Uninvited Guest

by George Harmon Coxe

  Scott continued his idle inspection until Freddie Gardner came through the doorway and moved up beside him, removing his spectacles to mop his moist round face and then starting to polish the lenses. He accepted the cigarette Scott offered with thanks. He said he much preferred American cigarettes when he could get them.

  “The trouble is,” he said, “the only chance one has is to go aboard some of the ships that come in. Like the Colombie for instance. She’ll be in this week. French. Very pleasant to go aboard for lunch if one is in funds. Best to take a woman. Handbags, you know. Need one to stow your carton of cigarettes. Customs knows what’s going on of course but they won’t bother you if you don’t make it obvious.”

  Sally and Lambert came out to join them shortly and Scott could not tell by looking at her how it had gone with Briggs. Little was said by anyone as they lined up along the rail and presently the Farrows enlarged the line. When, ten minutes later, a constable came to tell them Major Briggs was ready, they filed in through the door and up the stairs.

  Chairs had been moved into Briggs’ office and he remained standing until everyone had been seated. While he busied himself with the statements on his desk, Scott glanced round at the various charts which adorned the walls. The one closest to him seemed to show the breakdown of the various districts and sub-stations that covered the island, the colored pins spotted here and there to indicate the complement of officers and men. Across the room another chart seemed to indicate a month-by-month record of island crime in its various ramifications. Then Briggs was talking, still very pleasantly, telling them how much he appreciated their cooperation.

  Briggs was no amateur. He had been in the Colonial Service for many years, as the crowns on his shoulders indicated. He had served in Kenya and the Gold Coast before being assigned to Barbados and would one day move on to another station befitting his rank. He had a habit of rubbing his palms gently together when his mind was working and he did so now before he addressed himself to Sally, his tone conversational rather than accusing.

  “These statements give me a rather good picture of what happened last night,” he said, “even though we will have to await the police surgeon’s report before we can be positive as to the cause of death. Right now I don’t want to inconvenience any of you any more than I have to, so if you can help me clear up one or two details, Miss Reeves, this shouldn’t take long.”

  Scott was watching the girl and he liked the way she looked at Briggs, the way she sat in the straight-backed chair. Erect and ladylike without being stiff, she had her feet flat on the floor, knees together and her hands at ease in her lap. She looked cool and composed in her navy dress and Scott was so busy liking what he saw he did not hear Briggs’ opening remark. What he did hear, and it scared him, was the word Sally spoke.

  “Pillow?” she said.

  “Yes.” Briggs indicated a sheet on his desk. “In your statement there is no mention of your using a pillow.”

  “Using-”

  “You were overheard to say that you quieted Mrs. Lambert with a pillow, something to that effect.”

  Scott’s face was suddenly tight and something froze inside as a strange and shapeless fear began to work on him. He stared at Sally, his eyes anguished. He watched the color ooze from her cheeks and her lips part, as though she had been struck a physical blow. For an instant her glance touched his and when he saw the tortured look in her eyes he knew what she was thinking: he had told her to say nothing about the pillow but someone had, and he was the only other one who knew about it. He wanted frantically to speak up and could not. He wanted to signal her in some mute way, to tell her she was wrong, to shake his head. He did shake his head, scowling hard, but by that time Briggs had continued and she did not see him.

  “Is that what you said, Miss Reeves?”

  “No.” Sally shook her head and her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “I mean, I may have said something like that but I didn’t—not really, that is—”

  “You didn’t use the pillow?” Briggs prompted.

  “Well, there was a pillow and I did pick it up and—”

  “And because she was noisy you put it over her face and held it there?”

  Scott could only watch the girl, an agony of despair warping his thoughts as he sought some way to help her. Somewhere in the room there was a murmur of denial, the sound of a breath sharply drawn. Then someone spoke, bluntly and with force.

  “Just a moment.”

  Scott saw that it was Mark Farrow. He had leaned forward, his squarish face dark and scowling.

  “Isn’t that rather putting words in Miss Reeves’ mouth, Major? Shouldn’t she be allowed to say what she has to say in her own way?”

  Briggs considered the question. He rubbed his palms. He nodded. “I wish she would,” he said without animosity. “Mr. Scott carried the woman to the cabin,” he said to Sally. “You partially undressed her and she stretched out on the berth. Did she protest?”

  “Well, yes. In a way. She swore at me.”

  “Then what?”

  “I turned out the light and when she tried to sit up I pushed her back. There was an extra pillow—”

  The sentence dangled as she faltered and her glance dropped before the Major’s steady gaze. He prompted her again.

  “You put it over her face?”

  “It was more—well, I suppose I did. I tossed it over her face.”

  “You didn’t press down on it?”

  “No,” she whispered and then, more firmly as her chin came up: “No.”

  “Do you know what effect that had on her? Did she struggle or try to throw the pillow aside?”

  “I don’t know,” Sally said. “I didn’t stay to watch. I went out and closed the door.”

