Killypso Island

by Kent Holloway

  “Oh, I know you could never kill Mrs. Angelique, Cap’n Joe. You couldn’t kill anyone who wasn’t a Jap or a Nazi.”

  I cringe at his words. While it’s true that I shot down my share of Japanese pilots in my day, they were kill-or-be-killed situations. It never made me happy to do it, but it sure made me happy to survive any dog fight I happened to find myself in. As for the Nazis, my entire time in the war was spent in the South Pacific. I never faced off against a Jerry, but I don’t think I would have been bothered too much to put a few of them down, if I had had the chance. And I’m starting to feel the same about the Reds, too—maybe even more so, now that I’m in the situation I’m in.

  All in all, though, I don’t like the idea of the kid thinking killing anyone is easy for me. Heck, I came all the way to the Caribbean for peace and quiet…to get away from all the violence and killing of my past.

  Still, I’m thankful the boy believes in me.

  We sit in silence for a while longer, me enjoying the steaming cup of joe-like beverage and Malik sucking on the hard candy. When my cup is empty, I unfurl the bed roll and lie down on it.

  “We should get some rest. I haven’t slept—without being drugged anyway—for a couple of days.” I lie back on the mat and place my hands behind my head. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Roger Wilco,” Malik says. The boy always loves using radio call phrases whenever he can—even if he gets the context wrong from time to time. He’s picked up a few expressions from war pictures he’s seen here and there. The rest, unfortunately, he’s learned from me, during my frequent story times with him and his friends.

  Once he’s down, Moe curls up against me on the bedroll, and I stare up at the darkness in thought.

  “Hey, Malik?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m curious. Have you seen a fella around lately who wears nutty tropical shirts all the time? Real clean-cut looking. White…”

  “You mean, Mrs. Angelique’s friend?”

  I sit up at that.

  “Angelique’s friend?” I ask, not sure I’ve heard him right.

  “Sure. I seen him going over to see her a few times, while you were in Cuba. Always sneaking in at night t’rough da back door. He’s always careful when he does it, like he’s hidin’ or somet’ing, but you know…”

  The kid’s ‘you know’ refers to the fact that, despite Nessie’s part in taking him in and raising him, he’s still very much a street urchin. Not much passes along the narrow alleys and dirt walking paths that Malik doesn’t see or know about. It’s one of the reasons I asked him about Morris to begin with.

  “How often did you see him going over there?”

  He’s quiet for a moment, as if thinking. “Oh, maybe five or six times.”

  “Did you see him there the night of the festival? The night Angelique was killed?”

  “Oh, no. I ain’t seen him since a few nights before you got back.” It was disappointing news. As much as I would hate to spill the beans on my old pal’s presence at the house that night, an eyewitness who said there was someone else in the house at the time of Angelique’s murder would go a long way toward exonerating me. At the very least, it would give that French Inspector another possible suspect to look at. “He ain’t been back since da Candyman caught him in da house and nearly killed him,” Malik continued.

  That’s news to me.

  “Wait, what? Jacques caught him in their house? He knows about him?”

  The boy nods at me. “Well, it’s not like da Candyman didn’t know ’bout da other times. He’s the one who let him in da backdoor a couple of da times da man showed up.”

  Holy smokes. Jacques Lagrange knows Morris, which means, he more than likely knows he’s a spy. My heart leaps up into my throat. So does that mean he knows about Angelique?

  “Wouldn’t he have to know?” I mumble to myself.

  “What did you say, Cap’n Joe?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing, Malik. Just talking out loud.”

  I lean back on the bedroll again, letting all this new information process.

  “Cap’n Joe?”

  “Yeah, Malik?”

  “If it’s okay with you, I t’ink I’ll go to sleep now.”

  I give Moe a good scratch behind the ear, as he nuzzles even closer to me. “Yeah, me too, kid. Me too.”

  But I know as I utter the words, sleep will be a long time coming, as I ponder everything I’ve just learned.

