Uninvited Guest

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Very well,” he said when the account was finished, “I think I have the picture.” He nodded. He started to rub his palms together but found it impractical. “What I’m not quite clear on is why you wanted to talk to Luther in the first place.”

  Scott swallowed. He was not in the best of moods and he wanted no repetition of his conversation with the sergeant so he made his reply as explicit as he could.

  “I think Julia was murdered last night,” he said flatly. “Maybe you do too but you haven’t admitted it. If I’m right someone went out to the schooner last night, either in a boat or by swimming.”

  “Swimming?” The Major’s eyes opened wider. “I hadn’t considered that possibility.”

  Scott still remembered the wet spots on the deck but because he did not want to go into that now, he stuck to the subject of Luther.

  “Luther lived close to the beach,” he said. “He often walked along it at night. He told me so before. Somebody in my dinghy—or one like it—made an attack on Sally Reeves.”

  “That’s what she says.”

  “Somebody was rowing about in a dinghy,” Scott said, ignoring the comment. “I wondered if Luther might have seen something or somebody that would substantiate my idea that someone did go out there to kill Julia. I didn’t seem to be getting much help from you on that angle so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask Luther.”

  He took a breath and said: “Luther wasn’t home. I went in four bars looking for him and missed him each time. But I found out that Luther had money and that he mentioned something about going to British Guiana. I went to that dance tonight to see him and you know what happened there. So now I’m trying to get the idea across to you, and I’ll lay you three to one that I’m right, that Luther did see something. Why would he suddenly be going to British Guiana when he’s working for me unless someone wanted to get him off the island? Where did he get the money? Why was someone at the dance keeping an eye on him?”

  “You think you were attacked to prevent Luther from talking?”

  “And to make sure he got aboard the Estelle.”

  Briggs glanced up as two uniformed constables entered along with a man in plain-clothes. When they came to attention he told them at ease and went over to the counter where he spoke to the sergeant and inspected a slip of paper which was handed to him.

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” he said to Scott when he came back. “As a matter of fact we’ve had trouble before with the skipper of the Estelle. A few little things, minor infractions. Immigration tells the sergeant that there is no record of a man name of Luther listed either as a passenger or a member of the crew. So suppose we have a look. You can ride with me.”

  Major Briggs may have been slow to make up his mind about some things but once a decision was reached he acted with efficiency and dispatch. With Scott beside him and the van-type truck with his three men following, he drove to the quayside and parked opposite the Estelle.

  After that the progression of this search and seizure routine was a little confused for Scott, partly because it was dark and partly because he could not understand too much of what was being said. He stood on the after-deck with Briggs while the three men got busy and in no time at all the crew was lined up for Briggs’ inspection. With a flashlight he examined the ship’s papers and then turned to Scott.

  “The captain has not yet come aboard,” he said, “but the mate is here.”

  He focused his light on a husky Negro whose round muscular face was familiar to Scott. Its owner was the man who had interfered with his questioning of Luther; at least that was Scott’s impression. The natty double-breasted jacket had been replaced by khaki trousers and shirt and the fellow was now bareheaded but the face was the same. When he stepped close and saw the bruise on the hinge of the jaw he said this was the man who had tangled with him in the alley.

  “Ever see this gentleman before?” Briggs said, addressing the mate and indicating Scott.

  “No, sir.”

  “Were you at a dance tonight?”

  The mate hesitated and then apparently deciding that others could place him at Esther Kane’s party, he said:

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. This is your complete crew?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t know anything about a man named Luther?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, we shall see,” Briggs said, and gave an order to his two constables who disappeared down the lighted companionway.

  On deck the minutes dragged and the lined-up crew stood motionless and almost invisible in the darkness. No one said anything and there was no sound but the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. When the constables reappeared they moved forward without a word, their progress measured by the beam of a flashlight until it vanished.

  Another constable mounted on a bicycle appeared on his rounds and when he came to the rail to see what was going on Briggs ordered him aboard. Then, a minute or so later, the flashlight gleamed far forward and the two constables came aft carrying the limp body of a man which they placed carefully on deck while Briggs put the flashlight on his face.

  “Is that the man?” he said to Scott.

  Scott said yes and Briggs wasted no further time. He had the unconscious Luther carried to the van and told the plain-clothes man to take the mate in custody. Two constables were stationed on deck to make sure the Estette did not sail and one was ordered to bring the captain to the Harbor Police Station when he came on board.

  “The rest of you,” he said, addressing the crew, “can carry on.”

  Scott did not see the mate again, once they returned to the station house. Someone led him from the van to one of the other buildings and Scott went along with Luther as he was carried to a cot in a small room at the rear of the office. Briggs had a doctor summoned and while they were waiting he eyed Scott thoughtfully for a long moment; then he smiled.

  “Good man,” he said.

  “What?”

