“So what does it prove?” he asked himself aloud.
“Nothing,” he said by way of answer, “except that someone killed Julia, and a man searched her room.”
Reluctantly he admitted that the same person need not have done both. He did not know what the prowler wanted, nor could he speculate with any intelligence. The only other fact about which he could be sure was that the man in room 208 could not have been Keith Lambert—which left Mark Farrow, Howard Crane, and Freddie Gardner. . . .
It was nearly four o’clock when Scott returned to the Griselda and he did not bother to inspect the main cabin but went forward to his quarters and undressed. By now the weight of physical and mental exhaustion had begun to work on him but he had no intention of going to sleep. Having already postponed calling the police because of his desire to protect Sally, he had decided that his best course was to pretend he knew nothing about Julia. He would carry on as if nothing had happened, and at the proper time he would discover her body.
This was to be the day of the cruise and it would be logical to be up early, and so at five he put on his trunks and t-shirt and went on deck. For another half hour he sat there, watching the sky grow pink. Gradually the palms took shape along the beach, and in a little while the sun began to kiss the tops of the feathery casuarina trees which backed the palms in their march along the shore.
The flying-fish boats from a nearby beach settlement were already tacking seaward, and as he turned to watch them he saw the steamer coming in from the east, the colors of the Harrison Line on her stack, a cargo-passenger ship of modern design with a black hull and white superstructure. She seemed surprisingly close inshore as she angled in for an anchorage on her first stop since leaving Britain, and Scott watched the water churn white astern as her screw was reversed and she moved toward her berth close by an older, sister ship which had come up from the south the day before.
An angle of land obscured the inner reaches of Car-lyle Bay and when the ship slid out of sight, he rose reluctantly and dived over the side for the morning swim that had become a part of his daily ritual. It was his idea to maintain the normal routine until the time came for a logical discovery of the dead woman so he took his time. When he was ready he toweled off lightly on deck and then put on some clothes.
Keith Lambert was snoring loudly when he went below to start the coffee, and with no effort to be quiet he started the generator. Lambert kept right on snoring and Scott waited until the coffee was nearly ready before he went over and shook his passenger awake.
“Hit the deck!” he said.
Lambert groaned. Scott shook him again, watching the lids open a fraction of an inch at a time until finally the bloodshot eyes began to focus. Almost immediately Lambert closed them again. He groaned. He wanted to know what time it was. When Scott told him he wrenched his skinny frame to a sitting position and, accompanied by more groaning, held his head.
“I feel horrible,” he said.
“You’re going to feel worse,” Scott said, and then he told the news about Julia, speaking with a blunt incisive-ness to relate the facts as he had rehearsed them. He said he had knocked at Julia’s door when he came down to put on the coffee; when there was no answer he looked in. She was dead.
Lambert’s first reaction seemed to be one of incredulity. His jaw sagged and he swallowed visibly. When he could speak he said he didn’t believe it; he tried to argue until Scott told him to go look for himself. By that time Lambert’s bloodshot eyes were sick and his thin face was gray. He staggered erect, blond hair standing on end. He rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. His high-pitched voice cracked when he replied.
“I—I couldn’t . . . I think I’m going to be sick,” he said and lurched from the cabin.
He still looked sick when he came back to the galley. “Good God, Alan,” he said. “Who could have done such a thing? Are you sure?”
“Did you look?”
“I couldn’t.” He swallowed against his sickness, his face pasty. “I’ve got to have a drink,” he said. “Something. Anything . . . Please!”
Scott said it would be better if he didn’t. It would be a tough day. “Coffee would be better,” he added. “With maybe some tomato juice.”
“Yes. Tomato juice—but with a spot of gin, Alan. Please. And some Worcestershire.”
Scott fixed the juice and Lambert reached for it with shaking hands. He drank greedily and then looked up.
“What about the police? Shouldn’t we call them?”
“That’s why I woke you,” Scott said. “We don’t want just anyone out here at first. Who do you know? Who’s a good man to call?”