  13

  I wake to the sound of a small motor boat puttering in our direction. I jump from my bedding and turn toward the subterranean river, but I can’t see a blasted thing through the black void beyond the fire’s light. Realizing I’m a sitting duck, I scoop up Malik’s sleeping form and dash over into the darkness. The boy is startled awake and opens his mouth to shout, but I manage to clamp a hand over his face to silence him.

  “Shhhhh,” I hiss. “Someone’s coming.”

  Malik struggles in my arms, mumbling something under the palm of my hand, but I don’t let up the pressure. Last thing I need is for him to give our position away.

  The motorboat—it sounds like a small trolling engine, if I’m not mistaken—putters up to the shore. The engine shuts down, and I hear the little boat’s wake slapping against the stone shore, before a pair of feet splash into the water.

  Crouching down, with the boy resting on my knees, I pull my gun with my free hand and take aim.

  “Mmmbbmmmbbbbbmmm,” Malik growls into my hand.

  “Would you be quiet?” I whisper.

  That’s when I realize I’ve left Moe in camp. He’s sitting up on my bedroll, looking around the cavern in a sleepy state of confusion. I want desperately to coax him over to us, but I can’t do that without letting the newcomers know we’re here.

  The monkey picks something from his fur and stuffs it in his mouth, then turns his head toward the water and sniffs. Before I can do anything about it, he bolts off in the direction of the boat with a series of ecstatic whoops.

  Stupid monkey’s never met a stranger, and it’s his unwavering trust that’s going to be the death of him one of these days.

  I hold my breath, keeping my gun trained at the darkness ahead and my finger firmly on the trigger. I wasn’t lying to Inspector Decroux. I’m a terrible shot. But what I’ve lost in depth perception, a good supply of bullets can easily make up for. And this Colt .45 holds at least seven rounds. Plenty for my needs, as long as there aren’t too many people to deal with.

  Then, she steps into the firelight.

  Moe’s tail is wrapped around her delicate and supple porcelain neck. Golden blonde hair is tied in a pony tail behind her head. She’s wearing a pair of riding jodhpurs, knee-high leather riding boots, and a man’s button-up shirt. An M1 army rifle hangs off her shoulder by a strap. And her coy, closed-mouth smile almost melts my feet to the floor of the cave, as she moves clearly into view.

  “You can come out now,” Trixie says, with a mocking trace of humor in her voice. “It’s just little ol’ me, big boy.”

  I exhale, and every muscle in my body relaxes.

  “Trixie?”

  Malik pats my arm, reminding me that I’ve still got him gagged with my hand. I release him and he turns to me. “I was tryin’ to tell you. Trixie told me she’d by coming to see us, by way of da river.”

  We walk over to the camp, and Trixie immediately takes me in her arms and plants a big one right on my kisser.

  “Oh, Joe, I’m so glad you’re alright,” she says afterward. “I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Thanks, Doll. But you really shouldn’t be here. I don’t want you any more involved in this mess than you already are. It was bad enough I asked you to steal the jail key from Lloyd.” I gesture toward Malik and the cave. “This is too much. It’s making it easier for them to discover you’re helping me.”

  “I don’t care if they find out,” she says. “You’re being railroaded, and anyone with half a brain can see that. So, right now, we need to do ev
erything we can to clear your name and find out who’s done this frame job on you.” She points a lovely finger at me. “And before you say anything, yes. Nessie’s in on it, too, and she told me to give you a good wallop if you had anything to say about that.”

  I can’t help but smile at the thought. It’s exactly what I’d expect the old woman to say. Nessie is a tough old bird. I know better than to even try to argue about her involvement, despite the danger it might put her in.

  “Okay then,” I say, gesturing toward the bed mats. “What say we have a pow-wow and discuss our next move. I’m going to definitely need people who are able to move about freely in town.”

  “I’m your gal then.”

  I’m pretty sure I blush at that.

  “Don’t get any fresh ideas, you,” Trixie laughs. “You know what I mean.”

