The Coconut Killings

by Patricia Moyes

  John raised his eyebrows slightly but only said, “OK. Whatever you say.” He climbed off his barstool and went into the small office at the back. A few moments later he reappeared, saying, “He’s on the line. Lucky you told me about Teresa, because she did her best to take the call. I don’t think you’re very popular in certain quarters.”

  Henry grinned. “I can bear it,” he said. “Thanks, John.” He went into the office and picked up the telephone. “Major Chatsworth? Tibbett here. This is urgent. Will you check right away and see if one of your Boston whalers is missing?”

  “Our Boston whalers? Don’t be absurd, Tibbett. How could one of our boats be missing?”

  “Please hurry, Major. This is important.”

  “Oh, very well. I’ll send—”

  “Don’t send anybody. Go yourself and check. And don’t say a word to anybody. Anybody at all. I’ll hold on.”

  Grumbling, Sebastian Chatsworth laid down the telephone in the Golf Club bar. Teresa said, “What does that man Tibbett want, Sebastian? I do think the Yard might have sent us somebody a little less boorish.”

  “Oh, some nonsense about a boat… Back in a minute…”

  Ten minutes later, Sebastian Chatsworth was saying, “Tibbett? Chatsworth. Of course there’s no boat missing. I checked with the duty harbor master—we inspected the jetty together. All present and correct.”

  “Oh.” Henry sounded puzzled. “Then I’ll come over myself, if I may. Would you tell the guard to expect us—Emmy and me?”

  Outwardly, at least, the Golf Club was the only place on the island unaffected by the curfew or anything else. Soft lights illuminated the paths that wound across velvety lawns, and they lit up the exotic tropical vegetation—shiny gourds hanging like lacquered green grapefruit from the calabash trees, sweet yellow sugar apples, and orange mangoes. In the distance, the beat of the steel band throbbed on the open-air dance floor— but nobody was dancing. The beach bar was as luxurious as ever, but the bartender yawned as he polished already spotless glasses, and the waiters lounged against the wall, gossiping. Teresa and Sebastian Chatsworth were the only people sitting at the bar.

  Henry said, “Having a quiet evening, I see.”

  Chatsworth gave a laugh that sounded like a bark. “We’ve got exactly six guests, not counting the governor, who’s in St. Mark’s until tomorrow morning. I tell you, Tibbett, this island has had it. We’ll never recover from this.”

  “Don’t be silly, Sebastian.” Teresa Chatsworth was looking elegant, if haggard, in a pantsuit made of creamy slubbed silk. “The Golf Club is quite wealthy enough to weather a bad patch like this—the members know very well there’s nothing in the world to take its place. Besides, a lot of them have a considerable financial stake in it. They’ll be back.”

  “But what about the rest of the island?” Emmy asked.

  Teresa gave her an unfriendly look. “I’m afraid I am not very much concerned with the rest of the island, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “So long as the fence holds,” said Henry.

  There was an uneasy pause; then Sebastian Chatsworth rubbed his hands together and said, “Well, now, Mrs. Tibbett… Tibbett…come and have a drink and tell me about this missing boat that isn’t missing.”

  “Thanks,” said Henry. “I’ll have a beer. Now, you’re sure all your boats are there?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Who else on the island owns a Boston whaler?”

  “Nobody, as far as I know,” said Chatsworth. “We have our fleet of five, and that’s it.”

  “And all five are tied up at their moorings?”

  “Certainly. Well, all four. One is in dry dock at the moment.”

  Henry was immediately alert. “Dry dock? What does that mean?”

  “In for regular maintenance. We have a small slip and a repair shed on the far side of the bay.”

  “And did you check on that boat?” Henry asked.

  “Well…no, of course not. It’s a long walk by land, and—”

  “Then,” said Henry, “I think we should check it now. May we take a boat?”