Lambert thought it over and it took quite awhile. Finally he sighed and said: “Major Briggs, I guess. He’s the Deputy Commissioner.”
Scott nodded. He said he’d row ashore and put in the call. He said if he were Lambert he would stay away from the bottle. . . .
When Scott pushed away in the dinghy he saw his two-man crew sitting on the beach waiting for him as was their custom. Until that moment he had forgotten all about them and now he changed course away from the Aquatic Club and headed for the beach.
They made an odd pair as they stood up at his approach. Luther—Scott did not know whether this was the man’s first name or last—was thin and wiry, his light brown coloring of a shade that might have passed for sun-tan at someplace like Miami Beach. He was clad in well washed khaki trousers and shirt, and wore sneakers and an old felt hat. Such inquiries as Scott had made assured him that Luther was a fine hand with a boat and knew thoroughly the waters and ports from the Virgins to British Guiana. Luther’s one reported weakness was an occasional overfondness for rum but as yet Scott had seen no evidence to support the opinion.
Boult was a bigger man, and quite black. His khakis were neatly patched and he was barefooted, but he was a clean-looking Negro with a soft deep voice and a thick “Bajan” accent that made him difficult to understand at times. The important thing to Scott was that Boult could cook and knew how to serve, and now he was a little worried as to just what he should say.
He did not rise as the dinghy grounded but spoke across the bow. He said that they would not be sailing today. He said plans had changed unexpectedly and it might be two or three days before they could start the cruise.
“I’ll let you know when I want you,” he said, “and you’ll be paid whether you work or not.”
They nodded but said nothing. As he started to back off the beach Boult stepped forward to give the boat a shove and they were still standing there as Scott began to row toward the Aquatic Club and a telephone. He was nearly to the pier landing when he noticed the native on the beach.
The man had been walking slowly along, poking at this and that with a long stick, and as Scott watched him, he stooped down and picked something up. Scott wasn’t sure what it was but he saw there were two pieces and one looked like a towel. When the man glanced up and saw Scott watching him he tucked the things under his arm and started toward the shore end of the pier while Scott continued to the landing, giving no further thought to the incident until much later.
Major Briggs arrived in a Harbor Police launch forty minutes later along with a doctor, two uniformed constables and a Negro sergeant in plain-clothes. A stocky, competent-looking man of perhaps forty, he looked very neat and efficient in his khaki shorts, cap, and jacket. His Sam Browne belt was sleekly polished and he car ried a swagger stick which he rapped against his stockinged calf from time to time.
Pausing in the main cabin only long enough for the briefest of fill-ins, he continued to the forward cabin with the doctor while Scott and Lambert waited it out in silence. This lasted perhaps ten minutes and then the two constables appeared with a stretcher and blanket. With that, Lambert, who had bathed and shaved but still looked seedy, fled topside.
When the launch cast off leaving Briggs and the sergeant behind, Lambert came back and Briggs got down to business. He wanted to know what they could tell him, listen
ing attentively as they explained what had happened at the party and nodding from time to time as the sergeant jotted facts in a notebook.
“And after you went ashore,” Briggs said to Lambert, “you took Miss Reeves home. Freddie Gardner wandered off to his car. You started to drive home, changed your mind and went to Club Morgan. You had some drinks and came back here. Why?”
Lambert blinked. “Why what? I mean—”
“Why here instead of home?”
“I really can’t say. I grant there must have been some reason but”—Lambert sighed and his shoulders sagged still more—”I can’t seem to recall it. What I mean is, I had a bibful, Major. Don’t recall coming aboard. Must have though, since I was here.”
Briggs glanced at Scott, his brown eyes speculative. “Maybe you can tell us, Mr. Scott.”
Scott hesitated, but not for long. To protect Sally he knew he had to lie but he saw no reason why he should lie for anyone else.
“Keith wanted to talk to his wife,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Said he’d never had the courage to tell her off before.”
“You agreed to this, knowing her condition?”
