The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  “Hi, Henry. Care for a drink? Emmy and Margaret have gone to the beach. I’m minding the shop.”

  “I’ll have a fresh guava juice, if you’ve got one.” Henry sat down on a bamboo barstool. “I see you’re keeping up with your old profession.”

  John grinned. “Hardly,” he said. “Look at the date. Three weeks old. Just arrived by surface mail. I suppose it has a sort of quaint, historical charm. One guava juice. How are things going?”

  “I saw Sandy,” said Henry.

  John’s face brightened. “You did? How is he?”

  “Remarkably cheerful, under the circumstances. He also seems to have a touching faith in me, which is hardly justified. He also seems to have had a couple of good reasons for disliking Senator Olsen.”

  “Nonsense, Henry. What reasons could Sandy possibly have had?”

  Henry took a drink from the cool, dark pink glass. He said, “Their names are Diamond and Candy.”

  John made an impatient gesture, as if brushing away a fly. “Oh, Sandy and his chicks. He doesn’t take them that seriously. He’d never commit murder.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Henry. “Tell me, can Sandy handle a machete?”

  “Better than any man on the island.”

  “He tells me there’s a right and a wrong way to kill people with those things.”

  John’s smile was worried. “If he said so, you’d better believe him. But don’t expect me to know.”

  “They’re pretty easy to come by, I suppose,” Henry said. “I mean, if anybody wanted to buy one…”

  “Oh, certainly. All over the islands. Most of the men carry one, for coconuts. I expect Sandy told you.”

  “Yes. Yes, he did.”

  There was a clatter of feet on the outside staircase leading to the bedrooms. John looked up and said, “Hello there, Tom. Want your bill?”

  “If you please, John. Hi, Henry. Hail and farewell.”

  Tom Bradley was almost unrecognizable in a navy-blue lightweight suit and a polka-dotted bow tie. He said, “Don’t smirk at me like that, you lucky devil, just because you’re staying on here.”

  “Sorry,” said Henry. “You just look a little out of place. I didn’t know you were leaving.”

  “Nor did I.” Tom made a face. “Summoned back to Washington by the head office half an hour ago. Bill’s got a whiff of some sort of a story maybe breaking, and he wants me on it. Just my lousy luck.”

  Henry said, “Has it anything to do with—”

  “Don’t ask me, pal. Not the sort of thing one discusses on a public telephone line.”

  “It just occurred to me—”

  “It occurred to me, too,” said Tom. “Thanks, John. God, did I drink all that? Oh, well, Mawson’s expense account can stand it. Charge it to my American Express, will you? Here.” He fished the magic plastic rectangle from his wallet. “And can you call a cab for me? I want to make the three-thirty boat from Priest Town.”

  Quickly, Henry said, “Don’t bother with a taxi. I’ve got a Moke outside. I’ll run you to the harbor.”

  Tom Bradley gave him a quizzical look. “OK. Very kind of you.” He scrawled his signature on the bill and picked up his cases.

  “So long, John. Say good-bye to Margaret for me. Oh, and…don’t let my room for a week or so, there’s a dear chap. I just might be back.”

  In the Moke, bouncing over the dirt road toward Priest Town, Tom said, “All right. It may be something connected with Olsen. Naturally I thought of that when Bill called. But get this straight. It may be a hundred other different things. And what’s more, there’s no question of revealing my sources to a policeman. I’ve got my job to do, and you’ve got yours. You can’t ask me to—”

  Henry said, “I haven’t asked you anything, Tom.”

  Tom grinned. “No, you haven’t, have you? Well, get this. If it’s to do with Olsen, and if it’s not going to harm me or Bill or the column, and if it’s going to help Sandy…well…”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Henry.

  “Probably wouldn’t be anything specific, you understand? Just a tip-off, a direction to look in.”

  “Huberman?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “Ledbetter?”

  “That’s quite enough of that. Turn right here, and the second left will bring us to the harbor. And get a move on, or I’ll miss that boat.”

