No Mask for Murder

by Andrew Garve

“What’s the time?” he asked anxiously.

  “Twenty-five past eleven, darling. I’m sure there’s no need to worry—you know how casual they are at the airport. We’ll make it all right.”

  “God, I hope so,” muttered Garland.

  They took an easy bend at seventy. The red light had disappeared. At this speed the road seemed unfamiliar. The brilliant headlights made the verges dark. Garland peered anxiously ahead. “The detour ought to start somewhere here,” he said, slowing to sixty.

  Suddenly he caught sight of a dark shapeless object close to the near-side verge. He swerved to avoid it. Something hit the side of the rushing car with a horrible thud, and was flung away.

  “What on earth was that?” cried Celeste, frightened. She peered out, trying to penetrate the receding darkness. Surely that was a red light, among the canes. “I say,” she called, “I believe that car’s had a smash. Did you hear someone shout?”

  “No,” said Garland. “Serves them right anyway, the drunken idiots. Where’s that turning? Damn it, we ought to have reached it by now.” He slowed to fifty.

  “Perhaps a miracle’s happened and they’ve repaired the bridge,” said Celeste. “So much the better; now we’ll do it easily.”

  “They haven’t,” yelled Garland, hideous panic in his voice. Tyres shrieked, the car rocked, the ramp of a bridge rushed toward them and a dark chasm gaped. Celeste grabbed Garland’s arm and gave one long piercing scream. The car leaped and plunged—down, down, in shattering noise and an agony of fear. Swirling muddy water poured through the open windows, stifling the scream, choking life. The car sank, and slowly settled in the brown ooze twenty feet below.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  News of the accident on the Main Trunk Road came through in driblets. The first reports spoke only of a wrecked limousine and several dead Negroes—an event so common that it barely warranted headlines. Further investigations suggested that there might be a car in the river. Not till the late afternoon did the newspapers of Fontego produce their largest type, and then they really went to town. To judge by the zest with which they threw themselves into the reconstruction of the tragedy, there had been no more satisfactory calamity in the history of the Colony. Hardly any dramatic element was lacking. Not merely were there plenty of bodies in every state of mutilation, but there was quality as well as quantity. The famous Adrian Garland and his lovely young wife, plunged to muddy death on the eve of their holiday!

  From the press reports it was plain enough what had happened. The road block guarding the broken bridge had, it appeared, consisted of no more than a light pole balanced on two wooden trestles. There should have been a red hurricane lamp in front of it at night, but according to the story of a survivor, no such lamp had been burning. The limousine, recklessly tearing through the night, had scattered the frail road block and precipitated its load of nine drunken passengers into the cane. The Garlands’ car, following close behind, had driven straight on—“to its dooms,” as the report put it. Thus the Colony had suffered the loss of one of its most notable figures. Many columns of obituary notice followed.

  Martin and Susan were working together in the garden on the Tacri memorandum when Anstruther, informed by Superintendent Jarvis, arrived home with the news. After the initial shock, the feeling uppermost in the minds of all of them was relief. At least Garland could do no more harm. And relief was followed by a return of curiosity.

  “He must have been driving terrifically fast,” said the experienced Susan, “not to see the turning or the wreckage of the road block. My guess is that he was running away. I suppose he was so determined to catch the plane, his mind wasn’t on the road. Did you know he was going, Daddy?”

  Anstruther shook his head. “I was told this morning that he’d gone. Most irregular, I’m afraid. He must have made up his mind very quickly. It’s suggestive, to say the least of it, but we’ll never know for sure.”

  “It’s most annoying,” said Susan. “I hate being left with a tangle of loose ends and surmises.”

  “I’m quite content,” said her father. “We’ve all been saved a great deal of anxiety and trouble. A merciful intervention, I’d call it.”

  “H’m,” murmured Susan. “Perhaps so. A pretty rotten finish for Celeste!”

  “Yes,” said Anstruther gravely. “I’m afraid for the moment I wasn’t thinking of her.”

