“Tell me, Mrs. Chatsworth,” Henry said, “does Owen Montague keep a motorboat on St. Boniface?”
“Does—What on earth has that to do with it?”
“I just asked you—does he?”
There was a tiny pause. Then Teresa said, “Not that I know of. It’s possible, of course.”
“Or does your husband?”
“Certainly not. Could we get back to the point, Mr. Tibbett?”
“If by the point you mean the framing of Sandy Robbins, I’m afraid it doesn’t interest me at the moment.”
“How dare you use the word ‘framing’!”
Henry said, “A lot of people on St. Matthew’s genuinely believe that Robbins is guilty, Mrs. Chatsworth. Especially after Huberman’s murder. But I don’t think you are among them.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Jackson Ledbetter arrived safely last night, I gather?”
“Of course.”
“Why has he come back, Mrs. Chatsworth?”
“To finish his vacation. Sebastian and I appreciate it, as a gesture of confidence in the club. But then, Jackson is a close friend of ours.”
“Obviously,” said Henry, “since he spoke to you on the telephone after he called Albert Huberman last Friday.”
“You are well informed,” said Teresa. Suddenly she smiled. “Of course, you want to know what was said. I’m afraid it wasn’t at all sensational. Jackson simply wanted to assure me that he would come back as soon as he could. And, as you know, he has done just that.”
“You didn’t talk about anything else?”
“Nothing. Oh, he asked me how the weather was down here. That’s all.”
“I presume,” said Henry, “that he has told you that he had a call from Lucy Pontefract-Deacon yesterday. Just before he decided to come and finish his holiday.”
For the first time, Teresa Chatsworth seemed to be caught off balance. In a small voice, she said, “How do you know about that? You don’t even know Lucy.”
“I have known her for a long time, Mrs. Chatsworth.”
“But…” Teresa stopped. Then she said, “I see it all now. You put her up to it.”
“Put her up to it?” echoed Henry innocently.
Teresa stood up. “I refuse to continue this conversation any longer, Mr. Tibbett.”
“You do? I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.”
“That’s not funny, Mr. Tibbett.” Teresa was seething.
Henry said, “Mrs. Chatsworth, I’m a professional policeman. You surely didn’t think that I would come all this way to rubber-stamp a rather clumsy frame-up, did you?”
Teresa said nothing. Henry went on. “There’s one point on which I agree with you entirely.”
“I’m very surprised to hear it.”
“And that is the importance of getting St. Matthew’s back to normal as soon as possible—for everybody’s sake.”
“Diamond and her people—” Teresa began.
“Exactly,” Henry said. “The search party should be waiting to go after them as soon as we get back. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what it says.”
“Oh, go to hell,” said Teresa Chatsworth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE GOLF CLUB appeared to be just as usual, apart from the absence of guests. The governor and Commissioner Alcott were breakfasting together, poring over a sketch-map of the island. Sebastian Chatsworth sat alone at another table, listlessly decapitating a soft-boiled egg. Two middle-aged American couples were all that remained of the members.
Henry refused an invitation to join Alcott and Patterson, saying he would be back at ten o’clock to join the search party. A short conversation with Major Chatsworth elicited the information that his car was waiting for him any time he wanted it, and that Jackson Ledbetter had ordered breakfast to be served in his cottage, number 105.
It was exactly like all the other cottages—stone built and low slung, tucked away for privacy among flamboyant tropical trees and shrubs, presenting an unrevealing back to the pathway and a wide terrace to the sea. On the terrace, Jackson Ledbetter was sitting on a chaise longue, wearing blue shorts and a gaudy shirt and drinking coffee. He did not even look up as Henry approached.
Henry said, “Mr. Ledbetter?”
Ledbetter raised his head, confronting Henry with an enormous pair of dark glasses which completely masked any expression on his thin face. He said, “I don’t think we have—”
“I’m Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard, sir,” said Henry. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Ledbetter grunted, indicating that the sentiment was not mutual.
