Uninvited Guest

by George Harmon Coxe

  A strange excitement began to work on him as he built the premise in his mind and now, as his thought moved tangent-wise, he remembered Waldron.

  “Do you know a guy named Waldron?” he asked abruptly.

  Lambert blinked at the digression. “Why, yes,” he said. “Not well, actually, but I know him.”

  Scott hesitated, wondering what to say. What he actually wanted was a dossier on Waldron but he could hardly expect to get it. The most he could hope to learn was what Waldron did in Barbados, what reason he had for being here—not necessarily the truth but an accepted reason nonetheless—how he conducted himself. “What does he do?”

  “If you mean in a business way, nothing. Plays a lot of golf. He’s up to the club nearly every afternoon. Swims. Gets around to various social dos.” Lambert grinned. “After all what do most of you Americans do down here?”

  “Most of them are older, the retired ones.”

  “Some come for their health if they can afford it. I understand that’s why Waldron came. Asthma or catarrh or something. Maybe arthritis. Thought he’d try the climate. Liked it and stayed on.”

  “Any special women friends?”

  “None that I know of. Sort of plays the field.” Lambert frowned, as though reaching back into his memory. “I did hear he made his money in some sort of war surplus deal. Wouldn’t be surprised. Seems like a shrewd one. No fool in any case.”

  Scott gave up. He wanted to think of more questions and there were none he could find. It annoyed him that this should be so because the information told him nothing and was singularly unsatisfying. Then, as the silence lengthened, his thoughts diverted to a subject that seemed always to be lurking in the back of his mind to torment him.

  Sally again. And Lambert.

  “Are you going to marry Sally?” he said, a little surprised at his own bad manners.

  Lambert blinked. He laughed abruptly, a high-pitched sound.

  “I’d like nothing better,” he said. “She’s a lovely girl. She likes me too; she said so. But”—he laughed again without bitterness—”as a husband I’m afraid I couldn’t interest her less. I asked her. She said no.”

  Then, as though the statement settled all problems, he rose and climbed awkwardly into the skiff. As he pushed off he said: “Thanks for the drink.” He started to take a stroke, stopped to glance back at Scott. Indicating another small boat angling towards them from the Aquatic Club he said: “Looks like more visitors. Mark Farrow, isn’t it?”

  Farrow was sitting in the stern of a club boat, a Negro at the oars. He called something to Lambert as the two passed and when, a minute later, the boat came alongside he jumped lightly to the deck.

  “Thought it might be a good time to pick up that ham and turkey,” he said, and turned to swing aboard two large baskets his Negro oarsman handed him.

  Scott said he would take care of it, and how about a drink first. Farrow said thanks, that he could do with a spot of whisky and a little water.

  “Don’t bother with ice,” he said.

  When Scott came topside with the drink Farrow was packing his pipe. He said: “Cheers,” automatically as he tasted the drink and then put it aside until he had his pipe going. He crossed muscular legs and hunched over his knees as he sucked smoke in small mouthfuls, a dark-browed, dark-eyed man, his close-cropped hair peppered with gray.

  “I’ve been thinking about the cruise,” he said.

  “So have I,” Scott said.

  “Makes it difficult, not knowing how to plan. I suppose there’s always the possibility that the authorities might insist that we stand by until they’ve made up their minds about Julia.”

  “I had a session with Briggs this afternoon,” Scott said sourly. “He hadn’t even decided whether it was murder yet.”

  Farrow said he was not surprised. He said the police moved more slowly here than they did in the States.

  “The system is different,” he said. “The results are usually the same but they go at things with one eye on the rule book and the book says proper form is perhaps more important than needless haste.” He tasted his drink, relit his pipe which had gone out. “How much more time do you have?”

  “Unless I get an extension to my leave, between two and three weeks.”

  “That should give us time,” Farrow said. “I’d rather take a somewhat curtailed cruise than none at all; that is, if it’s agreeable to you. But should the police prevent even that I want you to know that I will reimburse you for any and all expenses you’ve incurred.”

  “The five hundred advance more than covers that part,” Scott said.

  “That’s all right then. I suppose one should leave it that way and stop crossing bridges.”

  Scott took the baskets and went below to pack the ham and turkey. When he came back he put them down and waited until Farrow finished his drink before he said this thing which had been shaping in his mind. That Farrow would probably heartily resent the attempt was not enough in itself to keep him from making the accusation.

  “Was it you or your wife that took your car out around one thirty last night?”

  Farrow gave him a blank look.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What was that again?”

  “There was a party across the street from your house last night.”

  “Yes, there was. Noisy too.”

  “Briggs says that someone there saw your car leave about one thirty.”

  Farrow’s brows were raised but nothing showed in his face.

  “I’m afraid that someone is wrong,” he said. “It wasn’t you?” “Definitely not.”

  “And can you be sure about your wife?” “I couldn’t actually take an oath on it, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you share the same room?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I snore some, so she tells me,” he added frankly. “There’s a dressing room between us.”

  “What I mean is, she might have gone out without your knowing it. You might have done the same.”

