Uninvited Guest

by George Harmon Coxe

  “That’s right.”

  “Why are you going there?”

  “Got me a job.”

  “But look-”

  Scott felt the tap on his shoulder before he could complete his thought. It was his friend in the double-breasted jacket. His black face was six inches from Scott’s, the opaque eyes expressionless.

  “Why don’t you leave him alone?” he said softly.

  Scott put down his rising anger. He did not understand much of this but there was something here he did not like. He hesitated, instinct telling him to take it easy.

  “Let him have his good time,” the other said, still softly.

  “He works for me,” Scott said. “I’m not bothering him.”

  “He ain’t working tonight. Time’s his own, ain’t it?” He glanced at Luther who seemed oblivious to the conversation. “The man’s drunk. He don’t know what he doing.”

  Scott thought of all the things he could say if this had happened elsewhere but he said none of them. Instead he slid his hand inside Luther’s upper arm and drew him firmly away from the bar.

  “Come on, Luther,” he said. “Let’s go out where we can talk. Get some air.”

  Then, half expecting some argument he turned his back on the big man. There was no further trouble. Luther let himself be guided through the ring of onlookers, and then they were circling the floor and heading for the open rear door. It took quite awhile but Scott was in no hurry and Luther did not seem to care so long as he could hang on to his drink of rum and water. They had a little trouble getting past the crush around the band but in another minute they were outside and going down the steps to this fenced-in yard, deserted now with the music rocking.

  By that time Scott had but one thought in mind: to get Luther away from here and into the car. He had no idea what lay behind Luther’s change of heart and manner; he only knew that something had happened to change him. This morning—it seemed like a week ago—he had told Luther the cruise was to be postponed and the man had accepted the news without comment. Now—well, the thing to do was get him away from here and sober him up and make him talk.

  And so Scott angled towards this gap in the fence which gave on the alley, talking softly, his inflection coaxing lest Luther decide to balk.

  “When is it you’re going to B. G., Luther?” he asked.

  “With de tide.”

  “I thought you were working for me.”

  “Was. But this morning you say you don’t need me.”

  “I said we were going to put the cruise off for a couple of days. I said I’d pay you anyway.”

  Luther did not reply to this. He stopped to empty his cup and then threw it from him, and now Scott was leading the way through the opening in the fence.

  “Who gave you this new job, Luther?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” Luther said, and then he staggered to a stop and stiffened in his tracks.

  Scott still had a light hold on Luther’s arm and now, without warning, he was bumped from one side. That told him that someone had been waiting for him and what happened then resolved itself in action that was silent, furious, and swiftly ended.

  An unseen hand clamped on his shoulder and twisted him off balance. He let go of Luther’s arm and instinctively struck the hand from his shoulder, turning now and seeing the vague outline of a man without knowing who he was. He thought first of the fellow who had interfered at the bar but the face beneath the hatbrim was as black as the night and the only thing he could be sure of was that the man had strength and bulk.

  It also seemed clear that, whoever he was, he objected to Scott’s tactics in questioning Luther, though Scott had no time to dwell on the assumption; for as he freed himself from the grasp he sensed the move that followed.

  He did not see the fist but he diagnosed the body movement and stepped close, inside the blow, hammering in a hook to the body and slamming the other hand to the head. He connected with both. He heard the man grunt and saw him stagger back. Then, as he moved in, he heard the sound of sudden movement behind him and tried to turn as instinct warned him.

  He did turn. He tried to duck away from this unseen threat, understanding now that there had been not one man waiting for him, but two. Then, his thoughts hanging there, he saw from the corner of his eye a blur of white close by. In that same instant something exploded against the back of his skull and the sky fell in on him.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE FIRST thing that Alan Scott was aware of was the rhythmic throbbing of pain inside his head. It was a confused and disembodied sensation, distant and unreal, until he realized his eyes were open and the pain and the throbbing were unrelated. The pain came from inside his skull all right but the other was the enthusiastic beat of the orchestra and the stamp of dancing feet.

  He lay on his back staring at the starred sky above him. When he dared try he sat up slowly, swallowing against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Keeping his head back he breathed deeply until the sickness abated and then he rose slowly, half pushing himself erect to anchor himself on spread legs while he glanced round in the darkness.

  The alley was empty all the way to the next street. Light spilled from the rear door and windows of the dance hall but the yard seemed as empty as the alley and now he went back through the fence, heading for the steps, touching the back of his head gingerly as he located the swelling beneath the hair and finding it sticky but not wet.

  He climbed the steps with difficulty and stood a moment in the light of the open door. He straightened his jacket and felt his bow tie. The knees of his light gray slacks were stained but not torn and he wondered why his right hand was sore until he glanced down and saw the skinned knuckles.

  Common sense told him that Luther was no longer about but he stepped inside nevertheless and began to circle the dancers, a lanky, somber-eyed figure with tousled brown hair and a lean angular face that was wet and shiny from the sickness that still bothered him. He was not aware of the curious glances this time for his mind was busy and his thoughts were centered elsewhere.