Henry went on, “I expect you know that I’m investigating the murder of Senator Brett Olsen—and now, of course, of Albert Huberman as well. You knew them both well, I believe.”
“Sure. Fine men, both of them. I hope you catch that rat Robbins, Mr. Tibbett.”
“The thing about catching rats,” said Henry cheerfully, “is to have an efficient trap. Then, as I understand it, the world will beat a path to your door. Just as a matter of interest, when was the last time you saw Olsen, Mr. Ledbetter?”
Ledbetter’s face, behind the dark glasses, was expressionless. He said, “The evening before he was killed. We had a drink in the bar.”
“He didn’t mention a practical joke he intended to play on Huberman the next day?”
“He did not.”
“And of course you didn’t suggest any such scheme to him?”
“Of course.”
“On the day of the murder,” Henry went on, “I understand you were visiting St. Boniface.”
“That’s right. I had some shopping to do.”
“Shopping? Somebody told me you went fishing.”
“Then somebody told you wrong, Mr. Tibbett.”
“You keep a boat on St. Boniface, don’t you?”
“I certainly do not.”
“Oh, well. I must have got my facts mixed up,” said Henry lightly. “I’ve noticed West Indians tend to say what they think one wants to hear—very much like the Irish. Now, about this…” Henry took the National Airport locker key out of his pocket and threw it down on the marble-topped table. In the dead silence, it fell with a tinkling sound and lay there between the two men, glinting in the sunshine.
Ledbetter said, “What on earth is that?”
“Don’t you recognize it? It’s a key to a locker at Washington National Airport.”
“And what is that supposed to convey to me?”
“The interesting thing,” said Henry, “is where I found it. There were two, you know. It’s terribly easy to overlook a small thing like a key.”
There was another moment of dead silence. Then Ledbetter said, “Mr. Tibbett, naturally I want to cooperate in every possible way with your investigation. After all, both victims were friends of mine. But I must point out that I am on vacation, and I think I am entitled to a little privacy. This interview is quite unauthorized and unofficial, and I would appreciate it if you would confine your interrogations to a proper place and time.”
Henry grinned, picked up the key, and put it back in his pocket. “Of course, Mr. Ledbetter. I’ll be seeing you again…at the proper place and time.”
Teresa Chatsworth had left Henry at the jetty with a curt remark to the effect that she had already breakfasted and would go straight to the club office. However, when Henry got there to pick up his car, there was no sign of her. The Moke, however, was waiting, and soon Henry was eating breakfast under the arbor of potato vines and goatsfoot at the Anchorage Inn.
He was halfway through his scrambled eggs and toast when Emmy came up from the beach, still in her wet swimsuit from an early dip. She kissed him, flopped into a chair, and ordered orange juice. As she toweled the seawater from her short black hair, she said, “And now, perhaps, you’ll explain.”
“That’s what Teresa Ch
atsworth keeps saying,” Henry remarked between mouthfuls.
“Teresa? You’ve seen her already this morning?”
“She took the trouble to come all the way to St. Boniface to meet me,” Henry said. “First she wanted to have a private talk on the way back, and then she changed her mind. By the way, did you tell her I was going to New York last night?”
“Certainly not.” Emmy was indignant. “I didn’t tell anybody—not even John and Margaret. I told them all you were staying on St. Boniface.”
“Good,” said Henry. He took a gulp of coffee and looked at his watch. “I suppose we can be off fairly soon.”
“We?”
“The search party. Mustn’t get there too soon.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Just playing a hunch,” Henry said. “I hope to God I’m right. I must be right.” He hesitated. “How would you feel about coming along with us?”
“On the search party? What possible use can I be?”
“I’m not sure. I just think it might be a good idea.” Henry spoke in the slightly vague, abstracted way that Emmy recognized as a sure sign that he was playing a situation by that strange instinct that he called his “nose.”