  “Very good,” Briggs said. “I think that’s clear enough for the present.” He shuffled the papers on his desk and then glanced up, his gaze touching each of the others in turn. “There’s just one other point that could stand some clarifying and I’m afraid this also has to do with you, Miss Reeves.”

  Talking to the room at large, he said: “As most of you know there’s quite a bit of what one might call beachcombing done here by the natives. The sprat-fishermen with their nets, people looking for driftwood or anything else of value they might find. Well, early this morning a man by the name of Lee was coming along past the Yacht Club when he saw something up ahead, not far from the Aquatic Club pier. Now in nine cases out of ten a native finding anything of value immediately appropriates it. For some reason that is not quite clear to me, this man Lee turned his findings over to an Aquatic Club attendant. He in turn gave them to one of my men who was in the vicinity making inquiries.”

  Scott watched the Major lean down behind his desk and bring forth two articles which, when separated, proved to be a towel and a feminine-looking robe. Right then Scott remembered the man he had seen on the beach when he had rowed to the Aquatic Club to telephone Briggs, a Negro who had stopped to pick up something that looked like clothing. He understood that the man had probably done the honest thing because, having been observed by Scott, he was afraid to do otherwise. Even so he was not prepared for what followed.

  “This is an Aquatic Club towel,’ Briggs said. “And this robe”—he shook it out—”belongs to you, I believe, Miss Reeves.”

  Sally’s green eyes were focused on the Major now, her face lovely in profile, the cheekbones no longer white. When she spoke her voice was controlled.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you leave it on the beach?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Briggs frowned and there was a glint of exasperation in his gaze. Before he could phrase the next question, Sally elaborated.

  “It was last night after I’d gone to bed but I don’t know just when because I don’t know what time it was.”

  “You didn’t mention this in your statement,” Briggs said, still frowning.

  “You asked me about the
party. I thought that was what you wanted to know, that and when everyone left.”

  Her glance strayed to meet Scott’s bewildered look and she seemed to be censuring him, as though it was his fault that she had not told the truth in the first place. Then, as he sat there with the dismay and incredulity growing in him, he heard the story of Sally’s swim and the oarsman in the dinghy who had tried to strike her down. The recital of those details scared him, even though the telling was done matter-of-factly and without emphasis; then there was only confusion in his mind when he realized that all this had happened before he went to her place to tell her about Julia and warn her to be silent about the pillow.

  Briggs had trouble too. He went over the story point by point, giving particular attention to the time element.

  “You went to bed but you didn’t go to sleep,” he said. “You don’t know how long after that you went for your swim?”

  “No. I’m sorry but I don’t.”

  “You don’t know who the man was?”

  “No.”

  “Or if it was a man.”

  “I assumed it was but—I’m not sure.”

  “All you’re sure of then is that someone was rowing the dinghy towards the shore. When you hailed him he attacked you.”

  The exasperation was still working on Briggs when Sally nodded. He glanced at the others. Finally he stood up;

  “All right,” he said crisply. “That will do for now.” He hesitated while chairs scraped and his audience came to its collective feet; then he turned to Sally. “All except you, Miss Reeves. I’m going to ask you to remain long enough to give us another, and more complete, statement.”

  CHAPTER 8

  GODDARD’S was a second-floor restaurant-bar on a Broad Street corner and served as a meeting place for local shoppers as well as the passengers from the cruise ships which dropped anchor in Carlyle Bay. The most popular spot was the long veranda overlooking the street but Alan Scott avoided this and chose a corner table in the front room which was nearly empty. Having already made up his mind to do no drinking before evening, he ordered a “coke” and was still nursing it when the Farrows arrived.

  Mark ordered a whisky and soda and Vivian a gin-and-tonic. She settled back, fanning herself with her straw handbag while her painted nails beat a soft tattoo on the chair arm. Her dark gaze had distance in it as it focused on some point outside the window.

  “About the trip.” Mark began to fill his pipe. “We may still be able to take it. I suppose it’s idle to speculate on what the autopsy will show or—”

  “It will probably show that someone murdered her,” Vivian said. “Why else would anyone chase Sally with an oar in the middle of the night?”

  “What I mean is,” Mark said, ignoring her, “either the authorities will clear it up right away or they won’t. If they do, well and good; if not I still think they might let us shove off after a day or two. After all we’re reputable people.”

  “Darling.” Vivian touched his arm. “Even so-called reputable people sometimes stoop to murder, if one is to believe what he reads.”

  Farrow frowned and again clung to his thought as though there had been no interruption. He leaned muscular forearms on the table and said:

  “No one would be likely to run for it. A few days needn’t matter. If you’ve anything aboard that will spoil we could take it off your hands.”

  Scott spoke of the cooked ham and turkey. He spoke of other things while his mind moved on to speculate again about the murder and how little he knew of those involved. The Farrows, for instance.

