by Cave, Hugh
When he awoke, his father was bending over him, lightly shaking him by the shoulder. "Come into the living room, son," Dad said.
In the front room he found Corporal Buckley seated at the big mahogany table, but the man was not alone there.
Miss Louie was by the fireplace, and Zackie, with a clean dressing on his arm, sat in one of the big easy chairs. On the table was a cardboard carton that according to the lettering on it had once held tins of condensed milk. Peter couldn't see what was in it now.
Mr. Devon led Peter to an easy chair and said, "Sit down, son. I think you should hear this." When Peter was seated, he turned to Corporal Buckley. "Now, Corporal, would you mind repeating what you've just told us?"
"Not at all." Buckley turned in his chair to face Peter. "First let me say, though, that I was never really convinced that Zackie could be the thief. A boy who would work that hard to help a worthless father was simply not the kind who would steal, I kept telling myself. The one doing the stealing was much more likely to be the father, himself. But I was not able to prove it."
He paused for a breath.
"Then you, Peter Devon, handed me the solution with an idle remark you made. If the stolen money wasn't in Merrick Leonard's house, you said, maybe it was hidden in his yard somewhere. So I went back there and searched the yard, and do you know what I found? There is an old root cellar, I guess you would call it, among the weeds in a far corner of that yard, where the former owner stored yams and other such long-keeping food. And I found this box in it."
Going to the table, he reached for the carton and took out what was in it: a small radio, a watch, two billfolds, a jackknife—and a packet of paper money secured with a rubber band.
"I've counted this," he said, holding up the money. "It's thirty-two dollars less than the amount reported stolen by the people he robbed, but I believe we can assume he spent that much on rum and ganja. There's another of your missing handkerchiefs here, too, Peter. So he has to be the one who stole them, no doubt to throw suspicion on you or Zackie or both of you."
"Sir," Peter said, "did Zackie's father tell you about finding Zackie and me with some money?"
The policeman seemed puzzled. "No, lad, he hasn't been near me."
"Well, that's what happened. He followed us to the hut in Zackie's garden. Show him the money, Zackie." Zackie produced it from his pocket.
"What it is, Corporal," Peter went on, "is money Zackie earned from selling vegetables he grew and that wild pig he shot. When I found him up there counting it, he was going to take it to Kingston and give it to his mother."
"Who is no longer in Kingston," Buckley said, nodding, "but here at Miss Lorrie's place. I talked to her when I went down to Merrick Leonard's house. All right, Peter." His nod took in Zackie, as well. "Thanks for telling me this. It clears things up for me."
The anxious look had returned to Zackie's face. "But, Corpie," he said, "it don't clear up for me. Me daddy still giving me a hard time about this money and everything else. Him say the money belong him. What me want to know—"
A voice from the yard interrupted him. Someone out there was calling Walter Devon. Peter followed Mr. Devon to the open door and saw a group of men who had been fighting the fire. Like the ones who had come down before them, they were black with soot and looked exhausted. One was even lying on the ground.
"Mr. Devon," their leader called, "can you come here a minute, please. Not the boy," he added when he saw Peter step onto the veranda. "Just yourself."
Mr. Devon went down the steps and talked to them, then walked over and looked at the one lying on the ground. He glanced up at Peter, who was still standing in the doorway, but said nothing. Then one of the men handed him what looked like an old kerosene tin, and he looked at that. Peter heard him say, "I'd better give this to Corporal Buckley."
Pointing to the man on the ground, one of the men said, "What about him, suh?"
"Could you take him home, please? That's where he ought to be, I think. For now, at least."
Then, still holding the kerosene tin, Mr. Devon slowly climbed the veranda steps and walked past Peter into the living room. On his face was a look Peter had never seen before, one that seemed to be part sorrow and part gladness, if such a combination was possible.
Mr. Devon handed the kerosene tin to Corporal Buckley, who was standing with one hand on the back of Zackie's chair. "The men discovered this when they were trying to find out how the fire started, Corporal. They found an empty rum bottle with it, but didn't bother to bring that down."
Corporal Buckley examined the tin and nodded. "Perhaps we'd better discuss the rest of this in private," Dad said with a glance at Zackie.
"You nuh need to do that, Mr. Devon," Zackie said. "Me know where that tin did come from."
Miss Lorrie left the table and went to stand by Zackie's chair, next to the corporal.
"It was me daddy set the fire, wasn't it?" Zackie said. "To get even with you for taking me in and helping me."
Mr. Devon moved his head up and down as though he didn't want to. "It would seem so, Zackie. Yes. I'm sorry."
"Then me even more glad me did help put the fire out."
"So am I," Mr. Devon said. "So am I, Zackie. But there is something else you have to be told." He paused, looking as though he wished he didn't have to be the one to say it. "Your dad must have been drunk, Zackie, or on ganja again, or both. He had too much of something, anyway, to get away after he splashed the kerosene around and put a match to it. That was your father the men brought down just now."
"You mean . . ." But Zackie could not say it.
"He is dead, Zackie."
There was a long silence then. Corporal Buckley was the one who ended it. Turning to Zackie, he said, "I expect you'll want to go down to Miss Lorrie's and talk to your mother about this, son. Do you mind if I come along? I believe I've something to say to her, too."
"Didn't you already talk to her a while ago?"
"I did. But things are different now."
Zackie looked at Peter's father. "Is it all right, Mr. Devon? I mean, you won't need me for a while?"
What Mr. Devon said then made Peter feel good. "Zackie," Mr. Devon said, "we'll always need you, but not the way you mean. Run along, both of you. And"— his smile was for the tall policeman—"good luck to you, Corporal Buckley. All the best."
"See you later, Peter," Zackie said.
"You bet, Zackie."
The tall policeman and the Jamaican boy walked to the door, with Zackie's dog trotting after them. When they were gone, Walter Devon turned to Peter. "Peter."
"Yes, Dad?"
"I'm sure I don't have to tell you this—you already know it—but you've been right about staying here in Jamaica. It will be much better for both of us. What do you say? Do you still want to go to school here?"
Peter could only nod his reply. The words would have to come later.
