Uninvited Guest

by George Harmon Coxe

  “For a few minutes.”

  “Long enough. And you thought she was still married to Lambert, which gives you a motive.”

  “How?”

  “You may have thought that with the woman alive Lambert might not buy your schooner, which I understand is important to you . . . It is, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I want to sell it, yes.”

  Briggs nodded. “When, exactly, did you discover the body?”

  Scott told him and Briggs said: “Assuming you did not kill her she must then have died between 11:20 when you left the schooner, and 2:05. For the hour previous you were in your quarters and Lambert was asleep in the main cabin. What waked you?”

  Again Scott had to say he did not know. “It may have been some motion of the boat, or some sound I don’t remember hearing. When I saw the wet marks on the deck I thought some native might be prowling about. That’s why I went below to have a look.”

  “Lambert was asleep all this time?”

  “Let’s say he looked asleep each time I saw him.”

  “Very good.” Briggs nodded. He rubbed his palms together. “Now about this man who attacked you in the hotel room. You have no idea who he was? . . . You’re quite sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “What was the condition of the room, the bags particularly?”

  Scott told what he remembered.

  “You took nothing. You saw nothing to give you any idea why anyone should be searching her belongings?”

  “There was some jewelry in the bag that wasn’t opened. The divorce papers were there too but I don’t know how anyone would know that beforehand.”

  “All right.” Briggs took a cablegram from the desk and passed it to Scott. “Did you see this in the pocketbook when you took the keys?”

  Scott scanned the message, which had been dispatched four days ago to Julia Parks at a New York address. In substance it said that if Julia intended to get down to Bridgetown before Lambert spent all his money she had better hurry. It was signed, Howard.

  Scott shook his head. He said he had not searched the pocketbook. “Crane?” he asked, his stare perplexed.

  “We think so. I intend to ask him . . . Ahh,” he said as an aide entered and saluted, “here he is now.”

  Howard Crane came in, glanced at Scott and Briggs; then took the chair the Major indicated. Briggs took the message from Scott and handed it to Crane.

  “I believe you sent that, Howard,” he said.

  Crane merely glanced at the sheet. He placed it carefully on the desk and leaned back. He nodded, his lopsided smile wry.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been wondering about it.”

  “As a policeman,” Briggs said, “it strikes me as odd, not so much that you should send the wire—though I don’t know yet why—but that Julia Parks should arrive last night and be killed before morning.”

  “It strikes me as odd too,” Crane replied. “That’s why I didn’t mention the cable before. I suppose you want to know why I sent it and I’ll try to explain what I had in mind.”

  He offered a tin of cigarettes, lit his own and leaned back in his chair. “Keith’s inheritance is the real reason. He never had any money, and all at once he has a potful which he seemed intent on spending. Everyone was eager to help him. The Bailey brothers have been after him to underwrite their real estate development. The Simmonses wanted him to back a restaurant, the Farrows wanted to sell him part of an island, none of which bothered me because my wife and I have enough of our own. What did bother me was Freddie Gardner’s plan to enlarge the Flamingo.”

  He glanced at Scott, as though to clarify the reference. “I’m the principal owner of the Surf Club,” he said, “and lately we’ve been doing quite well with our rooms. The Flamingo is almost next door to us. Freddie has a small interest in it, and big ideas. It’s an old house which has been remodeled. There are six rooms to rent, and they serve meals . . . Right now,” he said to Briggs, “they are on the thin edge. Freddie’s idea is to get a hundred thousand from Keith, put up some detached rooms, modernize it to accommodate fifteen or sixteen couples.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t want that to happen. There isn’t enough business up there for two of us. The competition will damn well ruin us both. But Freddie’s a pal of Keith’s and he just might get that backing, and that’s why I cabled Julia. Even divorced—and I thought she was—Keith would be afraid of her. He always was. Furthermore she always hated Freddie. I thought if I got her down here she’d see to it one way or another that Freddie didn’t get that money. It seemed worth the try.” He gestured emptily. “Telling it like this after what happened may not make much sense to you, Major, but that’s why I cabled her.”

