When Wallace said no, Edwards picked up a diamond-studded wrist watch, a heavy gold bracelet, a platinum and sapphire cocktail ring, an assortment of pins.
“Inventory this, Sergeant,” he said. “And give Mr. Wallace a copy” He looked at Wallace and added: “This would seem to rule out robbery.”
“Unless,” Wallace said, “she caught a prowler in the act, and was killed. I mean, he could have got scared off before he finished the job.”
“It’s possible,” Edwards said.
He drew Wallace back into the hall, where a detective was on his hands and knees, his head almost on the floor as he directed the beam of a flashlight along it and squinted toward the living room. Edwards said:
“What about it, Stanley?”
“I think so, sir.”
Edwards turned back to Wallace. “She wasn't killed here; she was put in the chair afterwards. We think there was a struggle. It could have started in the living room. Marks in the hall indicate she was dragged partway, until her shoes came off. We believe someone picked her up at that point and carried her to the bedroom. The shoes were put here later.” Wallace, remembering his own thoughts about the shoes, considered Edwards with new respect. This, he thought, is a very smart cookie. Watch your step, Davy.
The inspector had taken the straw bag from the bureau cupboard and now he began to go through its contents. He handled the wallet gingerly until the fingerprint man who had examined it stated that there were no helpful prints. When, a moment later, Edwards brought out the new hundred-dollar bills, even his imperturbability developed a crack. He made a small, throaty noise and his brows climbed noticeably.
“Five hundred?” he asked softly. “Was she accustomed to carrying that much?”
“I couldn't say.”
“Does it surprise you?”
“Hell, yes.”
Edwards put the bills back and examined the check signed by Joseph Anderson.
“Do you know anything about this?”
“No.”
Edwards put the check aside and opened the folding checkbook. He inspected the stubs with care but made no comment He said they would have to take the basket and contents for the time being and Wallace said that would be perfectly all right.
Nothing more was said until they were back in the living room but Wallace noticed that both ash trays were now empty. This reminded him again of Sidney Joslyn and he wondered if he had done the right thing in removing the telltale cigarette butt the night before. When the fingerprint man came in and started to work again, Edwards said:
“All right, Mr. Wallace. We wont keep you any longer if you have things to do. You will keep yourself available?”
“Certainly.”
“Your statement will be typed. We will probably want you at Headquarters later.”
“To sign it?”
“There’s that. Also the Superintendent will no doubt want to question you about certain points.”
The fact that he was not to be held came as a pleasant surprise but once Edwards and Finley moved off the porch and headed toward the shack at the rear he did not know quite what to do with himself. He glanced at the canvas he had blocked out the day before and knew it would stay that way for some time. He thought about fixing a drink and then discarded the idea even though he felt the need of something to steady his nerves. Finally he knew it was time to call Sidney Joslyn, but since he did not dare do so with the fingerprint man still at work, he went out front. Edwards and Finley were in a huddle with Ernestina and Oliver in front of the shack and now he called to Oliver, saying that he was going up to the Carvers and would be back shortly. Assured that there would be no protest from Edwards, he started down the path to the shoreline.
10
There were clouds over the mountain range to the north as Dave Wallace picked his way up the beach but here the sky was clear overhead and the sun was already bright and hot against his back. Passing the far boundary of the property with the burned-out house, he could see Lorraine Carver sitting under an umbrella by the pool.
Beyond this, the seawall Carver had built was indented at the far side to make a U-shaped boat slip which was roofed over but open on the sides. A sleek-looking cabin cruiser complete with outriggers was tied up here and Wallace could see the lean, wiry figure working in the cockpit. Clad only in shorts, and with an old straw hat on his head, Carver did not see Wallace and neither did Lorraine until he came up on the terrace and started toward the pool.
She was sitting in an aluminum chaise beside a round metal table, her long legs stretched out as she read the morning newspaper. A translucent, ivory-colored robe was open and pushed back to reveal a snug, white one-piece bathing suit and she had one of the wide-brimmed local straw hats perched on the back of her head. When Wallace drew closer she took off her glasses to see who was coming and then she smiled and put the paper aside.
“Good morning, David,” she said in her pleasantly husky voice. “Did you find her all right last night?”
Wallace dropped on one of the metal chairs and reached for a cigarette. “I found her, but not last night.”
“Where was she?”
“In her room but I didn’t know it.”
“Oh?” The expertly kept brows arched.
“The maid found her this morning. Dead.”
“Dead?” She sat up slowly.
“Strangled.”
The red mouth opened and bewilderment flooded the dark eyes. The tentative smile that followed was skeptical.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
“Oh, David!” She sat up straight from the waist, the husky voice aghast. “How horrible . . . You mean someone—last night —and you didn’t know it until—”
She stopped, as though aware that she was babbling. She swallowed and rearranged her mouth. She took a deep breath, the fabric of the white suit bulging from the pressure of the well-formed breasts. She exhaled and shook her head as though to clear away the picture her mind had formed.
“I cant believe it,” she said. “I just cant.” She leaned forward and covered his hand with her own. “How could such a thing happen? You say you didn’t know anything about it until this morning. Have the police—”
“I just finished with them,” Wallace said and then he was giving her a condensed and expurgated story of what happened.
