The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  “I’m afraid not, Sir Geoffrey,” Henry said, “but no matter. I agree that the two crimes are related, but there are a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “Well, put your questions and find your answers, Tibbett, and good luck to you,” said Patterson. “Come along, Montague. Commissioner Alcott will be waiting.”

  Henry said, “Just one question before you go, Inspector. Can you tell me exactly how your officer was killed at the police station?”

  “How? With a machete, of course. You knew that.”

  “But the actual wound?”

  Montague looked sick. He said, “It was most unpleasant— but certainly efficient. Just one stroke to the head…”

  “Like splitting a coconut?”

  “If you must put it like that—yes.”

  “Thanks,” said Henry. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer, gentlemen.”

  Alone with Sebastian Chatsworth, Henry said, “Now please tell me about Mr. Huberman.”

  “About him? What about him? He left here about seven o’clock the night before last.”

  “Why?”

  “How should I know why? He decided to go back to the States, and ordered the launch. Our members are busy and important people, Mr. Tibbett. They frequently have to make quick changes of plan—and we pride ourselves on serving them efficiently. We certainly don’t ask questions.”

  “All right. But the man is dead. Did he get a phone call or a telegram?”

  Chatsworth looked uncomfortable. “I understand from reception that he received a call from New York around six o’clock. Naturally, the operator asked who wished to speak to him—we protect our members from unwanted callers.”

  “And who was it?”

  “The caller was a woman—a secretary, I suppose. She told our operator that Mr. Jackson Ledbetter was on the line for Mr. Huberman. Naturally, Mr. Huberman accepted the call—and immediately afterward asked the desk to book him a seat on the night flight to Washington and to order the launch to take him to St. Boniface without more ado. It all seems very logical. After all, Mr. Ledbetter was Mr. Huberman’s employer, in a manner of speaking. The CPF clearly wanted Mr. Huberman back in the States.”

  “Did anyone listen in to that telephone call?” Henry asked.

  Chatsworth looked deeply shocked. “How can you suggest such a thing, Mr. Tibbett? Don’t you realize that our reputation with our members rests on a foundation of absolute discretion and trust? Why, if Mr. Huberman had not been killed, I would never have dreamed of divulging the mere fact that Mr. Ledbetter had called him—even to you.”

  “All right. So we have to presume that Ledbetter did speak to Huberman and did ask him to return to Washington at once. The next question is—why didn’t he?”

  “My dear Tibbett, I have no idea. Our boatman took Mr. Huberman to St. Boniface and put him ashore soon after eight o’clock. After that, there’s nothing but conjecture. Presumably, he changed his mind.”

  “Then why didn’t he get the club launch to bring him back? In fact—how did he get back, Major Chatsworth?”

  Chatsworth smiled and settled more comfortably in his cane chair. “No mystery to that. He must have persuaded a local boatman to bring him over. Our launch service stops at ten o’clock, you see, unless special arrangements have been made in advance. Hire boats aren’t allowed to land at our jetty during the day, and most of them don’t work at night—but you can generally find a skipper prepared to make an extra buck.”

  Henry said, “Something puzzles me, Major Chatsworth. You take fantastic precautions to prevent the club from being broken into from the land, and yet it seems relatively easy to get in from the sea. You mean that Huberman could have been landed back here, at your jetty, in the middle of the night—by a boatman from St. Boniface—and nobody would have known?”

  Chatsworth looked shocked. “I mean nothing of the sort. Let me explain. It’s perfectly true that our security is far stricter on the landward side—simply because that’s the way interlopers try to get in. You see, only small boats skippered by people who know the local conditions can get past the reef and into the bay, even in daylight. At night, there’s only a handful of local people and a couple of the St. Boniface boatmen who would dare try it.”

  “There’s no buoyed channel?”

  “Goodness me, no. These people know every rock and every piece of coral. There are guiding lights on our jetty, but they’d be little use to a helmsman who didn’t know the waters.”

  “And your jetty is manned twenty-four hours a day?”