  Henry stopped the Moke near the dock, where a battered little steamboat called Pride of St. Mark’s was puffing out ineffectual bursts of black smoke from her grimy funnel. Tom jumped out of the car, grabbed his cases, and ran up the gangplank, just a matter of seconds before it was hauled on board. The Pride of St. Mark’s gave an asthmatic hoot, ropes were cast off, and the steamer moved with a certain slow dignity toward the mouth of the harbor. Henry turned the Moke around and drove back into the narrow streets of Priest Town.

  If he hadn’t had so much to think about besides actually driving the car, Henry might have seen his attacker. As it was, the jagged brick smashed through the windshield with no warning, shattering the glass and sending the Moke into a skid on the slippery cobblestones, as Henry fought with the wheel to regain control. He brought the little car to a screaming stop half on and half off the narrow pavement. The street, which a moment before had boasted a sprinkling of pedestrians and cyclists, was suddenly deserted.

  The brick had come from the right, slightly ahead of the Moke—in fact, from the direction of a narrow alley running between two tall gray buildings. Henry leaped out of the car and raced for the alley’s entrance. He got there just in time to see a lanky figure on a bicycle disappearing around the corner at the far end, before he collided violently with Diamond, who had stepped out of a doorway and was standing fair and square in the center of the alley. She was wearing her dark glasses and a sardonic smile, and she halted Henry’s progress with one strong black hand.

  “Looking for somebody, Chief Superintendent?”

  Henry regained his balance and glared at her. “Not anymore.”

  Diamond’s smile deepened a little. “That was just to show you,” she said. “We’re watching you. We know what you do and who you talk to.”

  “There’s no secret about what I do. For God’s sake, Diamond, Olsen’s dead. Aren’t you satisfied with that?”

  “A year ago, I might have been. Not anymore.” Diamond looked down on Henry, using her height as a weapon. “You’d better take the Moke back to Chatsworth and get one with a strong windshield. It might be a bullet next time.”

  Henry grinned wryly and shook his head. “Which is it to be, Diamond? Personal or political?”

  “Bit of both, man. Bit of both.”

  “Can’t you feel any pity for—”

  “Who felt pity for me? Tell me that.”

  “Plenty of people,” Henry said. “But it’s a perishable commodity, you know. It won’t last much longer.”

  “Unless you do something foolish. Like arrest me. Or Brooks. Or Delaware.”

  “My dear young lady,” Henry said, reasonably, “if you or Brooks or Delaware break the law, and I catch you at it, I’ll arrest you just as I would…Major Chatsworth.”

  “Or Owen Montague? Or Sir Geoffrey Patterson?” Diamond spat the names out.

  “Nobody is above the law,” said Henry.

  Diamond did not reply. She laughed, shortly and without amusement. Then she turned on her heel and walked down the thin alleyway, casting a larger-than-life shadow which flicked up the gray walls behind her. Henry did not attempt to follow her. He went back to the abandoned Moke, and, as she had advised, drove it back to the club.

  Major Chatsworth was predictably irritated. “Surely you could have called the police and had the girl arrested, Tibbett?”

  “What for?”

  “Well, disturbing the peace, breaking your windshield…”

  “Diamond didn’t throw that brick, Major Chatsworth. And I warn you—if you have her arrested before the Robbins case comes to trial, yo
u’re going to have bad trouble on this island.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “Call it what you like; it’s a fact. Robbins must either be cleared or convicted before anything worse happens.”

  “Well, isn’t that what you’re here for, Tibbett?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, of course it is. I’m sorry about the Moke.”

  “Good God, the Moke doesn’t matter. Pick up another one on your way out. What matters is to get this island back to normal.”

  “It’s possible,” Henry said, “that nothing will ever be what you call ‘normal’ again.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just that it’s easier to start things than to finish them. As Miss Diamond may find out.”

  “I don’t pretend to understand you, Tibbett.”

  “I’m not surprised. I don’t really understand myself. I’ll be at the Anchorage if you want me. By the way, there’s no need to make a big thing of this stone-throwing incident. I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention it to anybody.”

  As soon as Henry had left his office, Major Chatsworth picked up the telephone. “Get me the governor. Yes, if he’s on the beach, have him paged. It’s urgent.”