  Briggs nodded thoughtfully, his manner suggesting that he accepted the explanation. So did Scott. Crane’s story was straightforward and his reasoning that Julia might have prevented the investment had been corroborated by others. The snatch of conversation he had heard on deck while the party was going on bore this out.

  “As for that,” Crane said, indicating the cable, “you can hardly blame me for not rushing in and telling you it was my fault Julia came. After all, I suppose I’m among the suspects and I haven’t any alibi. I went home after I left Club Morgan but we have no servants sleeping in with my wife away, and I can’t prove it.”

  “You’re not alone in that,” Briggs said dryly, and referred to his notes. “Lambert took Miss Reeves home. He talked with her a few minutes before he left and he would not have had time to go aboard the schooner and still arrive at Morgan’s when he did. The crucial period for him is the hour when you”—he glanced at Scott—“were in your quarters. We’ve only his word that he was asleep all that time.

  “Freddie Gardner,” he continued, “says he went home after he left Lambert but there’s no substantiation for that either. The Farrows went home. We know that because there was a party across the street and they were seen to come in at 11:35, which would be about right. But later, at approximately 1:30, their car was seen to drive off again; what we don’t know is who did the driving.”

  “What do they say?” Crane asked.

  “He says he went to bed—they have separate rooms—and she says so too. She says if anyone says he saw a car at that time he’s mistaken—so there we are.” He glanced at some papers on the desk, continued to Crane:

  “By the way. What, in your opinion, was Julia Parks’ reason for pretending she was still Mrs. Lambert? I understand you knew her pretty well. Did she say anything to you?”

  Crane shook his head.

  “The only thing I can suggest is that she was pretty bitter because she had divorced Keith too soon and decided to take a gamble in the hope of bluffing him. She had the faculty of making him do about what she wanted him to do. He could eventually check back and find out she was lying but I think she hoped to force some sort of financial settlement out of him before that happened.”

  As he finished the aide again came in. Scott did not understand what he said but Briggs seemed to. He nodded and said: “Ask him to come in.”

  He glanced at Scott and Crane. “We managed to find one other person who may shed some light on this business . . . Come in, Mr. Waldron. Have a chair. Do you know these gentlemen?”

  Tom Waldron said yes. He said hello. He looked just as natty now as he had the night before when Scott had met him at the Club Morgan bar. He wore white buckskin shoes, yellow socks, and a well draped white tropical worsted suit, contrasting sharply with his dark skin and hair and dark-rimmed glasses.

  “You know what happened to Julia Parks,” Briggs said.

  “Your man told me,” Waldron said. “And it’s a rough deal for Julia. I don’t know anyone who liked living better than she did.”

  “You were quite friendly with her, weren’t you?”

  “For a while I was.” He glanced at Crane. “Howard and I used to take turns taking her out last summer.”

  “Umm,” said Briggs. “That’s why I asked you to stop i
n. I thought perhaps you might be able to tell us why she was here and what her plans were.”

  Waldron crossed his knees. He shook his head. “I didn’t see her,” he said.

  “But you knew she was here.”

  “Well, yes. I met Mr. Scott at Morgan’s and he told me she’d just flown in. That was later—” “I mean before that.”

  Waldron waited, his deep-set eyes revealing nothing as he watched Briggs go through some papers on his desk and finally locate the one he wanted. What Briggs said then corroborated Scott’s earlier opinion that it was not only silly but a waste of time to hold out on Briggs. He was not spectacular but long years of experience enabled him to utilize the resources at his command in a manner that was both thorough and efficient. Now, glancing at Crane, he said:

  “You took Miss Parks to the hotel. You had some drinks and dinner. To your knowledge did she make a telephone call during that time?”

  “Yes,” Crane said. “Before dinner. We were in the cocktail lounge and she said she had to make a call.”

