The Complete Cases of Stuart Bailey

by Roy Huggins

  WITH the exception of a brief but violent squall on about the eleventh day, life aboard the Skylark settled down and became singularly uneventful and uneasily pleasant. Eilene and her friend Owen behaved as if the little episode in the lounge had never happened. Generally we sat around on deck or in the lounge and talked at great length about everything but politics, religion, and ourselves. Now and then Betty would play the piano or Owen would pick up his guitar and sing sea shanties in an off-key baritone. And there was nearly always fresh fish from Callister’s morning vigil in the fishing seat.

  The squall came up while I was on watch, appearing suddenly off to the south-east—a great swirling bank of black cloud filling the horizon, picking up giant waves and dropping rain as it roared down on us.

  I shouted for help and hoped I was doing the right thing when I turned the ship into the wind and lashed the wheel. Betty was on deck first, pulling me with her toward the bow, and shouting something about jibs that I either didn’t hear or couldn’t understand. By the time Callister and Owen appeared the squall was on top of us, and Betty, bawling orders at me, had my full attention. We clawed and pulled at the crazed sails and finally, bruised and soaked to the skin, got them lashed tight with gaskets.

  I couldn’t see what was going on in the stern and started back there when Betty shouted, “No! Down this way!”

  “Gotta give ‘em a hand!”

  “You’ll be in the way! It’s a . . .” The ship lurched sickeningly, and Betty went down on the bucking, rain-washed deck. I stopped arguing and helped her down the forward hatch.

  Eilene was sitting in the lounge, clutching the couch with knotted hands, her eyes sick with fear. Betty had stopped off at her cabin to change, and I went on through without a word and started up the companionway. I stopped because Owen came stumbling down, clutching his left arm. He careened against the door of the head, opened it, pulled out a towel, wrapped the towel around his arm, and made his way into the lounge.

  I followed him and asked, “Where’s Callister?” putting more sharpness into it than I had intended.

  He was standing there holding the reddening towel. He looked at me, surprised, and said, “Reefing the jib. Why?” He sat down under a light.

  I TURNED without saying anything and started out, but the door jarred open and Callister charged in, carrying a first aid kit. He dropped his slicker on to the rug and stepped over beside Owen.

  I stood there looking at him with infinite relief, realizing for the first time, that I had become fond of the little man with the big laugh. I had expected never to see him again, not in this world anyway, and I had to get used to the idea that he was still alive and that Madden had skipped a fine opportunity to kill him. But then again, maybe Owen hadn’t had the opportunity Squalls have a way of keeping you wrapped up in the business at hand.

  Callister had attended to Owen’s arm and was putting a bandage neatly around it. He said, “Maybe this’ll teach you to secure those stays a little better especially the ones with blocks on ‘em.”

  “Yeah,” Owen said, and glowered at Betty as she stepped into the room

  Callister grinned, gave the arm a final pat, and said, “Relax. That’ll be healed by tomorrow.”

  “You’re sure of that, bub?” Owen said skeptically.

  “Yep. It’s because you’re young. But don’t think me envious, Owen. Being old has it’s compensations.”

  Owen stood up and asked unpleasantly, “Yeah. What are they?”

  Callister chuckled and said, “Well, for one thing, you don’t have so long to live.”

  The remark was greeted by dead silence, and Eilene broke into it almost harshly with. “Well! Let’s get this party on its feet! I’ll mix ‘em myself!”

  Half an hour later the squall had blown itself out and the party was on its feet. Betty was at the piano Owen was strumming along with her on the guitar, and Callister was on the couch with Eilene beside him holding one of his broad hands in both of hers. I was leaning against the bulk head next to the piano looking at all this and wondering what I was doing there.

  And the next morning Glen Callister was shot through the back of the head.

  MY alarm was set for seven thirty that morning because I was taking the eight o’clock watch, but something woke me about seven o’clock and I looked up, expecting to see Owen up there in his sprawled sleep. His bed was empty.