She interrupted a few times but she had leaned back in the chaise now and he found part of his mind admiring her figure and reviewing what he knew about her. Artistically there was a great improvement in the woman he saw and the picture his mind presented of high-fashion models he had known. The height and the striking facial beauty remained but she no longer had much in common with the long-legged, hipless, and often button-breasted girls he had used in his work.
The need for diet and discipline had ceased to exist now that she had Carver. The life she led demanded little physical effort and the resulting self-indulgence had brought an exciting fullness to breast and thigh that the white Lastex suit helped accentuate. The cultivated tan was smooth and even wherever the skin was exposed and as some separate part of his artist’s mind moved on a tangent it occurred to him that she would be a very interesting study in the nude. . . .
Some movement caught the corner of his eye and he saw Carver moving toward them, the lean, brown body remarkably fit-looking for a man of his age. He was wiping his hands on a piece of cotton waste and there were grease stains on his forearms and one shoulder. He called a good morning to Wallace as he approached and uttered a mild warning.
“Don’t ever buy a power boat unless you’re handy with tools,” he said. “Blasted petrol line developed a leak. Almost overnight too, damn it to hell.”
“Can’t you fix it?” Lorraine asked.
“Certainly I can fix it but not until I’ve drained the tank and pumped out the bloody bilges and damned if I feel like doing it today. The fish can wait.”
“Sit down, Herb,” Lorraine said.
Carvers pale-blue eyes regarded his wife with some suspicion. “Why the devil should I sit down? I’m going to clean up and—”
“Sit down or you’re likely to fall,” the woman said. Then, as though she could not wait for Wallace to relay the news, she hurried on. “The most ghastly thing happened. About Fay. She was found dead this morning and David says she was murdered. Sometime last night.”
Carver’s handsome face was suddenly all humps and wrinkles. Beneath the neat gray mustache his mouth opened and closed as he stared at his wife and then at Wallace.
“Murdered? Good Christ, you can’t mean it!” He sat down heavily, both hands clutching the waste. “Is it true?”
Wallace said it was. He repeated the medical examiner’s guess as to the time of death and explained once more the reason he had not known his wife had been in the bedroom.
“Then it could have happened while you were back at the Tavern,” Carver said.
“It could even have happened while you were here asking about her, couldn’t it?” the woman added. “How long did we talk, ten minutes?”
“Not any longer,” Carver said.
He asked other questions and again Wallace’s mind considered the couple. During the period when he was a frequent visitor he had talked quite a bit with the older man. He knew there were two grown children in England from a former marriage and that Carver had come to the Bahamas to give himself a tax break and to look over some potential investment opportunities. It was at that time that Lorraine had appeared on her fashion assignment, and although no one had given Wallace specific reasons it was not hard to understand the marriage that had followed in spite of the difference in their ages.
For Lorraine was a striking-looking woman well schooled in the art of making the most of what she had. Unlike some tall girls, she was proud rather than self-conscious about her height. With no longer any need for the cultivated high-fashion slouch, she stood straight and pushed her chest out for all the world to see and admire. She had been married and divorced when she was quite young, and she was twenty-eight and, as she put it, not getting any younger, when Carver came along. By that time she had been sufficiently indoctrinated by past experience to understand Carver had much to offer and she had accepted his proposal. She had hinted to Wallace that marriage with an older man lacked some of the fire and ecstasy of youth but she also felt sure she could have love and affection and respect, as well as all of the material things she might want.
Carvers quick infatuation was easy enough to understand. In addition to her somewhat regal beauty and outward haughtiness there were hidden qualities that gave Wallace the impression that this was a woman who had a lot to offer anyone who could arouse her. She would, he thought, know what she wanted and probably get it one way or another. That she might flirt a bit, as she had with Nick Rand, or have a small affair from time to time, was a hazard that Carver apparently accepted as part of the bargain, and from all outward indications he was a devoted and indulgent husband.
Wallace was not sure what brought him to Trinidad but apparently he intended to stay. He had put considerable money into the house and grounds and he had invested in a coconut plantation in the southeastern part of the island. An overseer took care of the work and it was not an investment that would be overly profitable. The resulting copra was trucked up to Port-of-Spain and readily disposed of through the Copra Growers Association, but all owners had to wage a constant fight against a disease called “red ring” which had proved disastrous to some plantations. Wallace had an idea that the estate was perhaps more a hobby than anything else and it gave Carver a chance to go down there two or three times a week and do some riding as he inspected his acres. . . .
A new question brought his thoughts back to the moment in time to hear Carver ask if Fay might have been killed by a prowler.
“I don t think so,” he said, “and neither do the police. Fay had some fairly valuable pieces in a jewel case and they were still in her hatbox.”
“Do the police have any idea who might have done it?”
“From the way it looks now, they probably think I did.”
“Nonsense,” Carver scoffed and Lorraine said: “Why?”