  He kept looking for the man in the double-breasted jacket who had argued about Luther at the bar, hardly expecting to find him but taking his look just the same. He remembered how long it had taken him and Luther to reach the rear door. Plenty of time for anyone to have ducked out the front way and circled back into the alley. Positive now that there had been two men waiting, he was less sure about something else.

  The impression remained that he had seen a white blur before he lost consciousness. From what? A white shirt—or a white face?

  Esther Kane—if that was what her name was—was still presiding over the table in front of the entrance. She stopped talking to her companion of the moment when she saw Scott and he felt again the hostility of her stare. He went down the steps and the babble of conversation from the others on the porch followed him, foreign sounding and incoherent to his ears.

  It gave him a forlorn and empty feeling as he paused at the edge of the paving. He could not have felt more alone had the language been Hottentot and it was hard to believe that this was a British colony and that such places as the Yacht Club and Aquatic Club could exist but a few miles away. Then, moving slowly out of the shadows diagonally across the street, he saw the blue-caped constable.

  He was a tall, well-built Negro and he touched his cap as Scott approached. His voice was soft, educated, and easily understandable as he said good evening and asked if Scott had been enjoying the dance.

  “I had a little trouble,” Scott said.

  “Trouble, sir?”

  “Somebody jumped me.”

  “Jumped you?” The constable wrestled with the statement. “You mean, assaulted you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the hall?”

  “Out back. I came to look for a fellow who works for me. He was drunk and I took him out back to talk to him.” Scott told the rest of the story in clipped resentful phrases and even as he spoke he began to realize that all this wa
s a waste of time. The constable presently confirmed the idea.

  “Could you identify this man?”

  “Maybe.”

  The constable paused, his attitude suggesting he was reluctant to pursue the matter.

  “If you wish,” he said, “I will return with you. If you can pick this man out—”

  “I doubt if he’s still there.”

  “Then,” said the constable with obvious relief, “it would be best for you to make a full report to the sergeant.”

  “What sergeant?”

  “I will direct you to the sub-station,” the constable said, and proceeded to do so.

  Scott listened. He was about to turn away when a new thought occurred to him.

  “Have you seen any other white man around here?”

  “I saw you come when I was here before. I saw your car stop as I walked down the other side of the street. That is your car there,” he said, pointing.

  Scott nodded remembering how the two constables had separated at the corner.

  “Just as you left,” the man continued, “another car stopped some distance behind you. A white man was driving but”—he peered off into the night—”I do not see that car now.”

  “You didn’t see anyone hanging around here?”

  “I have just now returned, sir.”

  Scott found the district sub-station without difficulty. It was perhaps three quarters of a mile from the dance hall, a two-storied, rather new-looking building, with a low wall fronting on the road and a place to park between wall and entrance. Lights showed through the open windows on both floors and as Scott stopped the sedan he could see two men behind the long counter that seemed to bisect the lower, lef thand room.

  He watched them a moment, his engine still running, and suddenly he knew that to make a complaint here under the circumstances would be pointless. Resentment and frustration had brought him here but now as his thoughts clarified he saw that the important thing was not that he find the man who fought with him; the one thing that mattered now was that he find Luther.

  Luther had apparently acquired new wealth. Luther was going to British Guiana and someone seemed intent on making sure that he did. Who?

  That was the question.

  Luther himself had done nothing wrong. He was having himself a time but no charge could be brought against him, provided he was properly cleared to make this trip to British Guiana-Scott shifted gears and swung the sedan back on the road, his mind elaborating possibilities as he drove back to the dance hall and made the turn which would take him back to Roebuck Street. Once there he continued on to Trafalgar Square, and now, seeing the bridge which crossed the Careenage and separated it from the inner basin, he stopped the car to consider again his alternatives.

  What he saw as he sat there was quite different from the daytime picture he was accustomed to, for this was really the heart of the city with the municipal buildings at one side and the life line of the Careenage at the other. Normally the square was bustling with activity. Hawkers of both sexes sold fruits and vegetables, pottery, baskets, and sugar drinks; eagle-eyed taxi drivers from the nearby stand were loud and persistent in their solicitations and a continuous procession of buses loaded and unloaded at nearby corners.

  Now the square was quiet. The surface of the inner basin was glassy and crowded with row after row of heavy, native-built lighters. There were no cars on the street which bordered the wharves, no trucks, no bicycles, no donkey carts; only the line of schooners which carried most of the inter-island trade, moored bow to stern, their spars spidery and indistinct against the night sky.

  Scott turned in this direction, stopping the sedan opposite the first schooner. It looked deserted when he walked close to it and he continued on to the next one. Here light showed from a hatch and under the awning spread aft someone was singing softly to the accompaniment of a quatro. The strumming continued as Scott stepped close, but something stirred in the thick shadows and presently a man appeared at the rail, a burly, bare-armed fellow in tattered trousers.

  “You want something, boss?”

  “Do you know of any boat sailing to B. G. tonight or in the morning?”