  “She made it through the hotel operator,” Briggs said, giving his attention to Waldron. “There is a record of such calls in case there is any question as to which guest made what call later on. The number Miss Parks asked for was yours, Mr. Waldron. According to my information she talked to you three or four minutes.”

  Waldron’s mustache curved upward at the ends as his smile worked at it. The gleam in his eyes may have been one of respect.

  “Bull’s eye, Major,” he said in his city accents.

  “And what was the substance of your conversation?”

  “It didn’t have much substance. I was surprised she was on the island. I asked her how come and she said business. I said monkey business and she said no, financial business. I said: Okay, and what’re you doin tonight? How about meeting me for dinner?’ She said she had a date and I said: ‘All right, how about later at Club Morgan?’ She said: ‘I might just do that.’ “

  He glanced at Scott. “I was still waiting for her when I met you and what you said told me she wouldn’t be making it.”

  Scott did not hear Briggs’ comment. Common sense told him he was reaching a long way for suspects, but he was also aware that in Waldron there was one other who knew that Julia lay unconscious and defenseless in the forward cabin of the Griselda. As to the possible motive he did not speculate; it was enough for now to know that Waldron had the opportunity. Waldron had left Club Morgan right after Keith Lambert arrived. Time enough. . . .

  “I’d like a statement to that effect,” Briggs was saying to Waldron. “And yours too, Mr. Scott. You can use a desk on the veranda if you like.”

  “Is it all right to ask a question?” Scott said, remaining where he was. “Have you made any progress?”

  “Some.”

  “What about the post mortem?”

  “It indicates the woman died of asphyxiation.”

  “But she was murdered.”

  “If you mean deliberately,” Briggs said. “We can’t be sure—yet.”

  Scott was aware that his voice was rising even though he tried to keep it down. His impatience at Briggs’ evasiveness was corroding his nerves and because the opinion was so important to him what he said was not very polite.

  “Nuts. She damn well didn’t smother herself.”

  “On the contrary,’ Briggs said calmly. “She may very well have done just that. Miss Reeves used a pillow to—

  “She tossed a pillow at her,” Scott said, close to shouting now.

  “Admitted. But there was a pillow.” Briggs waved for silence. “According to the doctors there have been cases where persons intoxicated to the point of paralysis have caused their own deaths. Men have fallen down with their heads twisted against a stair or piece of furniture at such an angle as to cut off the breath. They have died that way, powerless to move or help themselves. Others have died in bed, suffocated by bedclothes or pillows because they were unable to move. Such accidents are not common but there is a possibility that some such thing might have happened last night. Even without pressure the weight of that pillow, over a period of time, might have been sufficient to cause asphyxiation.”

  Scott heard every word of this and the implication quieted him more than anything else could have done. He did not believe it, not any part of it, but his argument was more despairing than enthusiastic.

  “There was lipstick on that pillow,” he said. “It would take pressure to make those marks.”

  “That’s hardly conclusive.”

  “And what about the guy in the dinghy?” he added, as this new thought occurred to him. “Why should he try to club Sally? Or,” he added sarcastically, “maybe that’s just one of the quaint local customs.”

  Briggs recognized sarcasm when he heard it. Spots of pink grew in his cheeks but his gaze was steady, his manner tolerant as he replied:

  “Suppose someone who had a motive for wanting to kill Miss Parks went out there last night to see her, not necessarily bent on murder but perhaps wanting to force a decision on some mutual problem. Such a person, finding her dead, might be afraid he would be accused of killing her. Certainly he would not want to be seen leaving the schooner. I can see how, in a moment of shock or panic, he might feel compelled to strike out at anyone who might be able to testify against him.”

  He spread his hands, palms vertical, as though to say he did not wish to be dogmatic about the matter. “Unlikely perhaps but possible, since one never can be sure how a certain individual will react under pressure and emotional stress . . . However”—he pushed back his chair—”it is not my place to argue the matter with you at this time. We are making progress, Mr. Scott, but we must consider all possibilities.”

