by Andrew Garve
All his plans had been made on the assumption that no suspicion would fall upon him. Now there would be worse than suspicion— there would be accusation. By to-morrow morning at the latest he would be wanted for questioning, even if there wasn’t actually a warrant out for his arrest on a charge of murder. Now he would have to use that revolver—and quickly, before the means of killing himself were taken from him. Otherwise, he would find himself not merely being tried and sentenced by black men, but taken from his cell at eight o’clock one morning and hanged by one.
Somehow, the thought of suicide was even more repugnant now than it had been on the previous day. Since then, he had become buoyed up with hope. With action, the will to live had flooded back more strongly than ever. He had let his imagination dwell on splendid plans. It was unthinkable that the security which he had bought by such desperate and bloody measures should now escape him; that after all his planning and bold unflinching execution of the plan, he should still have to die by his own hand.
Perhaps, he reflected, he should at least wait until tomorrow morning, wait to see what happened. There was still the one-in-a-million chance that the woman hadn’t recognised him. No point in advancing to meet disaster. He would drive cautiously back into town first thing in the morning, and learn the news. No, he could do better than that—he would tune in to Radio Fontego on the yacht’s receiver. Dubois’ murder would cause a tremendous sensation in the Colony, and the radio would probably tell him all he wanted to know.
Meanwhile, he must act on the assumption that the identity of the man in the turban would not be known, and must cover his tracks as he had planned. At a bridge over one of the little streams which ran under the road, he stopped and disposed of the knife holster. It was a plain holster, of common design, with nothing about it to identify it as his, but he felt it was better not to have an empty holster aboard the yacht.
The distant gleam of Darwin Bay brought a feeling of relief. It had been an exciting, exhausting evening—he would be glad to get aboard. He found the Bay as deserted as ever. As soon as he reached the yacht he unwound the towel which had served as a turban and hung it in the wash-room. The leather belt went back into its locker. He carefully examined the blanket for bloodstains, and having found none he folded it and placed it at the foot of the berth where he slept. The mask was more of a problem. After a little reflection he put it into an old paint tin, poured petrol over it and burned it to ashes, which he scattered overboard. Finally he set to work to remove the telltale brown stains from his hands and wrists and around his face. It was a long job, requiring much scrubbing, but at last he felt satisfied with the result. He had disposed of all the evidence. Dead tired, he turned in and slept till daybreak.
He awoke completely refreshed, and swam before breakfast in the tepid sea. This might be his last swim, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t enjoy it. He shaved carefully and drank some iced orange juice. Just before eight, he tuned in the radio for the morning news. He tried to tell himself that he was resigned to the worst, that the first few words of the news bulletin would seal his fate, but the suspense was unbearable.
Here it came! “Radio Fontego regrets to announce——”
He listened with grim concentration. The news item was more succinct than usual. Ezekiel MacPhearson Dubois, Assistant Secretary of Health and prominent public figure in the Colony, had been stabbed to death at the Blue Pool by an unknown assailant …
Garland’s breath came sharply. An unknown assailant!
Up to the moment of his murder, the announcer went on, he had been in the company of a coloured man wearing a greyish-white mask and a crude Moslem costume. A fairly accurate description of Garland’s disguise followed. The local C. I. D., under the active leadership of Superintendent Jarvis himself, had been working all night in an effort to trace this man, so far without success. The murderer had been seen by a number of people just before he made good his escape, but the police were particularly anxious to interview a white lady and gentleman who had been sitting at a neighbouring table and might possibly have seen something of the incident. The announcer then read a flattering obituary notice of Dubois before passing on to list the other crimes which had been committed in the Colony during the forty hours of Fiesta.
Garland snapped off the radio and relaxed. How sweet and fresh was the morning air! How right he’d been not to be hasty with the revolver! Unless the police were deliberately keeping something back, they had no idea who the man in the turban was. It looked as though the man and woman at the nearby table had cleared off when the trouble started. The question was, would they respond to the police appeal?
As Garland reflected, he began to realise that they might not be at all anxious to show themselves—particularly the woman. It depended a good deal, of course, on who she was. She might easily be the wife or daughter of some eminent person in the Colony, out on an uninhibited spree with some equally well-known man. If that were the case, it wasn’t surprising that she had slipped away when the murder had been discovered, and left the Negro party to deal with the police. If that were the case, she’d be likely to go on putting her reputation before her civic duty. The very last thing she would want to have known was that she had been disporting herself in public, half drunk and half naked, at the Blue Pool. At this moment she was probably feeling as apprehensive as he was. But at least she was safe as long as she kept quiet. She knew Garland’s identity, but he didn’t know hers.