  “Heard say the Estelle goin’ to B. G.”

  “When’s high tide?”

  “Should be ‘round four in de morning.”

  Scott thanked him and turned in the direction of the roadstead, passing first a long, trim-looking craft that looked like an old Nova Scotiaman. When he saw that the decks were dark and deserted and the hatches tight he continued on to the stern of the schooner moored just ahead. Here there was some activity. He could not see much but he heard voices and saw the lighted pilot house and now, leaning close to the stern he saw the name Estelle, and under that: Bridgetown, B.W.I.

  With that he turned back towards the car, his mind made up. The thing that had worried him most and had brought him here on his own was the tide. He was not sure just what he might have done had he found the Estelle ready to sail, but now that there was time he had no intention of sticking his neck out. Heretofore each time he had done so someone had clipped him and now, wanting help, he drove across the bridge and along lower Bay Street until he came to the gray-walled enclosure which housed the Harbor Police.

  He had passed it often but he had never been inside and now, driving through the gate and parking, he saw that there were several small buildings, reminding him somehow of the Central Police Station but on a smaller scale. Choosing the one which had the brightest lights he went up two steps and across a small porch to this bare-looking room where, behind a chest-high counter, two uniformed Negroes watched him approach. One sat near a small switchboard and the other, with sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve, got up from behind his desk. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Scott opened his mouth and then he closed it. Until now he’d had this idea in mind about finding Luther and making him talk. Something very wrong was happening and he had to know why. It had all seemed very simple until this instant when, his inner confusion mounting, he thought: What the hell am I going to say?

  “I’m looking for a man named Luther,” he said, aware that he had to start somewhere. “He works for me aboard the schooner Griselda.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant nodded, waiting.

  “He was at a dance tonight,” Scott said and went on to explain briefly what had happened.

  “I see,” the sergeant said, though it was obvious that this was not so. “Someone assaulted you and you wish to make a complaint. But this should have been done in the district where the offense happened.”

  “I’m not interested in the assault,” Scott said patiently. “I’m interested in finding Luther. He said something about going to British Guiana tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He was drunk.”

  Scott hesitated, aware that he was not getting through to the sergeant who remained respectful but somewhat confused by the things he had heard.

  “What is it you wish me to do?” he asked finally.

  “I found out the schooner Estelle is sailing around four in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Still patient.

  “I want to find out if Luther is aboard. I want to find out if—well, if his papers are in order. If the captain has him listed as a passenger.”

  He stopped again, his annoyance mounting, not at the sergeant but at himself. How could he explain what he wanted? What grounds did he have for demanding that the schooner be searched and that Luther, if found, be hauled ashore for questioning? He had the frustrated feeling that he could stand here all night and still not produce a good and sufficient reason for any action on the sergeant’s part; what made it more galling was that it was his fault, not the sergeant’s. For another second or two he waited, feeling the perspiration soaking his undershirt and running down his neck. Then, the stubborn slant of his bony jaw tightening, he leaned across the counter.

  “Look,” he said as calmly as he could. “Will you call Major Briggs for me?”


  “Major Briggs, sir?” the sergeant was aghast. “At this hour?”

  Scott glanced at the wall clock, a little amazed that it was only 11:20.

  “I want to talk to him . . . If you don’t want to call him,” he said when the other hesitated, “give me his number and I’ll call him—if you’ll let me use the phone.”

  The sergeant remained unconvinced. “I don’t know if-”

  Scott cut him off. “If you don’t want to cooperate I’ll go to a hotel and call him.” He took a breath and tried again. “I own the Griselda’

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Last night a woman was murdered aboard her.”

  “I heard a woman was found dead.”

  “All right. And Major Briggs is investigating that death. I think Luther knows something about it and I know damn well the Major should be told Luther is going to B. G. while there’s still time. If you want to take the responsibility for—”

  There was no need to finish the thought. The sergeant opened a gate in the counter and waved him towards a desk. He spoke to the constable at the switchboard and a minute later Scott heard the Major’s voice.

  “Briggs here.”

  “Alan Scott,” Scott said and explained where he was. Then, as briefly as he could, he spoke about Luther. “I think he knows something about what happened last night and I think we ought to talk to him before he gets off the island. It might be important.”

  “I agree,” Briggs said. “Give me about ten minutes. Now put the sergeant on again, will you?”

  Scott stood up and nodded to the sergeant. He went through the gate and found a chair in the front part of the room. He heard the sergeant making other calls after he had hung up on Briggs but Scott paid little attention to what was said. He lit a cigarette, leaned back, and began to explore the sticky lump on the back of his head.

  If Major Briggs felt any annoyance at having his evening at home interrupted he did not show it. His jacket with its ribbons was immaculate as always, as were his slacks which had been substituted for the day-time shorts, and when he removed his cap his sandy hair was smoothly combed. He returned the sergeant’s salute perfunctorily but his attention remained on Scott as he swung a chair close, dropped into it, and demanded details of the incident at the dance hall.