“I need to know if he’s here. If they brought Flynn Hudson to the police station or if he’s in jail.” She heard her voice struggling, but reminded herself not to frighten this woman away. She needed her. “Please, Mrs. Sanford, they will listen to you. They will give you answers.”
The hand in hers did not try to escape. The blue eyes were full of concern.
“Do you care for this Flynn Hudson so much?” Ella Sanford asked in a quiet voice. “So much that his arrest means you can scarcely speak.”
Dodie nodded and Mrs. Sanford’s face softened, then she shook her head and exclaimed, “For heaven’s sake, where’s that blasted tea?”
A young black constable scuttled in with a tray and treated them to a respectful nod before scuttling out again. Dodie knew it wasn’t for her. On her own she would not receive such treatment. She turned to the woman who was offering such generous help and warmth, and opened her mouth to say, Thank you. You are kind and I am grateful, even if I don’t look it because I can think of nothing but the danger Flynn is in.
But before the words were formed in her mouth, Ella Sanford thrust a cup and saucer into her hand and asked, “So what is your Mr. Hudson’s connection with Morrell?”
It nearly tumbled out. So nearly burst out of her in a torrent. The words ready to leap from her lips to the first person who thought to ask. It was only the memory of Flynn’s face trapped behind the glass of the police-car window that stopped them.
“I don’t know. But someone planted Morrell’s missing wallet in Flynn’s room.” She sipped her tea to prevent any more words coming out.
“Really? Why would someone do that?”
Dodie was saved from another lie by the arrival of Detective Calder. One look at his face and her heart plummeted.
“All right, Miss Wyatt, this is the situation. Flynn Hudson is here. I’ve seen him and he is being interrogated at this moment.”
Interrogated.
“So, he’s not hurt?”
“Hurt? Of course he’s not hurt. He’s just being questioned. If he’s innocent, I’m sure that will be established.”
“When will I be able to see him?”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid.”
“Why exactly did the arresting officers go to his place?” Ella Sanford asked. “What made them suspect him?”
Dodie expected Calder to refuse to answer such a question, but he didn’t.
“They had a tip-off. A telephone call.”
“From whom?”
“It was anonymous. Not usually the way we like to work but Sergeant Trench was short of leads, so he followed up this one.” He glanced back at Dodie, his gaze shrewd as he inspected her. “You will of course be questioned too, Miss Wyatt, as a witness to the finding of the wallet. And the coins.”
“They’re lying,” she said firmly. “Whoever made that phone call is lying.”
Ella Sanford suddenly swooped down on Dodie’s teacup, removed it with distaste to the desk, and headed toward the door.
“Come along, Dodie. I know a good lawyer.”
Chapter 43
Ella
Hector Latcham’s office was designed to impress. Walnut-paneled walls and an antique leather-topped desk that could have doubled as a polo field it was so vast. But Ella could see it was wasted on Dodie. The girl had a knack of focusing totally on what was important and ignoring the periphery. Ella envied her that ability to see one thing at a time.
Hector was explaining the procedures to her, spelling out that after questioning, if the police charged Flynn, he would be unlikely to be granted bail because of the severity of the crime and would remain in custody till the first court hearing. Dodie was quick, asking questions, pushing for explanations, and Hector was gracious and courteous.
“It’s no use just saying he is innocent, Miss Wyatt,” he said sympathetically. “It has to be proven. And at the moment I’m afraid the evidence is very much against him.”
“I understand that. But the wallet was hidden in his room by someone else.” Dodie had become quiet and rational. “I know he didn’t do it.”
“Unfortunately, knowing it does not count as proof.” Hector flicked a professional smile at Ella. “I have spoken to Detective Sergeant Trench on the telephone and I dispatched young Gordon Parfury down there to be present at the interviews.” He nodded with pride at the mention of the young black member of his team. “Parfury is top notch, I assure you. You can rely on him.”
“Thank you, Hector,” Ella said. “I appreciate it.”
Hector was every inch a lawyer. There was a smoothness and a solidity to him that was reassuring. His brown hair was combed neatly back from his face, which emphasized the impression of honesty and openness that his clients liked. He wasn’t exactly good-looking, eyes and face too narrow for that, but he cultivated an aura of success that was attractive and he possessed the healthy complexion of a dedicated sailor.
“So when can I see Flynn?” the girl asked.
Hector came from behind his desk with the air of a man who would change places with her if he could. “Miss Wyatt,” he said, taking both her hands between his own, “this Morrell murder is a terrible business, and the horror of a second murder of a great man like Sir Harry has thrown everyone into a state of shock. But I promise I will do everything I can to prove your friend’s innocence if what you say is true. You can rely on me.”
Dodie stared at his hands. Ella could see she wanted him to let go. “What happens if he is tried and found guilty?” Dodie asked.
It was a brutal question. They all knew the answer.
“I’m afraid he would suffer the death penalty. But my dear Miss Wyatt, if he’s innocent I won’t let that happen, rest assured.”