  We sit there for the next hour or so, discussing the chain of events that led to Angelique’s death—although I still keep the exact nature of our meeting, as well as Morris Grant’s presence—out of it as much as I can. Although I’m still not sure what part Morris played in the murder, if any, I still have to assume what I was told by both of him and Angelique is true. And that he’s one of the good guys. Besides, the need to keep state secrets has been ingrained in me since first joining the Navy. The secrecy of a potential list of communist revolutionaries has to be maintained, no matter what, until I can secure it and get it back to the right people.

  “But what about this list I’ve heard about?” Trixie asks, as if reading my mind.

  I forgot the fact that she overheard the Red agents talking about Angelique’s connection with the French secret service, the American visitor, and the list. It’s one of the main reasons the beautiful Hungarian was so ready to believe in my innocence. She has no love for the Soviet Union, especially after their occupation of her country since the war and their propensity to send Hungarian dissenters to the work camps in the icy fields of Siberia. No one hates or distrusts the Russian government more than her.

  Still, despite having heard the Reds talking about it, I don’t want her getting involved in that side of things. It’s one thing to help me prove my innocence. It’s another thing entirely to get involved in espionage with trained killers prowling about. And while I think the two things are more than likely connected, it’s best to keep everyone as in-the-dark as I can about that end of things.

  “Don’t get caught up on that list,” I say, lighting up a cigar. “Right now, let’s just focus on…”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Trixie says, standing up from her spot and giving me the business end of her index finger. “Don’t you try to shield me, Joe Thacker. Those lugs seemed to think you knew something about that list…that you were part of some spy ring or something. So I want to know what’s going on.”

  Crap. There goes my plan to keep her out of the loop.

  I give Malik a look and nod for him to vamoose for a bit. With a roll of his eyes, he scrambles to his feet and moves off into the darkness, with Moe hot on his heels. When I believe he’s outside of hearing range, I lean forward.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you what I know,” I whisper, wanting to at least keep the kid out of it, if I can. The more he knows, the more danger he’ll be in, and I’d never be able to live with myself if anything happened to him. “Angelique is…” I pause, then shake my head. “…was, a spy for the French SDECE, their counter-espionage agency.” I shrug when her eyes widen at the news. “Yeah, I know. Threw me for a loop, too. Anyway, she told me that the cargo I just smuggled from Cuba contained top secret information in it.”

  “What was it?”

  I shrug. “No idea. And the weird thing is, I packed the crates up myself. I know every single piece of merchandise in them. There was no list. No paperwork of any kind. Just booze and candy for the shop.”

  “So, do you have any theories?”

  “Not a one. I’m pretty sure Angelique was going to tell me more about it, but I passed out before she could.”

  “And the American agent?”

  We are quickly moving into uncomfortable territory, especially after Morris shot Winston so coldly in the woods earlier. My old pal obviously has no qualms about killing, and the last place I want Trixie is in his cross hairs.

  “I don’t know anything about him.”

  She throws me a withering, though amused, look that always works. I have no resistance against it.

  “Okay. So, he’s an old friend of mine from the war. Haven’t seen him in years. Then all of a sudden, he pops up at Angelique’s and tells me he’s with the CIA.”

  “Do you think he could have killed Angelique? Framed you?”

  “Once again, no clue. The man I used to know would never do anything like that, but ten years is a long time to change a man. No telling what he’s capable of now.”

  She nods at that and stares off into space, as if in deep thought. After a moment, she looks over at me.

  “So where do you think that list is now?

  I belt out a frustrated little laugh. “You are pitching a no-hitter today, Trixie.” I raise my hands. “Have absolutely no idea. What’s worse, Monday Renot confiscated the cargo the moment I stepped on the island. He had the full support of Governor Lagrange. In hindsight, knowing he’s in bed with those KGB stooges, I bet it wasn’t a coincidence. I’m sure the cargo’s been searched. If there was some kind of top secret list in there, they would have found it by now.”