  Sebastian was clearly rattled. “Now, really, Tibbett. It’s eleven o’clock at night, and I can’t believe it’s necessary—”

  “I’ll take you, Mr. Tibbett.” Teresa Chatsworth stood up and looked at Henry with a curious half smile. “I can see that you are determined to go, and I handle a boat very much better than Sebastian does.” She turned to her husband. “Entertain Emmy while we’re away, won’t you, darling? It shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes or so to satisfy the chief superintendent’s curiosity.”

  Emmy looked at Henry with a question behind her eyes. Things were not going according to the timetable. However, he gave her a reassuring grin and said, “That’s extremely kind of you, Mrs. Chatsworth. Sorry to drag you out so late at night.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” said Teresa.

  It was at once obvious that Teresa Chatsworth was an expert when it came to small boats. Having checked out with the harbor master, who seemed half asleep and unsurprised, she led the way down the jetty, and within seconds had a Boston whaler cast off, its engine purring gently and its navigation lights throwing ripples of red, white, and green onto the crinkled water. Henry’s offer of help was rebuffed by a curt, “Just sit still and keep quiet,” and in another minute the little boat was speeding toward the channel through the reef, which Teresa clearly knew by heart.

  The noise of the engine made conversation virtually impossible, so Henry sat still and kept quiet. Once outside the reef, Teresa put the wheel hard to starboard and headed for a point well inside the jutting headland. As they approached the shore, she reduced speed and pointed.

  “There’s the slip. See? Over there.”

  “I didn’t realize it was outside the reef,” Henry said.

  “Of course. We couldn’t have the club beach cluttered up with greasy mechanics and repair sheds. You can’t see this maintenance area from the club at all.” The little boat was nosing toward the shore, and in the moonlight Henry could make out the dark shape of a building on the water’s edge. He could also see that there was a small white boat, identical to the one he was in, riding at anchor just offshore.

  Teresa turned to him, triumphant. “You see? There she is. Are you satisfied now?”

  Henry said, “Why isn’t she on the slip?”

  “Why? Obviously because the mechanic finished with her this afternoon and launched her again.”

  “Then why didn’t he bring her back to the jetty?”

  Teresa gave a little impatient laugh. “Why? Why? Why? I don’t know. I suppose it was knocking-off time. Anyhow, you will admit that she’s there? You saw the other three at the jetty as we came out, and with this one, that makes five. Right?”

  Teresa was putting the wheel over to turn away from the land again, when Henry said, “Just a moment. I’m sorry, Mrs. Chatsworth, but I’d like a closer look at that boat.”

  “A closer look?”

  “Yes. Could we go up alongside her for a moment before we go back?”

  “I suppose so.” Teresa had the air of one humoring an idiot. “It’s the club boat all right, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Henry again. “If you don’t mind…”

  “Oh, very well.”

  Teresa maneuvered the motorboat adroitly until it lay alongside its anchored sister ship. Henry stood up and peered intently over the gunwale of the other boat. He put out his hand—and at that moment Teresa shouted, “Sit down, you fool!” as the little boat tilted alarmingly, rocked back, and finally righted itself as Teresa opened up the engine and sped away.

  She said, “I can see you’ve never done any boating. Don’t you know you can capsize a little craft like this, throwing your weight all over the place?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Henry yet again.

  “Oh, forget it. We’re used to incompetent landlubbers. Well, I hope you’ve seen all you want to.”
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br />   “Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, thank you. I have.”

  Half an hour later, a committee of five was deep in conference at the bar of the Anchorage Inn—John and Margaret Colville, Henry and Emmy Tibbett, and Tom Bradley.

  John was saying, “Well, why the hell don’t we get Montague out of bed and go after them right away, for God’s sake?”

  Henry said, “I wish we could, but we can’t—for several reasons. The main one being Derek Reynolds.”

  “Who in the name of glory is Derek Reynolds?” Tom demanded.

  “He’s my sergeant from Scotland Yard. He was staying incognito at the Golf Club, posing as a wealthy English stamp collector. On my instructions, he took up with Candy Stevenson after Huberman supposedly left—with the idea of getting information out of her. Now both of them have disappeared, and it’s virtually certain that they’re both being held by Diamond and her group, somewhere up in the hills above Jellyfish Bay. I intend to get Reynolds out of this in one piece, and the way to do it isn’t to let Montague and a crowd of flatfeet from St. Mark’s go storming up there in the dead of night.”