Dodie remained silent and Ella tried to imagine what it must be like to have the person you love die.
* * *
“Dodie.”
Ella had dropped Dodie on the pavement outside Flynn Hudson’s lodgings and the girl ducked down to lean in the car’s window.
“Yes?” The sun caught her hair and veins of fire glinted among its dark waves.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”
“No, thank you.” An attempt at a smile softened the stiffness of her face. “You’d frighten her.”
Ella didn’t argue. This was a poor district and she knew she didn’t fit in. “Dodie, what do you know about the gold coins that were found inside his jacket?”
“Flynn didn’t put them there.” It was sharp. Defensive.
Ella had been startled when she heard Hector discuss the four gold coins found by the police. It was as though something darker walked into the room and squatted in the corner. It was hard not to keep looking at it.
“But, Dodie, they make a connection.”
“A connection with Morrell, I know. Did you mention it to the police?” Her fingers were gripping hard on to the sill of the open car window. “About the coin he gave me for you?”
“No, I didn’t. But the connection I mean is to Sir Harry Oakes. He was a gold collector, and the police will quickly establish that. And now Morrell and Sir Harry are both dead. One of the connections between them has to be Flynn Hudson.” She leaned closer, aware of a faint pulse by the girl’s eye. “Where was Flynn last night?”
The girl’s face didn’t alter but a flame of color flared up on one cheek as if she’d been slapped.
“He was with me all night,” Dodie said.
“You’ll have to lie better than that, my dear Dodie.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that when the police get round to questioning you—and we both know they will—you will have to be a damn sight more convincing than that.” She rested her fingertips on the back of the girl’s hand on the sill. “Come now, Miss Wyatt.” She imitated a policeman’s deep voice. “Wh
ere did Mr. Hudson spend last night?”
Dodie hitched back her slender shoulders and looked Ella directly in the eyes. “He spent it with me.”
“All night?”
She gave Ella a slight twitch of a smile as if recalling the hours of darkness in the hut. “He was in no hurry to leave,” she said, and lowered her eyelashes with sudden shyness.
Ella smiled. “I am convinced.”
Dodie looked at their hands together. “Thank you. You are kind,” she murmured. “But why are you doing this?” There was a pause while a man ambled past with a bamboo cage full of crabs and a boy at his heels with a pole of fish heads. “Why are you helping me?”
“Perhaps I see something in you that’s in myself.”
Dodie studied her face. Ella expected her to ask what that something was, but she didn’t. Instead Dodie said, “Whoever put the wallet in Flynn’s mattress and the coins in his jacket must be the killer.”
The word sounded harsh in the quiet backstreet. A gust of wind, left over from last night’s storm, snatched at the girl’s long hair to drag her away from the car but her grip on the warm metal remained firm.
“Mrs. Sanford . . .”
“Call me Ella.”
“Ella, he didn’t do it.”
“Are you so certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then I believe you. But be careful when you question these people about what went on in the house.”
“I will, I promise.” She paused. “Your detective friend will know more about Sir Harry’s death.”
It wasn’t said as a question but Ella could hear the question implicit within it. She nodded. “That’s true. I’ll see what I can find out, if you like.”
“Thank you.”
Ella slipped the car into gear. Now she had a reason to see Dan again.
Chapter 44
Dodie
The man and the woman of the house with the purple door regarded Dodie with wary eyes. They were both black, both holding back anger behind a solid wall of silence. They had placed their chairs side by side in front of their kitchen stove and sat with arms folded. Dodie wanted to shake them out of their refusal to offer more than a single word at a time.
“Mr. Hudson has been using your upstairs room?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any other lodgers?”
“No.”
“Does anyone else live here apart from you and Mr. Hudson?”
“No.”
“Did the police question you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“Did Mr. Hudson have any visitors while he was here?”
“Yes.”
Dodie leaned forward in her chair. “Who?”
“You.”
An impatient rush of air escaped from her lungs. “Anybody else?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Could anyone have gone up to his room while you were out?”
“No.”
“Do you lock the front door?”
“Yes.”
It didn’t sound like a lie, but it felt like one. Most Bahamians didn’t lock their doors. She glanced around the small room. Pots and pans. A log basket. A photograph of a young black man in army uniform pinned to a cupboard door. Nothing to steal.
“May I take a look at Mr. Hudson’s room, please?”
A hard stare. “No.”
Dodie reached into her pocket, took a pound note from it, and laid it smoothly on the table. “May I take a look at Mr. Hudson’s room, please?”
The man shrugged. The woman glared at him.
“Go ahead,” he said. Two words. Dodie was making progress.
She took the stairs two at a time in case he changed his mind before she reached the top, and hurried into the room. It wasn’t locked, but there was no need. Except for the bed, the chest of drawers, and the chair, it was empty. Clearly the police had taken possession of Flynn’s belongings because the drawers were empty and the hook on the back of the door was bare. The mattress had gone too. Perhaps that’s why the landlady was so ill-tempered—she couldn’t let the room again until she had her mattress back. Dodie sat on the naked metal springs, her back aching, and carefully inspected every inch of the room, the walls and the floor, the ceiling and the window frame.