  “Anyhow,” said Susan more cheerfully, “there’s one thing to be thankful for. This should help to bring the Tacri scheme to an end. Martin and I have prepared a terrific indictment.”

  Anstruther frowned. “I shouldn’t bank on anything, Susan. I know that Garland was the biggest obstacle to any revision— the biggest personal obstacle—but there are plenty of others.”

  “But it’s a clear case,” said Susan. “It’s absolutely overwhelming.”

  “I don’t doubt it, my dear, but there’s still the little problem of money to get over.”

  Susan looked so crestfallen that Martin couldn’t help laughing. “It’s no good, darling. I told you we’d got to be realistic. Your father’s quite right.”

  “But it means so much to you,” said Susan. “And to me,” she added ruefully. “Oh, Lord, I’d really begun to think we should get somewhere with that man out of the way.”

  “We still may,” said Martin. “We’ve got to try, anyhow, while everything’s fluid. If we can’t get the scheme revised now, I doubt if we ever will. And we’ll have to hurry. Material is beginning to pour into Tacri.”

  “Yes, that’s the trouble,” said Anstruther sympathetically. “The work is well under way at last. Frankly, Susan, I don’t think there’s the least hope that the Finance Committee will back out of its contract at this stage. The cost in compensation alone would be enormous. It isn’t as though the Colony can afford to fling away hundreds of thousands of pounds.”

  “They should have thought of that before,” said Susan indignantly. “Stupid idiots!”

  “I’m not defending them,” remarked Anstruther. “I’m just telling you what’s likely to happen so that you won’t be too disappointed. Finish the memorandum, by all means, but don’t expect miracles.”

  Susan got up. “So Garland wins after all. It’s too bad—he didn’t deserve to.”

  “I shouldn’t make a personal thing of it,” said Anstruther with quiet irony. “He can hardly be enjoying his victory—if it turns out to be a victory.”

  She frowned. “I still wish we could have got to the bottom of everything. Do you know, I think I’ll pop over and see if I can get any sense out of Salacity.”

  Anstruther raised his eyebrows. “Do you really think that’s wise at this stage? Wouldn’t it be better to let things rest?”

  “In peace?” said Susan. “Not if I can help it.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  It was nearly two hours before Susan reappeared, a little breathless and with an excited gleam in her eye. Martin mixed her a drink and she sat down with the portentous air of a person about to impart tidings.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she announced.

  Both men smiled. “That’s gratifying news,” said Anstruther. “To some purpose, I hope.”

  “You wait, and perhaps you won’t be so snooty. Garland was running away, there’s no doubt about that. Headlong flight, I’d call it. His place is a shambles.”

  “H’m,” said Anstruther. “Interesting—but I don’t know that it carries us much farther, does it? He hasn’t left a confession, by any chance?”

  “The way he and Celeste packed is as good as a confession. After all, they were supposed to be going away for a holiday, but it’s obvious that they weren’t. Celeste took hardly any clothes—imagine that!—but she cleaned up every scrap of jewellery, and all her old letters and photographs. And Garland practically emptied his desk of papers. Oh, they were going for good, there’s no question about it. And they were in such a hurry to get off, they didn’t even make any arrangements about having the car collected from the airport.
I suppose they were just going to leave it there. They couldn’t even stop to get a taxi, and they went off virtually with what they stood up in. I think it’s all most significant.”

  “It certainly looks as though Garland lost his nerve at the end,” said Anstruther. “Well, whatever there was on his conscience he’s taken the proof of it with him.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Susan. “After I’d talked to Salacity and had a good look round, I sat down among the litter and imagined that scene last night when they were packing, and suddenly I got on to something. Do you realise that all the time we’ve been concentrating on Garland—on Garland’s actions and motives? I believe that was a mistake. I began to put myself in Celeste’s place, and the results were quite fascinating.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Don’t you think it’s peculiar, to say the least, that Celeste should pack up and go off with Garland at a couple of hours’ notice, for good?”

  “Is it?” asked Anstruther mildly.