  “Of course. In the daytime, the Customs and Immigration officer is there, as well as our harbor master. At night, one of our men is always on duty. If a member should arrive on the night flight—a very unusual occurrence—he makes out the documents and has them ready for the Immigration people in the morning.” Major Chatsworth looked a little embarrassed. “I suppose it may strike you as somewhat informal, but this is the Caribbean. And, of course, our members are above suspicion.”

  “Supposing somebody tried to land who wasn’t a member?”

  Chatsworth laughed shortly. “He wouldn’t succeed. The only way it could be done was as Robbins did it—underwater swimming to a remote bay like Mango Trunk, and overland across the links. And that’s never happened before.”

  “Right.” Henry stood up. “Let’s go and talk to the man who was on duty at the jetty on Friday night.”

  The Golf Club jetty was spick and span and decked out in teak and white-painted wrought iron to look like an idealized Victorian yacht club. Two club launches were moored alongside, busily loading up with members and their luggage— for the riots and the death of Albert Huberman had turned the exodus into a rout. The only thing keeping visitors on the island was the lack of seats in aircraft returning to the United States, and Teresa Chatsworth reported that the snapping sound of frantically pulled strings was audible as far away as Miami. It was even rumored that some members had accepted economy-class seats, while others were roughing it in ordinary luxury hotels on St. Boniface waiting for first-class seats. Henry noticed that the jetty was being patrolled, as unobtrusively as possible, by several brawny armed guards. The club was in a state of siege.

  Major Chatsworth led the way to a cute little white-painted pavilion at the head of the pier. It bore two black-painted notices which read, respectively, ST. MATTHEW’S GOLF CLUB—HARBOR MASTER and H.M. CUSTOMS AND IMMIGRATION. The red, white, and blue of the Union Jack fluttered merrily above the pagodalike conical roof.

  Inside, two officials with important-looking black-and-gold epaulets attached to their spotless white shirts were stamping passports and collecting documents from the departing travelers, while at another desk a small, cheerful black man in Golf Club uniform was making entries in a large logbook. He jumped to his feet as Henry and Chatsworth came in.

  “Morning, Major Chatsworth. Busy time we’re having. Both launches just about loaded and ready to be off. Reckon we’ll have to run an extra trip.”

  “You don’t have to rub it in, Franklin,” remarked Sebastian gloomily. “You’re making sure to get addresses where everybody can be reached, aren’t you? And warning them they may be asked for a statement?”

  “Sure, Major Chatsworth.”

  To Henry, Chatsworth said, “It’s Montague’s opinion that we can’t stop these people from leaving, and in any case none of them really knew Huberman. His cronies were Olsen, who’s dead, Ledbetter, who’s in New York, and the girl Candy Stevenson, who’s heaven knows where. You agree?”

  “Reluctantly,” said Henry. “I understand the cottages on either side of Huberman’s were empty when he was killed.”

  “That’s right. One couple was scared off by the trouble here and cut short their stay, and the other people had canceled.” Chatsworth sighed deeply, then changed gears and said briskly, “Well, now, Franklin, you can tell us who was on duty here on Friday night.”

  Franklin consulted a wall chart. “Let’s see. Friday, March thirtieth. Tha
t was Addison Drake, sir.”

  “Right. Get me the assistant secretary’s office on the blower, there’s a good chap.”

  Henry noticed that Franklin gave the major a curious, sidelong look, but all he said was, “OK, sir.” He dialed a number, said, “Major Chatsworth for you,” and held out the telephone to Sebastian.

  “Hello? Oh, it’s you, Tess. Well, you can help me. Just get hold of Addison and ask him to come down to—What? He’s what?” Sebastian Chatsworth had gone very red. “When did this happen? Why wasn’t I informed?” Faintly, from the telephone receiver, Henry could hear Teresa’s voice talking rapidly and decisively. At last, Sebastian said, in a chastened tone, “Yes, of course I realize…well, we shall just have to… Tampica, you said…yes, dear…no, of course you couldn’t…no, I wasn’t implying…yes, I’ll see you for lunch…” He hung up and mopped his brow.

  “I gather he’s gone,” said Henry.