“It wasn’t a question of agreeing. He said I could row him out or he would swim. So I brought him along and fed him another stiff drink, hoping he’d fall asleep and forget about his wife. Apparently he did. I took off his shoes and jacket and left him there on the bunk.”
Briggs put his hands on his bare knees. He took time out to study Lambert. “Did you get up during the night?”
“No.”
Briggs’ smile was small and tight. “For a man who can’t remember coming aboard, you seem quite positive . . . Well”—he rose and reached for his cap—”we’ll need some statements. I’ll get in touch with the others.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s say ten o’clock if it’s convenient. At my office . . . If you can put us ashore now,” he said to Scott, “I should have a car waiting.”
It was then, as Briggs started to go, that Scott remembered Julia’s pocketbook. He spoke of it, explaining where he had found it as he took it from the drawer. Briggs inspected the contents, looked at the keys, straightened out a crumpled yellow sheet that Scott had not bothered to examine. When he read it Briggs’ brows lifted; then, giving Scott a level glance, he replaced the contents. He thanked him. He said it might be important.
CHAPTER 7
MAJOR BRIGGS’ office was on the second floor of an old stone building, one of several that stood about a paved courtyard in downtown Bridgetown and formed the Central Police Station. Overlooking this court and the huge Indian evergreen in the center was a covered veranda with Demerara shutters. Two plain-clothes men and a policewoman worked here at desks and the tiny anteroom at the end was empty when Alan Scott arrived shortly before ten. He was admitted to the private office as soon as he gave his name, and what happened then surprised him a little.
The Major, pleasantly businesslike, waved him to a chair at the end of the desk. He pushed a pad of paper and a pen at Scott and leaned back in his chair. There was no cross-examination, threats, or insinuations. What Briggs wanted was a simple statement in writing as to what Scott knew about the affair.
“Just put down what you told me earlier,” he said. “Plus anything else that may have occurred to you since then. Just the simple truth will do for now, Mr. Scott, though I do wish you’d give some thought to time.”
“Time?”
“Perhaps I should have said the time element. When Mrs. Lambert was taken to the cabin, when the others left, things like that,’ He smiled faintly to indicate that he did not want to be unreasonable. “Not that I expect you to be exact. One doesn’t go about looking at clocks at a time like that but—do the best you can.”
Having already decided to stick to his story, Scott wrote it down, hardly expecting that this would be the end of the investigation but glad that there was to be no inquisition for the present. When he had finished, Briggs read the statement, called an aide in and had him witness Scott’s signature.
“That’ll do for now,” he said. “Thank you very much.” He rubbed his palms gently together, hesitated; then stood up. “I’m going to ask you ‘o stand by for an hour or so, if you don’t mind. Until I’ve talked to the others.”
Scott frowned, the disappointment showing in his angular face. At the point of congratulating himself on the simplicity of the interview, he understood now that this was only the beginning.
“Here?” he said.
“Well, no.” Briggs waved one hand. “We’re hardly equipped to make you comfortable, but you might wait on the downstairs veranda, or in your car if you prefer. Just so we can find you when we want you.”
Scott eyed him sardonically. “You mean you want to have another session with all of us after you’ve compared notes.”
“It’s sometimes helpful,” Briggs said, and smiled pleasantly but with no great warmth.
Scott went out to find Sally and Lambert waiting in the anteroom along with Freddie Gardner. They all stood up and Briggs, who had followed Scott, was introduced to Sally.
“Should we come in now?” Lambert asked.
“Well—yes.” Briggs smiled. “But one at a time, if you don’t mind. Suppose we start with you?”
Lambert, looking like a man who wanted to protest but did not dare, glanced at Sally, shrugged and followed the Major. When the door closed, Scott took the girl’s arm.
“We should have time for a cigarette,” he said. “Will you excuse us, Freddie?”
Freddie wet his lips. He wore another of his white drill suits with raveled cuffs and this one had a stain on one pocket. His round face held a melancholy look and behind the spectacles his light brown eyes were distressed and uncertain.