  Trixie shakes her head. “I’m not so sure about that. The way that Vladimir and Alexi were talking, I think they believe you might have it on you, or something.”

  Vladimir? Alexi? So Trix is on first a name basis with these Bozos?

  I tamp down the flaring jealousy and make a big show of patting myself down and looking confused. “Um, no, not here. Or here. Or here. Nope, as far as I know, I don’t have it either.” I bite down on the cigar in my mouth. “Look, Trix, I think we might be barking up the wrong tree here. You’re too focused on all the spy stuff, when it could be something a lot simpler than that.”

  She bites at her lower lip, thinking over what I’ve just said, and shakes her head. “No, no. I don’t think so. The pieces seem to be fitting pretty well. A couple of KGB mooks show up to the island shortly after a CIA agent with a top secret list you’re hauling back from Cuba, then Angelique, who turns out to be a spy, too, no less, ends up dead in a perfect frame job against you. Sounds more likely than anything else.”

  “What about Jacques?”

  She blinks at me. “Huh? The Candyman? No way. He’d never kill Angelique.”

  “Even if he thought she was doing the voodoo bebop with my friend, Morris?”

  That seems to get her attention. “The Candyman knew about your friend?”

  I nod into the darkness, where I assume Malik is still lurking. “According to Malik, Morris was a frequent guest in the Lagrange bungalow. Says Jacques even let him inside a few times.”

  “Really? Do you think he might work for the SDECE as well?”

  “Honestly? Who knows? I never imagined Angelique being involved in an outfit like that either, so I really am totally lost here.”

  “Either way, looks like we’ve come right back to the list, doesn’t it?”

  I think about it, and I can’t find an argument against it. For a minute, I wonder if there’s a jealousy element to the murder. But the Candyman has never been the jealous type. Of course, most of that comes from the fact that there’s not a man on the island who would dare try to two-time it with his old lady. So maybe jealousy was never an issue, until Morris arrived.

  But then why let Morris into his house? That’s what isn’t making any sense. And if the Candyman knew about Morris—knew about our friendship—why didn’t he tell me he met him?

  Unless, he’s involved in the spy thing, too.

  I shake my head as I stand to my feet and run my hand through my hair, before putting my captain’s cap on again. “Okay, Trix, you win. I can’t think of a single other po
ssible motive for the murder. It’s got to be that list.”

  “So the only thing I can think of now is we’ve got to find it,” she says. “And we’ve got to find it before the Russians or the Governor does.”

  I nod.

  “Malik? You still there, kid?”

  He’s been quiet the whole time Trixie and I have been talking. I’m kind of worried.

  “Um, yeah. Still here.” The boy sounds groggy, like he’s been sleeping the entire time. I forgot the fact that his sleep was interrupted by Trixie’s arrival. I’m not sure how long we were asleep—hard to tell time in a pitch black cave—but it could only have been a few hours.

  I hear his feet scraping against the stone floor, just as he appears in the firelight, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Moe is at rest on the boy’s shoulders, his tail wrapped around the boy’s neck and his eyes closed tight.

  “Okay, here’s the plan.” I look over at Trixie. “You need to head back to Port Lucine and just go about your daily routine. Act normal. And just wait. If I need you, I’ll send Malik to you with a message.”

  “Now wait just a minute, mister…”

  I raise up a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t argue with me on this. I have a plan, but it won’t work if you’re under suspicion. I need you to be exactly where you always are…at Nessie’s, doing your songbird thing.”

  “And what will you be doing in this plan of yours?”

  I throw her my most rakish grin. “What I do best, Sweetheart. Making it up as I go along.”

  14

  I spend pretty much all of the next day doing two things: trekking through swampy, muck-covered jungle and hiding out until dark. The first task was hard and grueling. The second, hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable. But my hiding space under the overturned, wood-rotten dinghy on the edge of Crescent Beach, just a few miles south of town, hasn’t been without its comforts. Although I haven’t been able to smoke in the confined space, Malik provided me with a bottle of rum, which has kept me company through the heat of the day.