  Franklin grinned. “Sure. Addison went off Saturday, back to Tampica. Had it in mind for some time.”

  “These people!” The major raised his eyes to heaven, but saw only the Union Jack. “We’ll get after him, of course—but it may be difficult, now that Tampica is independent. To think that nobody raised a finger to stop him.”

  “On Saturday,” Henry pointed out, “nobody knew that Mr. Huberman had come back to the club, much less that he had been or was going to be murdered. His body wasn’t found until the evening.”

  “Well, it should have been,” said Chatsworth peevishly. “Even if the club wasn’t full, there was no excuse for leaving that cottage uncleaned until…oh, well, what’s the use? These people are utterly feckless; they come and go as it suits them. In any case, it’s of no great importance. The harbor master’s log for Friday night will show us exactly when Mr. Huberman returned. Let’s see the log, Franklin.”

  “Sure, sir.” Franklin beamed again, with a slight suggestion of a wink toward Henry. He held out the book. “You’ll find it all in there, sir.”

  Chatsworth was turning the pages. “Let’s see, this is today, Sunday. Here we have Saturday, and here—” He broke off and then said, “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s the matter?” Henry asked.

  “There’s nothing. Look for yourself. Nothing!”

  He thrust the book at Henry. The page marked Friday, March 30, ended with two terse entries: “7:10 P.M. Launch Island Eagle dep. for St. Boniface. Skipper, Sylvester Markham. Passenger, Mr. A. Huberman. 9:29 P.M. Launch Island Eagle returned. No passengers.”

  Sebastian Chatsworth was slowly becoming very angry. “It’s a conspiracy! Addison must have been in on it, and probably the Stevenson hussy as well, never mind how many other people! How did Robbins get into the club to murder Huberman? I’ll tell you, sir! In all probability the guard unlocked the gate and begged him to step inside!” He turned fiercely on Franklin, who backed away, looking not unnaturally apprehensive. “I’ll get to the bottom of this! I’ll find out who’s sabotaging this club! Heads will roll—you mark my words!”

  Several departing members exchanged nervous glances and crept out of the office. The sight of them seemed to jolt Chatsworth to his senses. With an effort, he said, “Well, as you remarked earlier, Tibbett, no use losing one’s temper. Now at least we know where we stand.”

  “Do we?”

  “I, for one, certainly do, and I shall explain the matter to the governor. We must get hold of Addison. And come to that— where the blazes is Mr. Reynolds?”

  “That’s just one of the many things we don’t know,” said Henry. “Now, may I borrow your office? There are some people I’d like to talk to.”

  The maid who had found Huberman’s body was a pert girl who looked no more than sixteen. She seemed to have recovered from the shock of her gruesome discovery and was now enjoying her newfound importance. She told Henry that her name was Marietta Markham.

  “You’re from this island?”

  Marietta beamed. “Yes, sir. I’s born here.”

  “You’re related to the other Markhams, then—Daniel and Sylvester?”

  It was an unfortunate question. Marietta immediately launched into a highly intricate account of the family’s contorted tree. Henry remembered too late that island marriages are often flexible affairs, and that illegitimate or “out” children take their father’s name and are cared for by his family. He stopped the flow by bringing the conversation back to Marietta’s discovery of Huberman.

  She was only too eager to talk about that. “That old blood, that was everywhere,” she said with relish, rolling her eyes. “That man was done for, sir. Worse than I ever see in the movies in Priest Town.”

  Henry said, “Why didn’t you go in to clean up the room earlier, Marietta? After all, Mr. Huberman left on Friday evening.”

  Marietta looked pained. “Wasn’t my job, sir. Saturday, that’s my day off. I’s off Friday afternoon till Saturday afternoon. I didn’t go in there to clean—that was for the mornin’ maid. I went in to turn down the bed and put fresh towels. And there he was, lyin’ there in all that blood.”

  “Did you see what killed him—the weapon, I mean?”

  Marietta gave him a sideways look. “I seen a machete,” she said. “On the floor beside him.”