  Only then did Farrow seem to understand what Scott was driving at. It was not so much that he was slow-witted; it was more a question of manners, a reluctance to admit that Scott would have the nerve to make such an obvious insinuation. Color crept slowly up his sunburned neck and his mouth seemed to stiffen.

  “Are you suggesting that one of us killed Julia?”

  “Someone did,” Scott said, coloring a bit himself now in his persistence. “Someone came out here and held that pillow over Julia’s face, and eventually Briggs is going to agree with me.”

  He paused to wait for some reply but Farrow was just watching him, unmoving and silent.

  “It was an easy thing to do,” he added. “And her death simplifies things for a lot of people. It solved some problems.”

  “It made some too.”

  “But only temporarily. When it’s all over Lambert can do as he pleases with his money. With Julia around it might have been different.”

  Farrow admitted this. He said he saw what Scott meant.

  “You still need Lambert’s help, don’t you? I mean financially.”

  “Indeed yes,” Farrow said. “Very much so.”

  And with that he rose and motioned to his boatman. He handed down the two baskets and followed them into the stern seat. As the Negro dug the oars in Scott asked himself what he had accomplished by asking questions that might well alienate his best customer. He answered himself too. Nothing.

  The street where Luther lived was narrow and bumpy, the crushed coral stone showing through the black top with discouraging frequency. The small houses which lined it decreased in quality the farther one progressed from Bay Street but Luther’s, about halfway to the beach, was better than some.

  It was square, unpainted, and tin-roofed, its single front step no more than six feet from the edge of the road and its four corners supported by thick wood blocks to give it a stilted appearance like its neighbors. A sagging wire-and-slat fence marked the narrow boundary lines and extende
d to the rear to make a sandy backyard, populated now by six or eight chickens pecking for stones and scraps of food while a mongrel dog lay asleep in the shade of a breadfruit tree.

  Luther’s wife answered Scott’s knock, and it was apparent as she wiped wet hands on her voluminous skirt that she was angry. She was barefooted and her broad dark face was shiny. She wore a bandana over her hair and when she spoke a gold tooth glistened from one corner of her mouth.

  Scott had always had trouble with the language when spoken by the island Negro. Basically English, it was so bastardized by accent as to be almost unrecognizable except to the trained ear and it embarrassed him to keep repeating a question that, in the speaker’s mind, had been explicitly answered. Words ran into each other, their endings unpronounced. The broadness of the accent gave even the most simple sentences a foreign sound so that the most Scott could get out of Mrs. Luther—if that was her name—was that her husband was not at home. There were, however, certain words which he could identify. One was, humbug. Something, it appeared, had humbugged her, or her husband—humbug being used in the sense of “fouled up.” Rum was another word he recognized; also, New Yorker.

  Scott backed away before the woman’s wrath got out of hand. He identified himself and said if Luther returned to tell him that he, Scott, was looking for him. It seemed then that he had made a discouraging beginning but as he made the turn into Bay Street towards town, he saw up ahead a sign which said New Yorker Bar. When he parked opposite it he found the bar occupied the ground floor of a narrow, two-storied house with an overhanging balcony.

  In the first minute as Scott walked in off the sunlit street he could see nothing at all but the dim outlines of a bar on his right. He could tell the floor was stone and voices told him others were present. Gradually then he made out the aproned figure of the bartender and the small back bar. A half dozen black faces took shape in the thick gloom of the interior and he found himself regarded with curiosity and some suspicion as he asked if he could have a drink of rum.

  He did not blame them much. They were dressed as working men in khaki, some with hats and some with caps. This was their bar, their private club in a sense; he did not belong and though they showed no open resentment they fell silent as he spoke to the bartender. Each had a tin mug in front of him and the bartender slid a duplicate in front of Scott. He knew he should accept it but something inside him rebelled and so, a little disgusted with himself in his unwillingness to do as they did, he asked for a glass. The bartender, who had said not a word, found one, rinsed it and put it dripping on the counter. He measured out a jigger of rum, pushed an earthenware pitcher of water within reach.

  “Ten cents,” he said; no sir, no please.

  Scott found a coin and sniffed the rum. “Smells good.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pronounced Yahmh. “Smells good but it’s de taste dat counts.”

  With that someone chuckled. Scott took a swallow and smiled. “Tastes good too,” he said, and it was true. “Ask them what they’ll have,” he said, indicating the others.

  Any misgivings he had were quickly dispelled with the offer. Mugs were emptied with alacrity and the bartender got busy while Scott put a bill on the bar. When all were served he asked if they knew a man named Luther.

  Again someone laughed.

  The bartender said: “Luther?”

  “He works for me,” Scott said. “Aboard the Griselda. I wondered if he was in this afternoon.”

  “Yes.” The bartender nodded. “He say he work for you. You’re from the States . . . Yes, he stop in.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Can’t hardly say. Maybe an hour.” “Did he say where he was going?” “Didn’t say.”

  “Did you happen to notice which way he was headed?”

  “Albert!” The bartender spoke to some man in the shadows. “You saw him. Tell de man (mahn) which way he go.”

  “That way,” Albert said, pointing towards town.