  “You’re sure about the boat?” Margaret asked.

  “As sure as I can be. The boat we saw was a Boston whaler—right, Tom?” Bradley nodded. “And Chatsworth confirmed there aren’t any others on the island. The repair shed is outside the reef and invisible from the club. Anybody young and athletic could make their way overland to the maintenance area and steal that boat, then take it across to Frenchman’s Bay and anchor there while they raided Priest Town.”

  “For provisions?” said Emmy.

  “Exactly. There must be quite an encampment up there, and they need food. Then they made their getaway, landed the bags of provisions at Jellyfish Bay—where others of the troop must have been waiting—and took the boat back around the headland. They didn’t have time to put her back on the slip. But I can tell you one thing—before Teresa Chatsworth staged that near-capsize, I had time to feel the engine, and it was still hot. And there was water in the boat.”

  John Colville said, “You say Teresa staged the near-capsize?”

  “Of course she did,” Henry said. “I pretended to know nothing about boats, but in fact Emmy and I have done quite a lot of sailing. It’s perfectly true that you can easily capsize a rowing dinghy of that size by shifting your weight about—but those whalers are a different design altogether. They sit flat on the water, and it would take a lot more than I was doing to make one as much as rock on that calm water.”

  Margaret said, “So you think Teresa knew?”

  Henry rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know where she fits in.” He turned to Emmy, “Did Sebastian—”

  Emmy shook her head. “No,” she said. “Just stood me another drink and rambled on about the disaster to the island.”

  “What did you think he might do?” Tom Bradley wanted to know.

  Henry said, “The supposition was that Sebastian would take me out in the boat, while Emmy stayed with Teresa. I had a hunch she might make a phone call while Sebastian was out of the way. However, it didn’t work out like that.” He grinned at Emmy. “Sorry I dragged you up to the Golf Club for nothing, darling.”

  “Forget it. Now—who do you think the two looters were?”

  Henry frowned. “Diamond and Candy. Sandy and Candy. Those are the likely guesses—the expert swimmers. I don’t know about the others.”

  “You’re sure one of them was white and blonde?”

  “Positive.”

  “But if Candy is being held prisoner—” Emmy began.

  “Who knows what’s happened to her between Saturday morning and now?” Henry paused, then gave a half smile and said, “You know, this is all very sensational, and yet my nose… I mean, I have a very strong feeling that all this is a sideshow.”

  “A sideshow?” Margaret echoed.

  “Yes. A diversion. Probably connected in some way with the main entertainment, but essentially unimportant.”

  “Henry, how can you say that?” Emmy was outraged. “With poor Derek probably in danger of his life—and Mr. Huberman and the policeman murdered?”

  “It’ll all fit in in the end, you’ll see,” said Henry somberly. And then, to Tom, “What were you saying when we were interrupted?”

  Tom looked surprised. “Me? Nothing, old man. Haven’t opened my mouth.”

  “I mean,” Henry said, “when we were interrupted by a stone being thrown through a plate-glass window in Priest Town. You were telling me about Huberman’s luggage.”

  “Good Lord, so I was. I’d completely forgotten, with all that happened. Well, nothing very sensational. This redcap thought he remembered it, and that it was claimed by a tall, thin man with a beard. He says he loaded it up and wheeled it to the taxi area, where the bearded wonder told the cabbie to drive him to Washington National Airport.”

  “I thought he was there already,” Emmy said.

  A chorus of voices rose to explain that Dulles International Airport, some miles outside the city, handled long-distance flights, while the closer National Airport concentrated mostly on shorter, domestic flights.

  Henry said to Tom, “You told me you met that flight. You didn’t notice the bearded man yourself?”

  “Can’t say I did. I was looking for Huberman, hoping to get an interview. When you’re after a short, tubby, clean-shaven character, the tall, bearded ones are of minimal interest. Anyhow, he may just have been a common thief.”