  I threw off the covers pulled on my denims and shirt, shoved my feet into my tennis shoes, and stepped out into the passage. The lounge doors were both open and I could see Madden down in the galley, adjusting the oil valve on the stove.

  I walked in, and he glanced up, scowled at me, and offered the usual greeting in a tone that made it sound like ‘Drop dead’.

  “What are you doing up at this hour?” I said.

  He held a finger to his lip and gestured at Betty’s door directly behind him. “It’s this damn arm,” he whispered. “Want some coffee?”

  “The Old Man up on deck?”

  “It’s his watch. I’d say he was there.”

  “Pour two I’ll take him up some.”

  “Okay. Won’t be ready for a while.”

  I walked back to the head, undressed, showered, dressed again, and came out to find that lit coffee still wasn’t ready, so I went back down to the companionway and up on to the deck.

  Callister was sitting there, strapped in the fishing seat, as usual, the pole in its socket, the line stretched out in the Skylark‘s wake. But this time it didn’t throw me his usual derisive “Good afternoon!”

  He didn’t do anything at all, because he was dead.

  It was what I had been told was to happen, it was the sole reason I was here, but somehow I wasn’t ready. In some ways perhaps because of last night, or because of his perpetually cheerful attitude, I’d come to believe he’d been wrong that first day on the Skylark . . .

  I reached out and touched the soft flesh below his ear. There was warmth there still, but no pulse of life. I picked up the heavy wrist and held it for a long while. Nothing there but the yielding softness and fleeting warmth that told me it had been only a little while. An hour? Or only ten minutes? Why was the body still aboard? Because I had awakened too early and broken into the middle of things? Or was it Madden who had awakened too early?

  AND then I noticed something significant. I hadn’t been looking for it and probably wouldn’t have thought of looking for it. But it was obvious enough. The bullet had come out in the center of his forehead, and had gone in an inch lower at the back of his head. I let my eyes follow back along the line the bullet must have travelled. The gun had been held low, and at an upward angle.

  I started slowly forward, and, more than fifty feet away, lodged behind the anchor and near the rail, I found it—a slender .30-.30 rifle equipped with a custom-made silencer. It was lying there, as if it had been dropped or thrown. I glanced lo the left. The rifle was on a line with the open forward hatch.

  I looked back at Callister and traced an imaginary trajectory from here to the stern, where the old man, his white head bare, sat and grew cold in the warm sun of the morning. I got an ugly picture of someone rising up from the forward hatch lifting the rifle, and resting it on the ledge. That would give the trajectory, all right. I could see this blank-faced someone, per son in panicked haste, throw the gun over the rail. I could see it hit the rail, hold for a moment, and fall back behind the anchor.

  It must have been there that the plan had been stopped. Had I stopped it? Or had Madden?

  “Hey, Bailey, what gives?” It was Madden, looking up at me through the galley skylight.

  “You want coffee up there?”

  “No, I’m coming down.”

  I lowered myself down the forward hatch, stepped into the galley, and watched Owen pour steaming coffee into an oversized mug. “Doesn’t he want some more?” he asked.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Too bad. This morning it tastes like coffee. Made it myself.”

&
nbsp; “I heard that!” It was Betty’s voice, and in a moment her door opened and she came out tying her robe around her. I had seen her hair looking better in a high wind, but otherwise she was her usual dew-bright self.

  “A little more respect and quiet around here for the graveyard shift,” she said. “Suppose there’s enough hot water for a shower?”

  “Bailey had one, and he’s a very big man.” Owen said.

  “I took it cold.”

  “Oh, Spartan, huh?” Betty remarked, squeezing past Owen to step into the lounge and go on down to the shower room. I took the mug of coffee Owen had poured for me and walked over to one of the lounges. Owen followed me in and sat down, I leaning back on one elbow.

  “What woke you up this morning?” I said. “Anything special?”

  “I answered that once already. The arm.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Yeah, I thought I heard the Old Man in the galley. Why?”

  I DIDN’T say anything.

