from the chair. She moved docilely with him now, her head still bent, and when they reached the door, Dunning turned.

  “You will hav
e your statement, Major,” he said. “In your office if you like. Any time in the morning at your convenience.”

  Fleming watched them go, frowning thoughtfully until his mind began to work again. He drew Inspector Gomes to the opposite side of the room and when they had talked for a minute or so in low tones he came over to the settee.

  “That will be all for tonight, Mr. Crawford,” he said. “We will need a proper statement from you, too.”

  “Sure,” Crawford said, a note of relief in his voice as he came to his feet. “Any time you say.”

  “We’ll let you know.” Fleming watched him go and then turned to Dave. “What are your plans for tonight, Mr. Payne?”

  “Plans?”

  “I mean, will you stay here or—”

  He let the sentence dangle and Dave was faced with a decision he had not bothered to consider before. A glance at his watch told him it was nearly midnight and he realized that the weariness was building up in him. He had no desire to start out at this hour and look for a hotel room and now, examining his feelings, he found he had no qualms about using the small back bedroom. With Mike gone the bungalow had, in a sense, reverted to John Allison, and as he weighed the various factors his weariness won out.

  “Is it all right?” he asked. “Have you finished here?”

  “For now, yes,” Fleming said. “Ludlow used the front bedroom and we’d prefer that you left it as it is for the time being but—”

  “I’ll stay,” Dave cut in. “The back room will be fine. I’ve slept in it before.”

  5

  IN SPITE OF the weariness that seemed so real earlier, Dave Payne had trouble sleeping. He had closed up the house after the police had left and poured himself a strong rum-and-water which he sipped while he had unpacked. He had forgotten how good Barbados rum tasted and after he had his pajamas on, he made another small drink and put it beside the bed before he turned out the light.

  When he had finished the rum and his last cigarette, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come only to find that his brain was much too active. He could still hear the steel band working out up the beach, and the things that happened that day became all the more vivid as his imagination inspected them anew. For a time he tossed and turned from one side to the other on the unfamiliar bed, and when his skin became too hot and sweaty for comfort he stripped off the pajamas and tried again. At one time he must have dozed because it seemed quieter now and the remnants of some dream lingered as he stared up through the darkness. When he realized the steel band no longer played he decided it was later than he thought.

  Enough moonlight filtered through the shutters for him to pick out the various objects in the room—the wardrobe and chest, the single small table, the chair, the mosquito netting, suspended from the ceiling, which he had not used and which was now knotted and wedged back of the headboard. He continued to stare at the netting for a few minutes, hoping his eyelids would start to droop. When nothing happened he swore softly and accepted the fact that he was not yet ready for sleep.

  He stood up then, not knowing what time it was, nor caring. He went to the rear window and glanced out, seeing the garage and the abandoned servants’ shack, one side of which was a glaring white in the moonlight. For a moment he considered making a drink and knew he did not want one; then, as he stood there, the idea came to him, and he acted on it immediately, snatching up his robe, not bothering with slippers but moving down the hall and through the living room. Needing no light now, he opened one door and moved across the veranda and down the steps to the beach.

  A couple of smallish coconut palms and a spreading tree he could not identify put the area immediately in front of him in deep shadow, but when he passed this the beach itself was bright and clearly defined. The sand felt cool under his toes and he stood a moment near the water’s edge and glanced both ways. On the left the land jutted slightly to block off the rest of the coast but on the right, past the Carib Club and beyond, the bright strip was clean and empty as far as he could see. Satisfied, he dropped the robe and moved down the slope, knowing that the tide—he could not tell whether it was coming or going—was about at the halfway mark. The small waves broke with silver tips in the moonlight and swished softly on the sand as he waded in, liking the pleasant coolness that caressed his hot nakedness.

  When he was thigh-high in water he pushed forward, head down as his chest hit, ducking now and taking three long strokes before he broke the surface. Then, not caring about swimming but wanting only to enjoy the feel of the water against his body, he turned over on his back to watch the sky, which now seemed almost starless in the moon’s light. He did not stay long, but dog-paddled toward the shore until his downthrust fingers touched bottom.

  Until that moment when he came to his knees and put his head back to brush the hair from his eyes, he had been aware of nothing but the sea, the sky, and himself. Then, unbelieving, he saw some movement in the shadows and froze where he was, staring, sure that someone was there.