She said, “Can you tell me a little about, well, what you expect we’ll find? Apart from Diamond and Sandy, that is.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “We’ll find quite a lot of other people as well, including a murderer. Hello, Tom.”
Tom Bradley was coming down the staircase leading from the bedrooms to the terrace, wearing abbreviated orange shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with the patently untrue legend: “St. Matthew’s—I’s born here.”
“Morning, Henry, Emmy. Lovely day. Didn’t see you around last night, Henry.”
Emmy said, “I told you, Tom—Henry spent the night on St. Boniface.”
“Oh, well— chacun à son goût,” remarked Tom, with an execrable French accent. “What about some breakfast, then? Where’s the service around here?”
Henry said, “To be strictly accurate, Tom, I spent last night in New York.”
Bradley did a small, involuntary double take. Then he said, “Oh, sure. And I nipped over to London to visit the queen.”
“It’s true, Tom,” Henry said. “I went to New York, visited Jackson Ledbetter’s apartment, and flew back in the early hours of the morning. Did you know that Ledbetter is back at the Golf Club?”
“In person?”
“In person. And you’d better hurry up with your breakfast and then change into something more suitable for climbing in the rain forest, young Bradley. Unless you want to miss one of the better stories of your career.”
Tom was looking from Henry to Emmy, with an expression of comical incomprehension on his face. He said, “What on earth do you mean?”
Henry said, “You know perfectly well what I mean. You and Emmy are going to be the only civilians attached to the police search party going after Diamond Drake and Sandy Robbins. And, as I was just telling Emmy, we may find rather more than we bargained for.”
Derek Reynolds was suffering from an acute attack of inadequacy. He had been captured by Diamond and her men on Saturday, and now it was Tuesday morning. He had hoped that the dispersal of the group on Sunday evening, when Diamond and Candy raided Priest Town for supplies, might have given him a chance to escape or at least to communicate with the outside world. However, Diamond had shown her usual efficiency. Guard-to-prisoner ratio had never decreased below one-to-one—the guards armed and the prisoners shackled.
Monday had passed uncomfortably and uneasily. Diamond was clearly on edge, snapping out orders and lapsing into long periods of moody introspection. Several times during the day she left the camp in the direction of the lookout tower, but returned taciturn and depressed.
Reynolds had done what he could in the way of gathering information. For one thing, he had formed a pretty accurate estimate of the size of the arms arsenal, and he was impressed. This was no mere amateur gang with homemade bombs. Which brought him to another question—who was financing and supplying the terrorists? Diamond had talked about outside support—but it seemed unlikely that any foreign power would take the trouble to intervene in a community as small and unproductive as St. Matthew’s.
Sergeant Reynolds was contemplating these problems when Brooks, who was on guard, suddenly said, “Somebody coming.”
Diamond, Addison, and Delaware were on their feet, guns at the ready. There was a sound of snapping twigs and rustling branches as somebody approached through the undergrowth. Then a woman’s voice said, softly, “Diamond?”
Diamond relaxed. “It’s only Mrs. Chatsworth,” she said. “OK. Come right in.” Then, suddenly alert again, “Who’s that with you?”
“A friend,” said Teresa Chatsworth. “Mr. Owen.” She stepped into the clearing, followed by a tall, thin man with graying hair and a small moustache.
Teresa caught in her breath in shocked surprise as she saw Candy and Reynolds, but before she could speak, Diamond said angrily, “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for orders since Saturday. When do we start?”
The tall man was staring furiously at Reynolds. “Who in God’s name is that?”
Diamond said, “A crazy Englishman, member of the club, came chasing after the white bitch. We had to take him.”
Owen turned on Teresa. “What is the meaning of this? My orders were to take Robbins and get rid of the girl.”
Diamond said, “What was I expected to do? Let them go?”
Teresa ignored her. She said, “Those were the orders I passed on. I never thought Addison would be so idiotic as to bring her up here.”