  Outside once more Scott cruised slowly for two blocks until he saw another bar which was outwardly much like the first except for the sign over the door. This read: Cosmopolitan. Inside everything was much the same: the customers, the bartender, the rum, the accents. Even the information was similar and as a result Scott stopped twice more on this side of the inner harbor to ask the same questions. Luther, it seemed, was making a tour of his own, with brief stops for sustenance, the trail eventually leading to a place called the Palmetto.

  A constable on Trafalgar Street gave Scott the directions, and when he had parked in the municipal lot, he cut through the gates outside the old gray-stone public buildings and came finally to a square into which several streets ran at odd angles. The Palmetto, which stood near one corner, was less cavernous than the other bars he had visited because it had little depth and its long side ran along the street, admitting more light through its two doors and one square window.

  Laughter came from inside. Two women hawkers, their enormous baskets now empty on their heads, loitered outside to join in the repartee from their vantage point on the curbing. Their laughter was wide-mouthed and raucous, their enjoyment of the moment immense. They shifted their weight and slapped thighs in delight before they trudged off, hips swinging and sandals flapping.

  Perhaps because the Palmetto was more centrally located and catered to a more heterogeneous clientele, little attention was paid to Scott as he stepped inside and ordered a rum. As before he had to ask for a glass but the bartender was more affable and showed no reluctance in answering questions about Luther, once Scott mentioned the Griselda. He was indefinite about how long ago Luther had been in but it had not been long.

  “Seems like Luther said something about you,” he said. “Talked about goin to B. G.”

  Scott understood that B. G. meant British Guiana and he did not bother to correct the man by saying that Luther was really going to Trinidad, when and if the schooner sailed.

  “Said he was goin tomorrow.”

  Scott nodded as the bartender moved off to serve another customer. When he had a chance he asked the man if he had any idea where he could find Luther and the man said no, not right now.

  “Tonight maybe,” he added.

  “Tonight?”

  The bartender rummaged around behind the bar and came up with a folded copy of the Advocate. When he found what he wanted he folded the paper again and shoved it across the bar, pointing to a two-inch advertisement.

  “Might find him there,” he said. “When Luther’s en-tertainin the rum like today he like to dance, specially when he have money in his pocket.”

  “He had money?”

  “Plenty money.”

  Scott examined the advertisement which said, in bold face: Dance . . . Thursday Night. The details, in smaller type, proclaimed that all friends of Esther Kane were invited to a dance at such and such an address . . . Luke Donnelley’s orchestra . . . Two bars . . . Refreshments . . . Admission: Gents $1.00 Ladies 50¢ . . . Dancing from 8:30 on.

  Scott grinned. He said it sounded like a good time and he would like to copy the address down. The bartender tore out the announcement and gave it to him, or started to. Scott took hold of the edge of the paper, but when the man still retained his hold Scott glanced up to find the other’s narrowed gaze upon him.

  “You wouldn’t enjoy yourself,” he said quietly as he loosened his grip. “It’s not for folks like you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  IT WAS nearly six when Scott returned to the schooner and as he stepped into the cockpit he saw the note pinned to the edge of the hatch. Its penciled message read: Come out to my place for a drink. We’ll go some place for dinner. Be there until nine anyway. It was signed: Howard.

  Scott went below, undressed and pulled on his trunks. When he came on deck the sun was almost down in the west, its light reflecting from the water to outline the point of land which jutted out beyond the Aquatic Club and adding a soft brilliance to the casuarina trees which bordered it. This was the time of day to sit on
deck with a drink and gloat at one’s good fortune, to marvel at the softness of the air and wonder why the colors seemed more vivid just before they faded into the deepening dusk, to feel a little sorry for those who must battle the rawness of spring in the north.

  Such thoughts had come to him before in moments of self indulgence but tonight they lingered only briefly before he went over the side. As always the clear warm water refreshed him and when he rolled over on his back to watch a puffy sunlit cloud break up to the southward he found himself wondering who would be at Crane’s for a drink. Not that it mattered. He could do nothing about Luther for some time and after a day of abstention a drink would be welcome; so would a word with Sally if he were lucky.

  The Crane house stood high on a bluff overlooking the golf course and the south coast. Built of stone by slave labor in early times, it was of massive construction, gray and vine-covered now, with cellar walls six feet thick and broad, high-ceilinged rooms. It was dark when Scott drove past the high steps leading to the veranda and parked in the paved court. Light poured from front Windows but when he climbed the steps he saw that it was the veranda which was in use.

  Crane stepped up to greet him but because of the shadows it took a while to count the roll. Voices said hello and he answered as Crane led him to a table which was serving as a bar. Here, with the light behind him, he could see Vivian in the wicker chair by the railing, Farrow and Freddie Gardner sitting with their backs to the wall, Sally and Lambert on the settee at one side.

  “I’m mv own butler this evening,” Crane said. “What’llitbe?”

  Scott said Scotch and water would be fine. He said it was nice of Crane to leave the note of invitation.

  “It seemed like a good idea to have a quiet drink,” Crane said. “Tomorrow the whole messy business will be all over the Advocate and everyone we ever knew will be clamoring for details.”

  “You’re overlooking the important point, aren’t you?” Vivian said.