  His first thought was motivated more by modesty than anything else, and, with only his head out of water, he hoped that whoever lurked in those shadows would move on. Then, even as he held himself motionless, he heard the crack of the gun and saw the small flash of its muzzle. Simultaneously a bullet ripped into the sea two feet from his head and spray splashed one cheek.

  Later, when he had time to think, he was amazed at his reaction. His mind told him what had happened even though he did not believe it, but strangely enough this reaction was born less of fear and panic than of anger. With no time yet to be scared, he gave immediate voice to his indignation.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  There was no answer but there was quick movement in the shadows. A figure took shape and now the moonlight caught it and he knew it was a woman. He also saw the dark glint of the gun. When he realized it was still pointed at him he groped for other things to say but the woman spoke first.

  “Stand up!”

  Dave obeyed. It took a determined effort to make his muscles work but he knew he had no choice. He came to his feet and stood dripping in the moonlight, and the night air was cold against his spine and his scalp was tight. Not yet thinking of his nakedness, but knowing he made a wonderful target, he finally found the only answer that made any sense. Someone had mistaken him for Mike Ludlow—

  He never finished the thought. Even from where he stood he could hear the woman’s startled gasp and her quick uncertain words.

  “Oh, my God.… David Payne.” She moved as she spoke, the shadows swallowing her. As he started to wade in she said: “Get your robe. I’ll wait for you inside.”

  He felt better once he had the robe on. His nerves were still a little ragged, but as he started for the steps a light went on in the living room. She was waiting for him as he entered, tall and blond, a big-boned woman but beautifully formed, and when he found too many conflicting thoughts vortexing in his mind to produce a logical explanation for what had happened, he simply looked at her standing there in a lacy party frock, her legs and feet bare, the little automatic still in one hand, the straw basket in the other.

  “Hello, Gloria.”

  “David,” she said. “I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

  He did not answer her. There was talking to be done but he was conscious of his bare shanks and sandy feet and he wanted to do something about them.

  “Sit down, Gloria,” he said. “Make a drink if you like. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When he came back in slippers, pajamas, and robe she was sitting at one end of the dining-room table, the basket and gun in front of her and a drink in her hand. He pulled a chair close, aware that the years had made changes in her but not dwelling on it.

  “When did you come, David—and why?”

  “I got in this evening. I came down for John Allison to see if I could do anything about that option business on Monday.… Where have you been, Gloria?”

  “
When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Why”—the brows lifted and the gray eyes were uncertain—“at the Carib Club. Thursday is a big night there. You know, dancing, a barbecue, special food. We had a party of eight. We just closed the place up.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “Around seven, I guess. Maybe a little later. Why?”

  “And you haven’t been home yet?”

  “No. I just told you—”

  “Then you don’t know what happened here tonight?” He could tell that she didn’t and he said: “Mike was killed tonight. Somebody shot him.”

  “Somebody shot him?” The brows climbed higher. “Mike? Where?”

  “Here. I found him over there”—he pointed toward the opposite end of the table—”when I came in around nine thirty.”

  He began to talk then, telling her what he had done and what had happened since. What he had to say required no great thought. The words came easily, leaving part of his mind free to dwell on the past, and now long-forgotten things began to come back to him.

  Gloria Hayes had been born in the right part of Brookline and there had never been any question about a proper social standing. Her father had died while she was quite young. Her mother had married again, and for some years she seemed more interested in her new husband than in her daughter. So that she would not be in the way Gloria had been packed off to boarding school as soon as possible. Then there had been what might be called a pre-prep school and after that a finishing school in Connecticut. By the time she had graduated her mother had divorced her second husband and taken a third—the last Dave had heard she was in Italy—and Gloria, having no further interest in education, had gone to work in an interior decorator’s shop, not because she needed the money or had any great ability along those lines, but simply because it gave her a base from which to work.

  By that time she had earned a well-deserved reputation as a prom-trotter. Her blondness and her statuesque beauty were in great demand, she was good company, she drank only enough to be a good sport, and she knew how to handle boys. When she was not thus occupied in town she was off to New Haven or Williamstown or Hanover. And during vacations she seemed always to be a house guest somewhere or other.