Diamond said, “I can’t see that it matters. Priest Town is just waiting to rise up and go into action. As soon as we get the signal to go, it’ll be over in—”
The man said, “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Diamond. You have overstepped your orders catastrophically. You were never instructed to burn down the police station or murder an officer, let alone get involved in kidnapping. You have put yourself in a very serious position, and I don’t know how I am going to help you.”
“I didn’t burn down the police station,” said Diamond. “I was inside, arrested, remember?”
“Please don’t interrupt me. You were ordered to spring Robbins from the prison and bring him here. No more. Now, police reinforcements have been brought in from all over the Caribbean, and there is a British destroyer standing by offshore. You can give up all hope of an armed rising.”
Diamond faced him. She had torn off her sunglasses, and her single eye was blazing with fury. “You filthy white pig!” she shouted. “You never meant to go through with it, did you? You were just using us! I might have known the Chatsworth sow wouldn’t—”
The man cut in, “Please don’t get hysterical. I have explained that our plans have had to be altered, thanks to your disregard of orders. If it were not for your unauthorized prisoners and the death of the policeman, I would simply arrange for you and your brother”—he nodded curtly at Addison—“and your friends to be taken to Tampica. Now, that won’t be possible. Murder is an extraditable offense. You would be brought back.”
“I’ve murdered nobody!” Diamond shouted. “It was Sandy Robbins.”
“Exactly,” said the tall man, softly. “Once Sandy Robbins is unable to speak in his own defense, I think it will be possible to convince a court that he committed all three murders. As for the other prisoners—” He broke off and turned to Teresa. “There’s nothing to keep you here any longer, Mrs. Chatsworth. Thank you for showing me the way. I think you should get back to the club now. And if you should happen to run into the police search party—just remember that I have some interesting tapes of telephone conversations.”
Teresa was looking at the tall man as if she had never seen him before. She swallowed and said, “What are you going to do?”
“That’s no concern of yours, Teresa. Just remember, if we all keep our heads, nobody will get hur
t.”
Shakily, Teresa said, “I’ve never said anything on the telephone that could incriminate me. I agreed to help the CPF, for the sake of the club, but—”
The tall man smiled. “My dear, you are an accessory to murder, after the fact. I think that is the British legal term.”
“But—”
“Please go now. We haven’t much time.”
Teresa did not answer. She turned and ran stumblingly back into the darkness of the woods. The tall man said, “Please come with me, Diamond. I’ll explain what I have in mind.”
Looking mutinous, Diamond walked slowly toward the tall man. He smiled, took her arm, and walked with her to the far side of the clearing, beyond the tents. Reynolds caught one bit—“The police will be armed, of course. Now, you have some police rifles here…” Then they were out of earshot.
Candy was whimpering. “They’re going to kill us… They’re going to kill us…”
“Why should they kill you, Candy?” Derek asked, quietly.
Candy sniffed. “That man’s name isn’t Owen,” she said. “That’s Jackson Ledbetter. I know him, and so he’ll have to kill me…”
“Why do you think he ordered Mrs. Chatsworth to get rid of you?”
“I don’t know. Because of Al, I guess.”
“Mr. Huberman?”
“Yes. I don’t understand it, but…well, you heard what Diamond said. Somebody murdered Al, and they’re trying to frame Sandy for it. Diamond said he was murdered at the Golf Club, so he never went back to the States after all. He came back to the club, and if I’d been there I might have seen him… and I knew he was giving money to Senator Olsen…” She began to cry again. “Sandy, I’m scared… I don’t want to die…”
Sandy Robbins looked at Derek Reynolds over Candy’s blonde head, which was buried in his shirtfront. Since all three were bound hand and foot, movement was restricted to a minimum. He said, “Mr. Reynolds, they’ll surely kill me and maybe you. But we’ve got to get Candy out of this. She’s done nothing.”
The Coconut Killings Page 19