  “Say, what’s eating you, Bailey?”

  I heard the door at the end of the passage open, and Eilene appeared in a flowing, ice-blue négligée. She had been up for quite a spell, because when she breezed on over and sat down under the glare of the skylight I could see that her make-up was no haphazard job.

  “I could smell the coffee, Owen, and I knew you’d made it,” she purred. “Pour me some?”

  “Sure.”

  Owen went into the galley.

  Eilene smiled at me and said, “Why don’t you go up and drag Glen away from that fishing pole? I feel like making breakfast myself this morning.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll go up in a second.”

  Owen came back with two coffees, the extra one for Betty, I gathered. She had turned off the shower and was singing “Venezuela” at the top of her voice.

  Eilene looked at Owen warmly and asked, “How’s the arm?”

  “Lousy, thanks.”

  Betty came in with her hair combed and her face gleaming like a boy soprano, looking a lot less prepared for what was coming than I had ever seen. Owen gave her the coffee and she sat down beside me. Eilene turned to me again, a bit impatiently now, and said, “Won’t you go up and . . .”

  “I was just up there,” I interrupted. “He can’t come down. Someone shot him, Mrs. Callister. He’s dead.”

  EILENE stared at me as if I had said something that didn’t make sense. She suddenly turned her eyes to Owen and dropped the hot mug of coffee on to the soft grey carpet. I felt a quick movement beside me, and Betty was on her feet, running blindly from the room. I waited for something more from the lovers, but Owen just stood there giving Eilene back her stare and saying nothing at all. Finally Eilene dropped her eyes to the brown stain at her feet and looked at it as if it were the most important event of the day. Owen put his mug aside and took hold of both her arms in a tight and steadying grip. I got up and walked out of the room.

  Betty was up there holding on to the stern rail and looking in dry-eyed wonder and despair at the little man sitting with the pole clutched in his right hand, still waiting for a strike. The wind was blowing gently at his soft white hair and the seat moved slowly with the rolling of the boat.

  I didn’t go to her, but stepped over to the closed skylight over the lounge, and leaned down at its edge where my shadow would fall away from the glass. I could hear a frantic sibilance of voices from below, but neither words nor meaning.

  The voices stopped and I moved away, going to Betty and stepping between her and the figure in the chair. After a moment she looked up without really seeing me, and I put an arm around her and drew her away. At the companionway she stopped. “They did it,” she choked. “They killed him.”

  “Betty, listen. Maybe not ‘they’. Maybe just one, without the other.” Owen was coming up the steps, followed with slow reluctance by Eilene. “Get hold of yourself,” I said.

  WE stepped aside and Owen walked over to the body and picked up the left wrist, fumbling clumsily for a pulse. Eilene didn’t come up all the way, just far enough to see him there; then she turned away, her face twisted in an ugly grimace.

  Owen dropped the wrist and looked over at me.

  “He was shot with a .30-.30,” I said. “It’s forward behind the anchor, where I found it.”

  Owen just went on looking at me with a pale fixity for what seemed a long while. “I know Eilene didn’t do this,” he said with careful deliberation. “She just told me. And I know Betty wouldn’t, couldn’t. I also know I didn’t. That leaves you, Bailey. I’m putting you under arrest.”

  “You’re . . .!” I wanted to laugh in his face, but somehow the face didn’t seem to belong to a kid in his twenties, but to a man, and one who wouldn’t go in for loose threats or idle talk.

  “Yes,” he said. “The captain of the ship is dead. I’m captain now, and responsible for the other passengers. We don’t know you, but there’s been something phony from the start about your connection with the skipper. I’m going to lock you in your cabin till we hit port. If you try to resist, I’ve got a right to kill you.”

  And he meant every word of it.

  “Look. Owen, you’re in deep enough already. I’ve got a letter down in my cabin, from the dead captain. Maybe you ought to read it before you do anything rash.”

  HE thought about that, looking at me and waiting for me to go on.