He tried with all his powers of concentration to recall the visual picture he had had of her in those few seconds before his flight. There was a remarkably clear impression in his mind. He could see, almost photographically, the white silk handkerchief, the red mask, the white beach wrap with its purple arabesques, the smooth olive-skinned hand holding the poised glass, motionless as a statue. Yes, the picture was vivid enough, but it wouldn’t help him to identify her. Hundreds of people must have worn white silk handkerchiefs. The mask was of a kind which was sold in every stationer’s at Fiesta time. Of course, if he ever saw that unusual and rather gaudy wrap again, he would recognise it, but the woman wasn’t in the least likely to wear it any more. He tried to remember something about the man who had been her companion, with less success. Brown hair; tall, Garland thought, like the woman; a similar red mask; a well-cut tropical cream suit. He could have been anybody. It was an odd situation. In Garland’s acquaintance there were several dozen white women—wives of Government officials and business men and planters—any one of whom might have been the woman behind the mask. A most unsatisfactory situation! It was true that, provided the woman didn’t come forward, he was safe enough, but he would have precious little peace of mind. From now on he would be looking into every woman’s eyes, sizing her up, mentally equipping her with a red mask and a purple and white beach wrap, and wondering whether it was she—or someone else—who had the power to hang him if she felt like it.
He threw off his anxiety. There was still hope—that was the main thing. The fact that the man and the woman had cleared off was an excellent sign. Obviously the thing for Garland to do now was to return to town as he would have done in the normal course of events after the holiday, and play the part of a man to whom the unexpected news of Dubois’ death came as a great shock.
It would, he knew, be a difficult part for him to play. As he drove back over the familiar road he made an effort to empty his mind of everything that had happened during the past two days and start afresh. He had been fishing, that was all; fishing and swimming and lazing. He was going back with mind and body refreshed after a perfect two days’ holiday. He would call at his home for a quick bath and a change of clothes, intending to go on to the office and there take up with Dubois the many threads of the department’s affairs. The one fatal thing would be to know too much—particularly with Celeste, who was damnably intuitive. It was a pity he had to see her first, but that was his normal routine. She would be expecting him, and on this day of all days it wouldn’t do to break with preced
ent.
He found her lying in a swing chair in the shade of the mango. She looked very attractive, with shining hair drawn smoothly behind her ears and a dreaming look in the brown eyes, but for once Garland didn’t stop to think of her charms. He kissed her cheek and wondered furiously what the newspaper reports contained.
“Well, darling,” said Celeste in her usual lazy manner, “did you have a good trip?”
“Very good, thank you,” he answered mechanically. “How did you enjoy yourself?”
“It’s been a heavenly rest,” she said, stretching and almost purring. “Susan came along with Martin West yesterday afternoon and we had a swim. Otherwise I haven’t done a thing. Just lazed and kept cool. You’ve heard about Dubois, of course?”
Garland tried not to overdo the look of surprise he gave her. “No,” he said. “What about him?”
Celeste gave a wry smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to look for a new assistant.”
“What do you mean? What’s happened to him? Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Fairly serious,” said Celeste. “He was murdered last night at the Blue Pool.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Garland. For a moment his mind became quite blank. Stage fright. It was as though he had forgotten his lines. Then he forced himself to make the necessary comments. “The Blue Pool? What on earth was he doing there? I didn ‘t know he went to such places.”
Celeste was smiling. “He must have been a dark horse. I always felt he was too upright to be true.” She seemed to find pleasure in the thought of Dubois’ fatal moral lapse.
“I must say I think your amusement’s misplaced,” said Garland stiffly.
“Oh, don’t be such a prig, Adrian. You know you didn’t like him, and I detested the man, so why should we pretend to be sorry?”
Garland had been contemplating some supplementary exclamation of horror, but in view of Celeste’s attitude he decided that the moment had passed. “It’ll make things very difficult at the office,” he said. “Is it in the newspapers?”
“It certainly is.” Celeste smoothed a newspaper and handed it to him. “Have you had breakfast?”
“All I want, thanks,” he replied. “This news has rather taken my appetite away.”
“Oh, you mustn’t let it do that,” said Celeste, with the amused look again. “Did you catch anything?”
Garland glanced up from the dramatic headlines. “Eh? Oh, nothing to boast about.” He returned to the paper. The whole front page was devoted to Dubois. Celeste eyed him lazily as he read it through. As far as he could see, the report added nothing of significance to what had already been announced on the radio.
“Well,” he said finally, putting the paper down and frowning into the middle distance, “it’s a tragic thing. Most unexpected. It all seems to have been very deliberate. I wonder what the motive could have been.”
“Do you think a motive would be necessary with a man like Dubois?” asked Celeste. “I should think an ordinary human reflex would be enough.”
“Oh, he wasn’t as bad as that,” said Garland. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a woman behind it.”
“Wouldn’t you, darling? You have such an original mind. Now I’m much more interested in the two people at the next table—the white people. I wonder who they were? There’ll be a perfectly luscious scandal if their names come out. It’s quite probable that we know them. They might even have been to dinner here. I dare say the woman was someone we’d never dream of, like that quiet little Scots wife of David Carew.”
“Now, look here, Celeste,” Garland protested. “You really mustn’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s obvious the Colony’s going to be swept by a guessing craze for at least nine days, and I don’t see why I should be out of it. It’s a pity there aren’t more clues.”
“Perhaps the police know more than has come out yet.” He got up. “Well, I suppose I’d better be getting along to the office. I’ll go and change.”