  Both had been married before. Mark was English and supposedly came from a good family, his manners and general attitude suggesting that his background and education had been more than adequate. Rumor had it that Vivian had married a wealthy Venezuelan while still a show girl in New York, and seeing her erect, high-breasted torso now, Scott could understand how desirable she could be to many men. He had seen her in a bathing suit the afternoon of the sail. She had a truly magnificent figure, she was an excellent swimmer—

  His thoughts hung there as he remembered again the wet spots on the deck when he went below to find Julia dead in bed. He had thought then that some native bent on larceny had made them, but suppose someone with murder on his mind had chosen that way to come silently aboard, knowing that Julia lay defenseless in the forward cabin, not knowing Lambert was there but, finding him sound asleep, carrying out the plan regardless.

  Such an act would, he knew, take nerve, but from what he had seen of Vivian—or Mark for that matter—he knew they had it. He also understood that they had put all the money they had into the development of their Bahama island. They needed more and Lambert was to supply it.

  Scott eyed the woman aslant as he made some comment to her husband, studying the strong-boned features, the smooth line of jaw, the set of the black, penciled brows. There was courage here; of that he was sure. Determination too, and loyalty for those who deserved it. Julia was not going to spoil the cruise. That was what Vivian had said. What she had meant was that Julia must not bully Lambert or prevent him from investing his money as he saw fit. And at the time everyone believed the woman when she said she was still married to Lambert.

  Mark’s voice interrupted the thought. Speaking beyond Scott, he said: “Hello Howard. Join us. What will you have?”

  “Yes, Howard,” Vivian said. “Do sit down and help us solve the case.”

  Crane pulled out a chair and sank heavily into it. He told the waiter he’d have a whisky and water and then he leaned back and looked from one to the other as he mopped his tanned face.

  “It wasn’t you, was it, Howard?” Vivian asked, still watching him. “I mean, if it was your secret is safe enough with us. We’d just like to know.”

  Her husband took the pipe from his mouth and looked aghast. “That’s not very funny,” he said reprovingly.

  “Funny?” Vivian smiled at him. “I suppose not,” she said, her tone conversational and carrying no emphasis. “I was just thinking that Howard chased around a lot with Julia last summer after she’d split up with Keith and while his wife was in England. I was wondering if Julia knew where the body was buried.”

  Mark opened his mouth and then closed it, as though such vernacular phraseology was beyond him. Crane took no offense. His blunt-jawed face was somber but his glance was remote as he shook his head.

  “We had good times, too,” he said in his “Bajan” accents. “She was quite good fun when she was sober. Drunk she was rather impossible.” He hesitated, then grinned. “But I’m not the only one.”

  “Only one?” Vivian said.

  “Who took her around. This Waldron fellow was pretty attentive too. He made it a competitive proposition, taking Julia to parties and things.”

  “Waldron?” Farrow glanced at his wife.

  “You know the one,” she said. “American. Talks as if he came from Brooklyn. Slender, dark, wears glasses, has a flat up St. Lawrence way.”

  “Oh, yes,” Farrow said, and by that time Scott remembered how Frank Morgan had introduced him to Waldron the night before.

  “It’s not very pleasant though, is it”—Crane looked at Vivian—”knowing that unless it was accidental someone who was aboard last night killed her.”

  He signaled the waiter but Farrow had started to push back his chair. He said they had to be getting along. He waited for his wife to pick up her bag and just then Sally, Lambert and Freddie Gardner crossed a corner of the room and disappeared on the veranda. Apparently Scott was the only one who noticed because no comment was made. Instead Farrow said:

  “I’ll send a man for the turkey and ham. Somehow I still think we’ll get that cruise in.”

  Scott sat down and Crane stretched his legs. When his drink came he said: “Chin-chin,” and sipped it idly, making no effort to continue the conversation, his gaze detached and brooding. This gave Scott a chance to think about the man and his activities which, aside from an interest in a residential club and s
ome local investments, were mostly social and sporting.

  Few could call the man handsome but he had a lean, flat-muscled body that he kept in good condition. A man like Crane, Scott decided, would have no trouble scaling the vine-covered wall of the Carib Hotel; nor would Mark Farrow for that matter. Freddie Gardner, Scott asked himself as his thoughts moved on. Why not? The trouble was he had no proof that the prowler and the killer were the same person. . . .

  “I’m sorry,” he said, aware that Crane had spoken.

  “I said a bit of news came in after you’d left the Central Station. I stopped in the Traffic Bureau to see a fellow and when I came out Sally and Keith and Freddie were just leaving. While she was making her statement word came in to Briggs that Julia really did get her divorce.” He hesitated, his smile giving his face a lopsided look. “The police found the papers in her hotel room. The rest of it was sheer bluff on her part.”

  Scott took pains to register surprise. He made the proper exclamations.

  “But what would be her point in lying?”

  Crane shrugged. He said he did not know. “Except,” he said, “Julia always had Keith pretty well under her thumb. He was afraid of her.”

  “He could have checked back.”

  “Eventually, yes. Being Keith it might be days before he got around to doubting her word. It would simply not occur to him. Meanwhile my guess is that Julia was after all she could get. With her around I doubt if Keith would be putting any money into Farrow’s island—or anything else. At least not for a while.” He beckoned the waiter and stood up to pay his check.