  “Why, of course it is. Celeste hated doing anything quickly. She was a leisurely, deliberate sort of person—almost lazy, in fact. Did you ever hear of her rushing off anywhere? And that’s not all. You know how proud she was of her home— well, she’s just abandoned it without even leaving instructions. And all those lovely clothes of hers—my dear stupid men, she’s left them all behind! Practically all! I can’t imagine what she’d wear. Don’t you see? It’s not like her. She’d never have cleared off like that unless she’d had a terrifically powerful reason.”

  “I thought wives accompanied their husbands more or less automatically,” said Martin with a grin. “Or am I about to make the mistake of my life?”

  Susan ignored the red herring. “Celeste wasn’t that sort of wife. It was she who ran that households—you know that’s true, Daddy. It was quite incredible how she used to wind Garland round her finger. She didn’t do what he wanted; she pleased herself. Why, she wouldn’t have walked to the end of the road simply because he thought it was a good idea. If Celeste decided to leave Fontego for good at two hours’ notice, it was because Celeste wanted to, and for no other reason. I’d stake my life on that.”

  Anstruther looked as though he were inclined to agree with her.

  “I’ve been trying to think what might have happened at their house when they met last night,” Susan went on eagerly. “According to Salacity, Celeste came in first, a little before nine, and Garland soon afterwards. She says she heard them talking very excitedly part of the time. Until then, neither of them had said a word to her about leaving that night. But by eleven o’clock they had packed and gone. Something pretty dramatic must have happened. I know, I simply know that it wouldn’t have been any use Garland just saying that he had a sudden hankering to live somewhere else for a change, or that he’d got urgent private reasons for leaving and that Celeste must come along with him. She’d just have laughed in his face. She’d have wanted to know what all the hurry was about. She’d have wanted to know everything.”

  “That seems reasonable,” said Martin. “Well, perhaps Garland took her into his confidence and told her of the danger he was in. That would have been dramatic enough.”

  “I don’t think he told her,” said Susan, bringing out her ace. “I believe she knew all the time.”

  “You mean she was an accomplice?” said Anstruther, startled.

  “Perhaps not quite that, but I’m sure she knew. I’ve been shockingly dim-witted, but once I started thinking about Celeste it all came to me.”

  “Well, it hasn’t all come to me,” said Anstruther with a glance at Martin. “Perhaps you’d enlighten us, my dear?”

  “It’s quite straightforward, really,” said Susan. “You see, I couldn’t forget that conversation I had with Garland by the bridge. You know how it is when a bit of a puzzle’s missing— you can’t help thinking about it. From what Garland had said, I felt sure he suspected me of having seen him at the Blue Pool, and I just couldn’t imagine what had suddenly put the idea into his head after all that while. He’d seen me several times since Fiesta and had behaved in a perfectly normal way. What was suddenly different about me? I naturally thought of clothes—and then I remembered his peculiar remark about my beach wrap.” She paused, with a mischievous glance at the two men. “Have I your attention, gentlemen?”

  “What about the wrap?” asked Martin.

  “Only that when I began thinking about the wrap I remembered that I didn’t have it at Fiesta. I’d left it at Celeste’s by mistake. Now do you begin to see?”

  “Good Lord!” said Martin.

  “I think she must have been at the Blue Pool herself, and that it was she who was one of the missing witnesses. It was silly not to think of it before. After all, she was quite a likely person, only she talked so much about it she threw dust in our eyes. I wonder who the man was.”

  “So you think that she and Garland had a showdown last night?” said Martin, frowning.

  “Yes, I think it all came out, and that’s what the excitement was about.”

  “Just a minute!” Anstruther interposed. “Are you suggesting that Celeste would have gone off with him last night, knowing he was a murderer? I didn’t know Celeste very well myself, but it seems to me most unlikely. Think of the risk she’d be running. She’d have had to be quite infatuated with him to do a thing like that, and I must say she never showed the least sign of infatuation. What possible inducement could there have been?”

  “That’s what I was coming to,” said Susan. “She must have had a very good reason. Something that really appealed to her—something that made up for all the things she was sacrificing, and even made the risk of going off with a murderer seem worth while. There’s only one thing I can think of—money. Lots and lots of money.”