  Seven o’clock. The Colvilles and the Tibbetts were enjoying a cool drink in the Anchorage bar, with Emmy recounting the delights of snorkeling in Cedar Valley Bay. As the sun dipped toward the western horizon in a blaze of red, yellow, purple, and gold, John Colville suddenly said, “Listen. Isn’t that—”

  “It’s the club launch,” said Margaret. “I’d know her motor anywhere. Yes, there she goes.”

  Around the headland, traveling fast, came a sleek white boat cutting through the rippled water and leaving an arrow of creamy wake.

  John looked puzzled. “Heading for St. Boniface, no doubt about that,” he said. “Picking up some new guests? But there are no planes due.”

  “Perhaps somebody’s leaving,” Margaret suggested.

  “Why leave now?” remarked her husband. “The only plane anybody could catch before morning is the cut-rate night excursion flight to Washington, and that’s not the way Golf Club members travel.”

  They watched the boat in silence as it ripped across the bay and finally disappeared from view. “I wonder—” John began, but was cut short by the shrilling of the telephone. He heaved himself out of his comfortable chair and went to answer it.

  “Anchorage Inn. Yes…who wants him, please?… I see… just a moment.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “For you, Henry. Mr. Reynolds from the Golf Club.”

  Henry stood up. “He’s due here for dinner in half an hour,” he said. “I wonder what he wants.” He took the phone from John. “Yes? Tibbett here.”

  “Oh—sir—Mr. Tibbett.” Reynolds sounded both furtive and uneasy. “It’s—that is, something has come up. It’s a little awkward.”

  “What is, Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Well…” Reynolds lowered his voice. “It’s not very easy to talk. I’m not alone, you see.”

  “Well, then, come down here at once and—”

  “That’s just it. I—I really can’t. The young lady…well, she insisted I go to Major Chatsworth right away, and now that Mr. Huberman has gone—”

  “Gone?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. He suddenly decided to leave. Got himself a booking on the night plane to Washington and called the launch to take him to St. Boniface right away. And Miss Stevenson—ah, that’s better.”

  “What’s better?”

  “She’s gone off to the bar to get a drink. So I can talk more freely. She wouldn’t go with him, you see. There was quite a row. Well, I’d been making up to her, like you said, and when Mr. Huberman told her she’d have to leave with him, as she wasn’t a member but only his guest, she turned right around and said that her new friend Mr. Reynolds, the well-known stamp collector, would sponsor her at the club. I didn’t know what to say—I really didn’t. Anyhow, Mr. Huberman has gone and Candy is still here, and she wants me to fix it with Major Chatsworth right away, and…is there something wrong, Mr. Tibbett?”

  “No,” said Henry. “I’m sorry. It just struck me as rather funny. Though the reason Huberman is making tracks for Washington may not be a laughing matter. Anyhow, don’t worry. I think it’s an admirable arrangement. Just tell the young lady that everything is in order, and I’ll speak to Major Chatsworth. Go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

  “I could tell her I had an appointment for dinner.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Find out anything useful she can tell you, and let me know tomorrow.”

  “Sometimes,” said Sergeant Reynolds, with a note of slight desperation, “I think it would be nice to be back in Victoria Street.” Then, more loudly, “Yes, my dear. Just coming. Well, let me know if you get on the track of a purple oblong, won’t you, old man? Thanks. See you tomorrow.” The line went dead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE RECEPTION CLERK at the Golf Club informed Henry that Major Chatsworth was out but could be contacted at the Anchorage Inn; and sure enough, hardly had Henry hung up the telephone than the secretary’s bright red jeep turned into the parking lot. The major was alone, and looked worried.

  “Evening, Margaret…John… How are you Tibbett?… Mrs. Tibbett? Make me a Bloody Mary, will you, John?” He sat down heavily on a barstool.

  “Good evening, Sebastian,” said Margaret. “Henry was just trying to call you. I understand Mr. Huberman has left us.”

  “Good God,” said Major Chatsworth, in a flat voice. “I knew this island had an efficient grapevine, but that takes the cake. I only heard myself about ten minutes ago. How on earth—Oh, I suppose you saw the launch. And if Tibbett was on the blower to the club… Thanks, John. I needed that.” He took a gulp of his drink. “You heard what happened to Tibbett this afternoon?” he added.