She looked at them through his eyes. Not through police eyes.
She noticed that the skirting board possessed scarcely any paint and in places was toppling forward drunkenly, releasing its hold on the wall. Dodie went down on her knees and pulled at a length that looked secure. As she expected, it didn’t budge. She moved farther along and tugged at a loose piece that crumbled in her hand, so that a black hole opened up at the base of the wall. She inserted her arm and wriggled it along.
“Help me, Flynn.”
The sound of a step on the stair drifted through the open doorway. Dodie yanked out her hand. Cobwebs wreathed it and a speckled spider sat motionless on her wrist, but her fingers were clutching a small canvas bag. Roughly she propped up the broken section of board, closed the door, and stood with her back jammed against it before she opened the drawstring neck of the bag.
“Flynn,” she whispered, “talk to me.”
Inside lay two items, which she removed one by one. First came a compact roll of American dollar bills. Dodie didn’t stop to count them but pushed them into her pocket. The second item was folded small, but when she opened it up it proved to be a flimsy airmail envelope, its pale blue surface blank. Inside lay two sheets of airmail paper written on both sides. She looked at the signature at the bottom, a bold and aggressive scrawl—Oakes. His cold dead finger seemed to touch her neck. Quickly she began to read.
Flynn, you are the only one I trust. You may hate me, I don’t know, you keep so much close to your chest, but you’ve always been straight with me.
Gold rots a man’s soul. Not the man who owns the gold but the souls of those who watch and drool and yearn for the gold clippings from his fucking toenails. Don’t ever get rich, Flynn. Everyone hates a rich man. Especially his sons. Many men have hated me and I have trampled on them, but I am putting these words down on paper so that you will know where to look. I can smell the danger coming closer, the way I could smell gold underwater.
Your mobster boss, Meyer Lansky, is prime suspect. He hates my guts. For all I know, you will be the one carrying the gun when my time comes. Is that why you came here with Morrell? But I have a hunch that you would put a bullet in Lansky’s brain before mine. Correct me if I’m wrong, Flynn, but I’m good at hunches.
On this island I have two friends who would like to dance a fucking jig on my grave. One is Harold Christie. A great guy. Really, I mean it. A rich man, but one who is still hungry for more and more gold. His guts gnaw at him when he sees my ugly mug and thinks about how much more I have than he has. Now he wants to do things to this island that I am blocking. I will destroy him if I have to.
My second golfing friend who would crow on my grave—like the rooster he isn’t—is the duke. Our sad little governor. Don’t miss his slyness. His title means nothing. He has water in his weak veins instead of royal-blue blood. He would blow over in the wind if it weren’t for his wife. But he is hungry. For gold. For power. For love. Like a snake he slides unseen toward the nest. I have every goddamned thing he lacks and I will NOT let him destroy MY island. But he possesses powerful friends, so beware that man.
Don’t fail me, Flynn. Kill the man who murders me. Take what you can of mine and leave. But before you go, avenge me. Avenge me, Flynn. What a team we would have made.
Oakes
“You!”
The voice came from the other side of the door, the handle was rattling.
“Out!”<
br />
Dodie was trying to imagine the emotions that drove Flynn to conceal this letter from prying eyes rather than destroy it. What does it do to you to have a man like Oakes say, What a team we would have made? No wonder he kept it rather than burn it.
“Lady!” The handle rattled. “What you doin’?”
Dodie stepped away from the door and it swung open with a bang, rebounding off the wall. The landlord barged in, his eyes swiveling around the room, hunting for what mischief she had been up to. He was wearing loud checked trousers and a dusky orange shirt, his limbs as restless as a boxer in the ring.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he growled.
“That’s what I want to know,” she said, hissing it quietly in his face. “I want you to tell me how that wallet got into Mr. Hudson’s mattress.”
“That no-good Mr. Hudson put it there hisself, lady.”
Dodie’s fingers slid to the tight roll of dollars in her pocket. “Whatever they’re paying you,” she told him, “I’ll pay you more.”
* * *
The police questioned her. Of course they did, Ella was right about that. They hauled her into the police station and politely but firmly put her through her paces, but this time she was ready for them.
“Where did Mr. Hudson spend last night?”
“With me.”
“All night?”
“Yes.” She lowered her eyes in a good imitation of embarrassment. “He was with me all night. Until six o’clock this morning.”
“Are you sure he didn’t sneak off while you were asleep?”
She touched her throat and watched their gaze follow her hand. She covered one cheek with her palm, awkward and uncomfortable.
“I’m sure. I’d have known immediately.” Scarcely more than a whisper. “It’s a very narrow bed.”
It was the big detective, Calder, asking the questions. She made herself look straight back at him so that he wouldn’t think she was lying or avoiding his sharp inspection, but how do you look at a man who hurled you to the earth and pinned you there? How do you look at him and not spit in his face?
The Far Side of the Sun Page 28