“Yes, run along,” said Celeste. “The place is bound to be in an uproar. I expect I shall be answering the telephone all day long. Isn’t it exciting? You don’t think the woman could have been the Governor’s wife, do you? Now that would be fun. Anyone who wanted Salacity to be called Sally would be just the type. Subterranean urges masked with propriety! Or a nice plump homely body like Mrs. Sylvester, licking her lips over naughty nudity.”
“You’re incorrigible!” said Garland.
Celeste shrugged. “What else is there to do here but gossip and speculate about other people? Roll on Honolulu, that’s what I say. I hope you haven’t forgotten. Oh, by the way, Superintendent Jarvis was trying to get hold of you this morning. I forgot to tell you.”
Garland started—he couldn’t help it. “Jarvis? What did he want?”
“Oh, something about Dubois,” said Celeste lightly. “He’ll tell you—he’s going to call at the office at about eleven. Perhaps he thinks you did it.”
“You have a peculiar sense of humour,” said Garland in a cold voice.
Chapter Fourteen
Superintendent Jarvis, of Fontego’s Criminal Investigation Department, stood in the main office of the Department of Health, waiting for Miss Chang to return and usher him into the Secretary’s presence. He was a tall, well-built man in his late fifties, with greying hair and a little grey moustache that contrasted with his otherwise young appearance. The deep golden-brown of his skin could have come from prolonged sunbathing, but was in fact the result of mixed blood, of which he was unduly conscious. The expression on his fleshy face was thoughtful, almost sullen, and his thick lips were thrust out in a pout.
When Miss Chang called him, he advanced upon Garland with the agile tread of a tawny panther. “Good morning,” he said in his mellow voice, and shook hands with Garland before taking the seat that was offered him.
At least, thought Garland with relief, it didn’t look as though the Superintendent had come to make an arrest. Confidence was beginning to return. The talk with Celeste had passed off smoothly. The feel of the office chair at his back was comforting, and so was the knowledge that there were people around who would unquestionably defer to him. He was back in his own world, the world of men and affairs that he understood.
“Well, Jarvis,” he said, taking the initiative, “my wife told me you rang up earlier to-day. I suppose it was about Dubois? A bad business! I hardly know how we’re going to manage without him. Have you made any progress with the case?”
Jarvis hesitated. He had been trained in England, and at Scotland Yard had learned that good detectives preferred to ask questions rather than to answer them. However, Fontego wasn’t England. Garland was a man of authority, a white man, a man to whom one should show all possible respect. Apart from that, he had a dominating eye.
“It’s a little early to expect results,” said Jarvis, swinging his cane in front of his massive thighs. “Of course, we shall get our man in time, I’m confident of that, but at the moment we’re working very much in the dark.”
Garland appeared surprised. “But you seem to have a fairly complete description of the man, if the papers are anything to go by.”
“Only of his clothing,” said Jarvis. “I’m afraid that won’t help us much. The things he was wearing were a disguise that anyone could have concocted. The negro party who saw him just after the murder had all had a good deal to drink, and none of them could give any details that would help in identifying him.”
“H’m,” said Garland, “you are up against it, aren’t you? I read something about two white people at a nearby table. What about them?”
Jarvis shrugged. “Even if we could find them, it’s not very likely they could add much to what we already know. And, of course, it’s doubtful whether we shall find them. We’ve no idea who they were, or even what they looked like. The only person who can remember anything about them is the waiter, and he’s not much use. All he can tell us is that they both wore red masks. So did about t
en thousand other people. He thinks the man was wearing a light suit and the woman a long coloured dress! Hopeless!” Jarvis gazed gloomily at the floor. To him, this business of the two white people was one of the more painful aspects of the case. It was bad enough that he should have had to draw public attention to the presence of white people in such a place; their deliberate silence was even more distressing. Not what one had a right to expect from them at all.
Garland made sympathetic noises. “What a lot of trouble Fiesta gives you!”
“Trouble!” exclaimed Jarvis. “Do you know there were seven homicides last night? This one just happens to be the most sensational. The thing should be stopped.”
“I’ve always rather thought so myself,” agreed Garland. “I suppose there’s just a chance your two witnesses may respond to your appeal?”
“I doubt it. They were evidently in a great hurry to get away. It’s clear they don’t want publicity.”
“I suppose not,” Garland smiled. “But you still think you’ll get your man?”
“Oh, we’ll get him,” said Jarvis stoutly. “There are one or two clues, you know.”
The smile faded. “I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll make the most of them.”
“I shall do my best, of course. There’s not very much to go on. The knife that the murderer used was of a common type, and up to a point he was smart. Apparently he held it with a glove or cloth; there were no prints. Then there was the glass he was drinking out of——”
Garland’s heart leaped violently. The glass! He’d forgotten the glass! His fingerprints would be all over it.
“Unfortunately,” Jarvis went on in a melancholy voice, “the damned fool of a constable who was first on the scene didn’t do anything about the glass, and it was taken away and mixed up with all the others.”