  He stood up. “About your statements,” he said, nodding also to Waldron, “you’ll find paper and pens outside . . . Take your time, Mr. Scott,” he added with what might have been a smile. “We’d like the truth this time, if you don’t mind.”

  CHAPTER 11

  ALAN SCOTT saw the skiff tied to a stern cleat as he rowed out to the schooner but he did not know who his caller was until Keith Lambert untangled his skinny frame from the cockpit cushions and sat up to wave a half-filled glass in greeting.

  “Hello,’ he said. “Hope you don’t mind my helping myself.”

  Scott said that was what the whisky was for and wondered what came next. He got a “coke” for himself and sat down, resenting just a little bit Lambert’s liberty in making himself so much at home, and in no mood for conversation. Neither, it seemed, was Lambert. Not for three full minutes did he speak. When he did he gave no hint as to the purpose of his visit.

  “Been in town?” he asked finally in his odd tenor voice.

  “Had a session with Major Briggs—at his request.”

  “Oh? Any startling developments?”

  “I found out why Julia happened to be here.”

  Lambert had been looking idly across the water. Now his head came round and his brown eyes opened, wide and serious.

  “You did?”

  “Crane sent for her.”

  “Howard? But why—I mean what on earth—”

  Scott put an end to the stammering by repeating the story Crane had told Briggs, and by the time he had finished he had Lambert’s undivided attention. He had put his glass aside when he sat up, nodding from time to time, frowning. Now he pushed his blond hair back from his bony forehead.

  “I can believe it,” he said. “Freddie is what you chaps call a—a—”

  He groped for the word and Scott supplied it.

  “Chiseler?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I’ve known that right along but I happen to be very fond of him. It so happens I knew he wanted money for the Flamingo. Furthermore I can understand why Howard didn’t want him to have it and Howard’s the sort of chap who can do a bit of thinking even if he doesn’t do much work. Howard has to look out for Howard, so to speak, and he was right when he said Julia would raise a fuss. She would have—with
me, that is—no doubt about it . . . Still and all,” he said, “it’s my money, you know, and I think if I had wanted to throw in with Freddie I would have, Julia or no Julia. As a matter of fact, Howard needn’t have worried. I don’t think I would have put money into the Flamingo anyway, not with Freddie managing it. Freddie doesn’t—well, I mean he simply doesn’t have the knack of making a success of anything.”

  He stopped for breath, nothing in the cadence of his voice suggesting that he felt any animosity or resentment towards Freddie or Crane.

  “Freddie didn’t know that,” Scott said. “That you weren’t going to back him.”

  “He doesn’t know it now. As for the Farrows, well until this tragic business with Julia happened, I’d thought theirs might be a most interesting speculation. I’d like something like that, something you could develop and be a part of. I thought if we could arrange a satisfactory arrangement I might well go in with them . . . Oh, yes. One reason I came aboard was to tell you—in case you’ve been worrying about it—that I think I’d still like to buy the Griselda if you care to sell.”

  Scott said he was glad to hear it. Normally he would have felt both relieved and excited by the news but he had been doing some thinking while Lambert was talking and there was no room in his mind for elation of any sort. Somehow the Griselda no longer seemed quite so important and the focus of his thoughts was centered about Sally and her swim, the man in the dinghy, and suddenly, Luther, his mate.

  Luther lived about a third of a mile down the beach in a narrow, dead-end road that had access to Bay Street. Luther spent much of his time on and about that beach when he wasn’t working, and Scott found himself wondering if Luther might possibly have been aboard last night.

  Suppose someone other than Sally had seen the man in the dinghy? Not the attack necessarily but just the movement of the dinghy as it went out to the schooner and back. Somehow it seemed important that he ask Luther about this. Luther could make inquiries of others who lived nearby and spent time on the beach. Such an investigation, especially if made by a native, might result in a lead of some sort that could be passed along to the police. Somehow murder must be proved and certainly the guilty one could not have all the luck.