  “Oh, come!” said Anstruther. “Garland hadn’t any money. At least, he never seemed to have. I always fancied he was living up to the hilt, like most of us.”

  “I’m sure he was,” Susan agreed. “Celeste saw to that. She was a terrific spender. The times I’ve envied her clothes! She adored luxury and beautiful things, and I honestly believe she’d have done anything to get them. She’d never have cleared off with Garland if all he’d been able to offer her was what he’d saved from his salary and the prospect of a paltry pension. She could no more have done that than she could have joined the sleepers-out on the pavement. She’d want something glittering.”

  Anstruther, who had been following Susan’s rather intuitive reconstruction with a slightly teasing expression on his face, suddenly became grave. “What exactly are you suggesting, Susan?”

  “I’m suggesting that Garland had something to offer her that we don’t know about—a lot of money, that he couldn’t have come by honestly. It might even explain Dubois’ murder. Daddy, you’re the man of affairs—how could he have got hold of a lot of money?”

  Anstruther sipped his drink thoughtfully. In a long lifetime of colonial service, he had learned that civil servants rarely became rich men, unless by crooked paths. What crooked paths had been open to Garland? He had certainly been in a position of great authority, a little dictator in his department. Some sort of graft? That could have happened. It happened in many departments—only too frequently—but so far there had been no case to his knowledge of a white administrator going off the rails. Anstruther was proud of the service he controlled—he hated to think that anyone in Garland’s position could have betrayed his trust. But it couldn’t be ruled out—not now. If the man had been a murderer, he had doubtless been capable of the lesser sins as well. But if Garland had done anything like that it wouldn’t have been on any petty scale. He wouldn’t have been content to rifle the cash box, or raid the stores, or monkey about with receipts. The Colonial Secretary silently reviewed Garland’s major activities.

  Finally he said, with slow emphasis, “The only really big thing that Garland handled was—Tacri.”

  There was a moment when all sat thinking, mentally poised between darkness and light. Then knowledge came li
ke the break of day.

  “Tacri!” Martin repeated. “Of course! We haven’t been very bright, have we?”

  “You always said there was something phoney about Tacri,” said Susan jubilantly.

  “Well, he was so preposterously wrong,” said Martin. “So stubbornly and violently wrong. It always seemed quite incredible to me, but if he was making money out of it, that would explain his attitude. Yes, by Jove, it would explain all that fantastically swollen expenditure, and all those idiotic frills. It would account for everything, including the row after the storm—and nothing else would.”

  Anstruther made a sound that was almost a groan. “Garland, of all people! Good Heavens!”

  Susan said, “He has rather let the side down, hasn’t he?” But she didn’t look as though she shared her father’s despondency. “Now all we’ve got to do is prove it,” she said.

  “I wonder what sort of arrangement he could have made,” mused Anstruther.

  “Daddy,” Susan broke in, “what would happen about the Tacri contract if we could prove bribery?”

  The Colonial Secretary gave a thin smile. “If we could prove it, I doubt if the firm would feel like arguing. It’s possible that they don’t know about it themselves—this could have been a private deal between Garland and that fellow Rawlins. But they’d almost certainly be prepared to cut their losses and let the matter drop, for the sake of their reputation.”

  “So the Tacri scheme would be at an end, or at least it might be brought to an end, and we could start all over again,” cried Susan. “Oh, Martin!” She turned and gave him a hug.

  “Now don’t go too fast, my dear,” Anstruther warned her, “That is still all speculation. How do we begin to prove it? Garland’s dead—he can’t talk. Rawlins obviously won’t. Where do we start?”

  “There must be an opening somewhere,” said Susan. “Surely it would be a big help if we could prove that Garland had a lot of money that couldn’t be explained in any honest way. He must have made some secret plans—he’d have to live when he got abroad. He was probably going to pick the money up somewhere. Why was he flying to Singapore all of a sudden? When Celeste talked to me about their holiday, it was Honolulu they were going to. Mightn’t he have some documents on him—a passbook or something?”