  “Or maybe I’ll just tell you what it says. It’s an offer of a job—to go along on this tea party. I’m a licensed private investigator. The letter states that you and the . . . But maybe you’d rather read it, after all.”

  “Go ahead. It states what?”

  “That you and Mrs. Callister were having an illicit affair, and that one of you, on this trip, intended to kill him.”

  I could feel the hysteria building up and threatening to break in the girl at my side. I took hold of Betty’s hand and gripped it tightly.

  “Where is this letter?” It was Eilene, her voice sounding suddenly very old.

  “I’ll get it for you if you want to see it. As long as our new captain here understands I don’t intend to let him have it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Eilene said wearily. “It would be like him to do a thing like that.”

  “I want to see that letter,” Owen said. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  But Eilene didn’t seem to have heard him. She went on, turning her eyes toward Betty. “There’s the one who killed him. Right there.”

  I FELT Betty stiffen with a quick hard movement, but she made no other move, said nothing. Eilene began to speak, looking at Betty, but talking to us, the tone rising slowly and sharpening viciously as she went on:

  “Two days ago Glen and I came to a complete understanding about . . . everything.” In the brief pause her eyes had gone to Owen for a moment, then back to Betty. “We talked all through one night, and Glen finally told me he had cut me out of his will—left me one dirty dollar. But before the night was over he’d promised to—to change it back again. I made the mistake of telling Betty about it. I had to crow a little. And it cost—”

  “That’s a lie!” Betty’s words lashed out with cold fury and contempt. “This is the first I’ve ever heard of it—”

  “Cut it!” It was Owen’s turn to interrupt now. “We’ll be in Honolulu in three days and the cops’ll decide the question of guilt.” He paused and looked at each of us. This was Owen in his new role, and I had to admit, grudgingly, that he played it well, with a genuine ring of authority.

  “Meanwhile,” he went on, “we have a burial service to perform.”

  “Wait a minute! You can’t send him over the side.”

  “Listen, mister,” Owen said, looking at me as if I had just stepped up from steerage, “we’re at least three hot days out of port. We have a dead man aboard. We’re burying him. There’s a book on sea law below. Maybe you ought to read it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s two funerals—his and yours.”
r />   He started to answer when Betty suddenly choked. She was standing there frozen, staring in blank unholy terror at the body of Glen Callister. I looked at the same moment, as Glen Callister’s right hand, clasping the rod, shot up stiffly, his body lunged forward, hung there for a terrifying moment of sheer madness, and slumped back as the pole left his hand with a jar of sound and disappeared into the sea.

  And over all this came the shrill, mad screaming of Eilene Callister.

  GLEN CLARENCE CALLISTER was buried at sea “. . . We, therefore, commit this body to the deep to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead and the life of the world to come . . .”

  Owen Madden read the words in an awkward tempo, but with quiet conviction. Eilene cried silently, but with copious great tears, while Betty stood by with taut face and eyes as dry and hot as desert stones.

  For two days Eilene and Owen closeted themselves from time to time in the master’s cabin, and quarreled. Their voices were low and guarded, but the passion and the pleading somehow carried even though the words did not.

  On the last day before we made port the quarreling stopped, completely, as if with the turning of a switch. It was late afternoon and I was at the wheel when I realized I had heard nothing from them for the entire day. The Skylark was in her Sunday best, and I sat there smoking and listening to her speak. The last time she had moved through the water this way, throwing up foam at her bow, Callister had said she was carrying a bone in her teeth. She was carrying it with a vengeance today, as if she had scented the slips at Oahu.

  There was a sound from below, and I knew Betty would be coming up in a moment to take over, and I would be seeing her for the first time that day. Whatever she was required to do, Betty Callister did, but the rest of the time she stayed in her cabin, the door locked. When you knocked, she answered. When you told her you just wanted to talk, she answered with silence.

  Her steps sounded on the companionway and in a moment she walked out onto the deck and came over to the cockpit. She stepped down into it and stood there waiting for me to get up.