“Yes, certainly,” he said reluctantly, “although I do wish someone would tell me just what happened.”
Sally wore a navy-blue linen dress and carried a straw bag. She was bare-legged and though her green eyes were subdued her tanned skin looked fresh and flawless and he liked the way she kept her chin up. But as they went down the stairs his mind held no thoughts of love. He was worried about how she would react to Briggs, and he was annoyed that she had come here with Lambert instead of him.
“You’re all set, aren’t you?” he asked when he gave her a cigarette and a light.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” That was what he wanted to say. He wanted to shout at her and shake her and make her see how important this was to her.
“Just remember you know nothing about anything,” he said, concentrating on his voice. “After the party you went home and went to bed.”
She turned as he spoke and put her hand on his arm, her gaze troubled and her brow furrowed.
“I’m not sure this is the right way, Alan. I have nothing to hide.”
You’ve got plenty to hidel That’s what Scott thought but he did not say so; he did not try to explain that if she told the truth about the pillow she would be a suspect, and might possibly always remain so. He forced a smile. He squeezed the hand on his arm. Then, seeing the Farrows drive up, he said:
“Play it my way. Forget the pillow.”
With that she turned and went up the stairs and he waited for the others.
Mark was clad in white shorts and a sport shirt which contrasted sharply with his sunburned skin and dark hair. His squarish face was grave but his accented voice was as soft as ever as he said good morning.
“Have you finished already?” he asked.
“The first round.”
“First round?”
“There’ll be a more general inquisition later. I’ve been told to wait.”
“Oh?”
“What, exactly do they want with us?” Vivian asked.
She stood tall and straight in her beige dress, her olive-skinned face impassive but impatience in her voice and a hint of nervousness lurking in the corners of her black eyes. She had a half-smoked cigarette betwe
en her fingers and she threw it away as she spoke. She shifted her bag under one arm, her glance straying to the floor above.
“Just a statement,” Scott said. “For now.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happened after the party. Where you went and—”
“We went home,” she said, interrupting. “We stayed there,’
“Which is what we tell the Major,” Farrow said. “Suppose we get on with it . . . Oh,” he said as an afterthought. “About the cruise.”
“Yeah,” Scott said.
“How would it do to meet us at Goddard’s when we finish here? We could discuss it then.”
Scott watched them enter the doorway. When they started up the stairs he sat down on the railing but before he had a chance to look about another car entered the narrow, tunnel-like entrance from the street. He watched the sedan back round and park at one side and then Howard Crane came along the court and up the steps.
“Good morning,” he said. “Anyone else here?”
“Everyone’s here.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone who was aboard last night.”
“Oh. And what is one supposed to do?”
“Give a statement, I guess.”
“About what? I mean, what is there to say?”
Scott said he guessed Briggs wanted to compare notes as to what had happened aboard the schooner and where people went afterward. Crane listened, a restlessness working on his flat-muscled body so that he was unable to remain still. His tanned face was grave and his gray gaze seemed worried. He said it was a shocking business; he could not understand how such a thing had happened unless it was just an unfortunate accident; even that was hard to accept.
He seemed to expect no answers to his comments and presently he was gone and Scott was looking off across the court to where a squad of uniformed constables was lined up in front of a sergeant. Apparently this was an inspection of some sort because the sergeant looked over each man’s equipment in a precise and military manner before he marched them away.
Through the open doors and windows of the one-story frame building which made up two sides of the court other officers were busy with paper work, and there was a constant going and coming from the one two-story structure in the corner which apparently served as a barracks of some sort. Beyond this and to the right he could see through the trees the courthouse in the next block. Court—in the States it would have been Superior Court though he did not know the term used here—was in session. The Daily Advocate chronicled the facts of that court and Scott knew that at the moment a manslaughter case was being heard, a knifing of some sort involving two natives. Through the high open windows he could see the backs of the spectators, the white jackets of the constables acting as attendants; on the pavement outside little groups stood here and there beneath the mammoth evergreens.
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