  The other three turned to look inquiringly at Henry, who said, “I hadn’t mentioned it, actually.”

  Emmy said, “What happened, Henry?”

  “Oh, some idiot in Priest Town heaved a brick at my car. It was nothing.”

  “Well, Sir Geoffrey Patterson doesn’t consider it nothing,” said Chatsworth. “He’s extremely upset.”

  Henry said, “Major Chatsworth, I did particularly ask you not to—”

  “It was my clear duty to inform the governor. I wasn’t chatting about it in bars.”

  “Well, you are now,” said Henry. A couple of black men, one of whom Henry recognized as Daniel Markham, had come in and seated themselves at the far end of the bar. John went off to serve them.

  Sotto voce, Major Chatsworth said, “Naming no names, but Sir Geoffrey has been in touch with Montague. A certain person will not be at liberty very much longer.”

  “In that case,” said Henry, angrily, “I shall have to—”

  He got no further. A second jeep had pulled up with a squeal of brakes, and Teresa Chatsworth jumped out of it and hurried into the bar. It was obvious that she was very angry, and although she spoke little above a whisper, it sounded like a shout.

  “Sebastian! You must come back to the club at once. That girl is still there!”

  “Girl? What girl?”

  “The Stevenson girl, idiot. Huberman has gone back to Washington, but she’s still at the club.”

  Chatsworth hesitated a moment as this information sank in. Then he said, “But she’s not a member.”

  “Precisely.”

  “She was Huberman’s guest. She had to leave when he did.”

  “Well, she didn’t. According to a garbled story from reception, she has found herself another…protector.” Teresa spat out the word. “Now, once and for all, Sebastian—”

  The major held up a hand in mild protest. “All right, all right, my dear. I know.”

  “I was against letting her in in the first place,” Teresa went on. “If it had been anybody but Mr. Huberman and Senator Olsen… Anyhow, I gave in, against my better judgment. And now this happens. P
lease understand, Sebastian, that I am running a golf club, not a brothel.”

  “To be absolutely accurate, Teresa dear, you’re not running anything. I am.”

  “Oh, don’t be childish, Sebastian. Come back this moment and get rid of her. As soon as the launch gets back from St. Boniface, she’s going to board it. I don’t care where she goes. She’s not spending another night at the club.”

  The major did not seem unduly intimidated. He said, “For heaven’s sake, Tess, simmer down and have a drink. John, a rum punch for my old lady, if you please. She’s somewhat overexcited.”

  “Sebastian, I—”

  “Who’s she found to sponsor her, I wonder?” Chatsworth went on. “Pretty quick work. Of course, some members are on the qui vive for—”

  Henry said, “I think I can throw some light on that, Major. In fact, it’s what I was trying to telephone you about. Miss Stevenson is now the guest of Mr. Derek Reynolds, the wealthy English philatelist.”

  Teresa Chatsworth turned on Henry, furious. “You lunched with him today,” she said, accusingly.

  “That’s right. He’s an old acquaintance from London.”

  “Then you’re behind this. You put him up to it.”

  “I certainly did not, Mrs. Chatsworth. At lunchtime, nobody had any idea that Mr. Huberman would be leaving. But I won’t deny that when Reynolds telephoned me just now to tell me what had happened, I didn’t discourage him.”

  “Well, you should have. It’s disgusting.”

  Henry said, “The point, Mrs. Chatsworth, is that I think the Stevenson girl may be useful in my investigation—and once she leaves here, she’ll disappear into the United States like an eel into the mud. Not like many of your members, who are public figures and therefore always traceable, even if not available for comment.”

  “The reputation of the Golf Club,” said Teresa icily, “is more important than your investigation. It’s perfectly obvious that Sandy Robbins killed Senator Olsen, and all we have to do now is tie it up in blue ribbons for the public. I can’t see how Candy Stevenson can help with that.”

  Henry smiled, in a way calculated to infuriate Mrs. Chatsworth. He said, “I’m afraid our priorities are different. My object is not to convict Robbins, but to find out what actually happened. Candy Stevenson was a close friend of both Olsen and Robbins, and so her testimony is important. With Huberman out of the way, I think she’ll talk more freely.”