  Henry had seen it, too, when a distraught Sebastian Chatsworth had called him to report the murder. It was almost new, of a kind that could be bought anywhere, and it had been wiped clean of prints. He said, “So you did see the murder weapon.”

  “Well…” Marietta drew the word out to impossible lengths and grinned. “I guess so. Yes, sir, I guess so.”

  “You mean, you don’t think he was killed with that machete?”

  “Well, sir. Mr. Montague say he was, and Major Chatsworth, and they’s clever men. They know.”

  “But you know better?”

  Marietta giggled. Then she said, “I say this to you, sir. If Mr. Huberman was killed with that machete, it wasn’t no man from this island did it. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I think I do,” said Henry. “Anybody experienced with a machete would kill with a clean cut to the head, like a coconut.”

  Marietta looked surprised, and nodded. Henry added, “But supposing somebody who did handle a machete killed Mr. Huberman and deliberately tried to make it look like an amateur job?”

  Marietta considered this, her little-bird head tilted to one side.

  “That would be a very smart man. I don’t think men on this island smart like that.”

  “What about women?”

  Marietta giggled again, shook her head, said nothing. Henry changed the subject. “You cleaned Mr. Huberman’s cottage every day while he was here, did you?”

  “Every day but Saturdays, like I said.”

  “Did you happen to notice his luggage?”

  Suddenly, Marietta was scared. “I never touch guests’ luggage. Never, never. I never take anything. I never open suitcase—”

  “Of course you don’t, Marietta. Nobody said you did.”

  “You sure?” She was still doubtful.

  “Of course I’m sure. I only asked if you noticed what the luggage looked like.”

  Reassured, Marietta said, “Sure I did. Very beautiful. All real leather. Black, very expensive.”

  “With initials on it?”

  “Sure. In gold. A. G. H. on every bit. Beautiful.”

  “All right, Marietta. That’s all. Thanks a lot.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Marietta stood up, grinned at Henry again, and walked to the door. As she did so, she began to hum softly—a calypso which Henry recognized but could not place. It was not until the door had closed behind her that the song clicked into place in Henry’s head. It was an old Harry Belafonte number, and the refrain went, “An’ I say the woman of today, smarter than the man in every way…”

  Sylvester Markham could not contribute much. He had ferried Mr. Huberman and his black, gold-embossed luggage to St. Boniface on Friday evening, leaving
at 7:10 P.M. and docking soon after eight. He had then come straight back to St. Matthew’s and checked in with the harbor master, Addison. Yes, he had helped Mr. Huberman ashore with his luggage— in fact, he had carried it into the United States Customs and Immigration area for him.

  “That would be a Customs post on the pier.”

  “No, man. Right in the airport.”

  “You mean, your launches actually dock in the airport?”

  “Right. We have a special wharf alongside the terminal building, right by Customs and Immigration. The town quay is different. That’s down by St. Boniface harbor.”

  Henry looked thoughtful. “Let me get this straight. You personally ushered Mr. Huberman and his luggage into the United States Customs and Immigration area?”

  “That’s right. Saw him checking it through.”

  “Then how did he get out again?”

  “No problem, man. Mr. Huberman sees his baggage through Customs, checks his ticket in for the flight, then comes out again and goes to dinner. His plane don’t leave till three in the morning.”

  Henry said, “So Mr. Huberman’s luggage must have been on the plane, even if he wasn’t.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So if, after ten o’clock when the club launches stop running, he’d changed his mind and decided to come back to St. Matthew’s, he’d have had to abandon his luggage, go to the town quay and hire a boat?”

  “Right, man. And that wouldn’t be so easy, not at night.” When Sylvester had gone, Henry picked up the telephone and put a call through to Tom Bradley in Washington. The journalist did not sound amused.

  “If you’re calling to tell me what happened to Huberman— thanks a lot. Didn’t I tell you he wasn’t on that plane? He sneaked back to St. Matthew’s to hide out, just like I said—and you were too goddamn dumb to find him until he was good and dead. Dear God, there he was, right under your nose.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Henry. “It never occurred to me that he could use the club as a hideout. I mean, he had to eat. Somebody would have known…”