  “You think so?” Henry was surprised. “How’s that?”

  “Well, I told you—or I think I did—that what made the redcap remember the incident was that this expensive luggage had been around the conveyor belt a few times and nobody claimed it. And all the while, he says, this tall character was standing there, as though he was waiting for his own baggage. Then, the third time around, he suddenly stepped forward and claimed it. Well, it was obviously valuable and probably stuffed with goodies, and that domestic claim area is open to the public. The redcaps are supposed to check the baggage claim slips, but for a twenty-dollar tip…”

  “What about this particular porter? Did he take a tip and look the other way?”

  Tom grinned. “You think he’d tell me? Of course not. He swore the man had the baggage claim slips for that luggage. But then, he would, wouldn’t he?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DEREK REYNOLDS CLIMBED steadily upward from the beach at Jellyfish Bay, his beach bag slung over his shoulder. Starting from the initial direction indicated by the two footprints on the sand, he was encouraged to find traces that he could follow: broken twigs, clumps of grass bent or trampled, a fresh oleander blossom that had not fallen from natural withering. There was only one route that a man carrying a cumbersome burden could take to travel up the hill, and Reynolds followed it.

  In doing so, he knew he was taking a calculated risk, but he thought it was worth it. A few more hours and the precious clues that were leading him might be lost. He could not imagine why Addison should have decided to abduct Candy Stevenson, and in fact he did not give the matter any thought whatsoever. The important thing was to locate the victim and tell Chief Superintendent Tibbett about it. Then proper forces could be brought in through proper channels to settle the affair. Sergeant Reynolds was not an adventurer. He was an academic police investigator who worked by the book. He found it quite easy to rationalize his present escapade, and it never occurred to him that the subtle chemistry of the Caribbean might have had anything to do with it.

  The higher he got, the more complicated the trail became. Several times he found himself faced with two apparently feasible paths, so that he had to follow one to its ultimate and impassable conclusion before retracing his steps to follow the other. By now, the trees met densely overhead, filtering out all but the most obstinate slivers of sunshine, although it was almost noon. The quiet darkness of the forest was a different world from the brilliant sunshine of the beaches, the Golf Club, the t
ourists. Here, in the secret center of the island, the tiny white orchids put out their small stars of beauty. Here nothing was flamboyant, all was shaded and full of meaning.

  Derek Reynolds climbed steadily upward. Twice he found himself emerging from the forest onto an open hillside and into full sunshine. He was astonished to find how high he had climbed and to look down onto the sapphire sea and the tiny white sailing ships, like toys in a child’s bathtub, plowing into the northeast trade winds. He paused, looked, and then went back into the dark, humid forest.

  By now, Derek Reynolds was becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that it was one o’clock and that he had not breakfasted and had no food with him. He had already refreshed himself once from his small flask of water and wished that it were larger. He admitted to himself that he had not realized how spacious and confusing the wooded highlands of the island actually were, and that finding his way back might be even more arduous than the ascent.

  He was in this dubious frame of mind when he suddenly emerged from dense undergrowth to find himself on a recognizable trail. He had read in the welcoming literature provided by the Golf Club that several trails through the rain forest were kept clear and marked, but from his observation of the members he felt sure that these paths were little used, and he was surprised to find that this one did indeed live up to its description. Freshly painted red arrows on rocks and tree trunks pointed the upward route, and a wobbly wooden notice nailed to a white cedar marked the way to Panoramic Tower. One of the nails securing this notice board had fallen out, leaving the guiding arrow pointing toward the ground, but clearly the intention was to urge the hiker onward and upward.

  Reynolds made his decision. He would follow the trail up to the Panoramic Tower, whatever that might be. If he still had no clue as to the whereabouts of the fugitives, he would temper adventure with caution, follow the well-marked path back to civilization, and contact the chief superintendent— who would probably have some sharp remarks to make about CID sergeants who went off on wild goose chases after pretty girls instead of following authorized police procedure. Feeling easier in his mind, he set off up the steep trail.