“They know we didn't get along. The servants can tell them we had plenty of arguments. I wanted a divorce and Fay was holding me up.” He held out his hand to display the scratches on the back. “We had a battle last night before I went back to the Tavern. I came awfully close to grabbing her by the throat right then. If I hadn't concentrated on keeping my temper, I probably would have.”
He let his hand drop and said: “I don't think it was premeditated. I don't think anyone came to the bungalow with murder on his mind. But she was in a vile mood. After all her drinking, she must have made the mistake of pushing someone too far and it happened. If this was New York I probably would be in a precinct house right now with detectives and some assistant district attorney working on me in relays for the next twenty-four hours. Luckily for me, the English system gives you some leeway, at least until they have a case wrapped up. They do things differently here.”
“Yes,” Carver said, “they do, don't they?” He watched Wallace stand up and came to his feet. “Well look, old man, the Commissioner happens to be a friend of mine. If things get sticky down at Headquarters I'll be happy to put in a word for you. As a matter of fact, if there’s anything we can do, anything at all—”
“There is one thing. I'd like to use your telephone if I may. That’s why I came.” He turned his twisted grin from one to the other. “That and to warn you that the police will probably be up here to question you sometime during the day.”
“Question us?” Lorraine said in quick surprise.
“Why on earth should they do that?” Carver said.
“I had to give them a detailed account of my movements last night and I told them about coming up here to look for Fay. Maybe you can give me a character reference,” he added dryly.
“We'll give you the best,” Carver said with a grin of his own. “Use the telephone in the living room. You know where it is.” A maid was running the vacuum cleaner around the living room when Wallace came in through the French doors. She turned it off while he told her what he wanted and then very considerately left the room. A half minute later he was talking to Sidney Joslyn and he was glad that the older man had answered instead of Ann.
“The first round is over,” he said.
“Did they accept your story?”
“Up to now.”
“You're not under arrest?”
“I gave them a statement. I guess I'll have to go to Police Headquarters later and sign it. I don't know what will happen then but I'm free to move around for a while. That’s why I called. I have to see you.”
“Certainly, David.”
“Do you know where the Oasis is?” he asked, mentioning a restaurant and bar in which Neil Benedict was a partner. ‘It’s on the second floor overlooking Marine Square, but the entrance is round the comer.”
“I know where it is. What time?”
“One o'clock. We can have lunch there.”
“Just me?”
“Just you. Give Ann my love and tell her not to worry but this time it’s you I want to see. I'm sure she'll understand.”
A car that had not been there before was parked under the breadfruit tree when Dave Wallace returned to the bungalow. It was a little fancier than a police car and a Negro driver sat behind the wheel. Off to one side a man in a cord suit was talking to Oliver and when he turned Wallace saw that it was Joe Anderson.
“Jesus, Dave!” he said, as Wallace approached. “Your man just told me what happened. Fay wasn't the easiest dame in the world to get along with, but murder—” He let the word hang while he took the cigar from his mouth, shook his head, and blew out his breath. “That’s rough. Real rough. Who would do a thing like that? Why? Have the police got any leads?” Wallace answered that question and a few others but this was now a routine which required no thought. He st
udied the dark eyes behind the tinted glasses and inspected the mustached face with its thick lips, prominent nose, and close-cropped graying hair. He watched the man put the cigar back in his mouth and remembered again the ashes that had been found that morning. He also realized that this sort of evidence was police business, and when the questions stopped he said: “I imagine they'll want to talk to you before the day is over.”
“The police?” Anderson scowled and his jaw tightened on the cigar. “What the hell for?”
“I imagine they'll want to talk to all of Fay’s friends. You were pretty cozy there for a while, weren't you?”
“She was cozy with a lot of people,” Anderson said flatly. “It never bothered you, did it? According to Fay, you couldn't have cared less. And anyway I've hardly seen her in the last three weeks.”
“Is that why you gave her the check?”
“What check?”
“The police found a check of yours for a hundred dollars in her wallet. It was dated two days ago but she hadn't cashed it.”
“Oh that.” Anderson removed his cigar and blew smoke at the sky. “She said she was a little hard up for cash, so I gave her an advance.”
“On what?”
“You know I’m developing that property in the hills.” Anderson waved his hand in the general direction of the city. “I’m living in one house and I'm putting another one up for speculation. I'm selling lots, or trying to. Fay was doing some bird-dogging for me. You know, trying to line up potential prospects. She ran into all kinds of people on that job at the Hillside. She gave me a few leads and—well, that’s why I stopped by this morning. Wanted to see if she had anything I could follow up.”
The way Anderson told it the words sounded reasonable enough but the man had a cultivated glibness that made a lot of things sound reasonable. To his own knowledge, Anderson had never been here before in the morning but Wallace did not want to argue with him now. Instead he started toward the parked car. Anderson came along, still talking about how shocked he was and making the usual offers of help in case any was needed. Wallace was aware of this but his interest was now directed at the huge Negro who sat behind the wheel. A white cap was cocked on his round head and as he glanced at Wallace his massive, hard-looking face was inscrutable. Wallace scarcely looked at it. Instead he directed his glance to the two broad muscular hands which were resting on the steering wheel. It was then that he saw the heavy silver ring on the little finger of the left hand.
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