  “This idea of yours about Luther. You didn’t know if he could tell us anything or not but you wanted to be sure and so you tackled the job on your own. Appreciate your cooperation. Shouldn’t be a bit surprised if this fellow Luther could help us. I mean it would be damned odd if all this was just some silly coincidence. At any rate we’ll have the captain and mate up before the magistrate in the morning.”

  It was a lot of talk for Briggs and for the first time Scott began to feel that he had accomplished something worthwhile. He was impatient to hear what Luther had to say, and it pleased him to think that he had come to Briggs for help instead of trying to bull things through on his own.

  He stood up when the doctor came but Briggs asked him to wait so he sat down again while the two men went into the back room. When they came out again two minutes later Briggs was frowning.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until morning,” he said. “Unlikely that Luther will come round before then.”

  “Too drunk?”

  “According to the doctor, he’s been given a drug of some kind.” Briggs took Scott’s arm and walked him to the door. “Suppose you drop in at my office at—say, ten in the morning if it’s convenient. Unless I send word to the contrary.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE FEELING of elation and accomplishment that had come to Alan Scott before he had heard the doctor’s verdict was gone before he reached his car. He slid in behind the wheel and sat motionless and brooding while an odd restlessness began to warp his thoughts. He had done a good job. Briggs had said so. Luther would talk in the morning. When he had told his story they would know who had hired him, so why not stop some place and get the drink he needed so badly, and then go back to the schooner?

  That was the sensible thing to do and yet even as he accepted the conclusion he knew he had to clear up just one more point before he could go to sleep. For the impression lingered, though he had not said so to Briggs, that the one who had struck him down from behind in the alley was a white man
. To bolster the impression that this white blur he had seen so fleetingly was indeed a face, he now added the argument that only a white man with money would make this attempt to get Luther off the island. And so, the impatience riding him anew, he started the car and drove through the gateway, turning not to the right towards the Aquatic Club but to the left towards the city.

  What he planned to do was a very simple matter. He was not sure just when he had been knocked out but it must have been somewhere between ten thirty and eleven. What could be easier then than to get this drink he needed and at the same time check up on some of his friends?

  He had never been to the Surf Club but he knew its general location, so once again he drove the length of Broad Street, his mood improving as he rolled through the deserted streets and came finally to Highway ι which skirted the leeward coast. He had been once to Paradise Beach for a drink so he had no trouble finding his way, and presently he saw the lights of the club and cottages down the hill to his left, beyond which the surf broke whitely in long curling lines.

  There were no buses now, and only an occasional car, and with the hills behind him and the country flat as it paralleled the coast, he cut his speed down so that he would not miss the sign he was looking for. He found it a little farther on and then he was bouncing down a straight but narrow road towards a cluster of lights which showed through the trees and came from the detached units that Howard Crane had once described as well as the main building, a whitish, modern-looking structure, two-storied in the center and having two one-story wings extending at an angle.

  There were a half dozen cars parked in the circular drive and he got as close to the main entrance as he could. Then he was moving through the foyer and seeing the broad covered room which was open at the far side and overlooked the patio-like expanse beyond. The furniture was modern and colorfully cushioned, and the dozen or so guests who were having coffee and drinks here glanced up to examine him idly as he stood there to get his bearings.

  Down the hall on the right and opening to the beach much as the main room did was a dining room and now, turning to his left he found the bar, one of the smallest he had ever seen. There were no stools, no rail, no customers. The customers, it seemed, did their drinking in more comfortable positions here at the Surf Club, but there was a barman so Scott ordered his drink and asked if Crane was around.

  “Yes, sir,’ the man said. “At least he was.” He turned to speak to a waiter who had come to give an order. “See if Mr. Howard’s in the office.”

  Scott had just finished his drink and was pushing the glass forward for a refill when Crane came along the hall from the left. For a moment he looked surprised and then his tan, blunt-jawed face twisted in a grin and he quickened his step.

  “Well,” he said, “Hello. I thought you had an engagement.”

  “I got through earlier than I expected,” Scott said. “Have the others gone?”

  “About ten minutes ago. You probably passed them.”

  Scott nodded. He said he drove out on the chance that they might still be there. Crane said he was sorry and Scott said it was all right, he needed the drink anyway and besides he’d never been out here before.

  “It’s very attractive,” he said.

  “It is rather.” Crane signed Scott’s check and took him by the arm. “Bring your drink,” he said. “You can’t see much at night but let’s step out front a minute.”

  Scott went along through the front room to the terrace beyond with its white chairs and glass-topped tables. He could not see the water but Crane said it was fifty yards ahead through the trees.

  “Marvelous beach,” he said in his “Bajan” accent. “No sea eggs. Hardly ever any surf.” He chuckled. “Still it’s a good name for a club, don’t you think? Surf Club. Has a nice connotation.”

  He pointed out other features of the place and Scott let him go, making the proper comments when called for. When he had a chance he said:

  “Did they all go back together? The Farrows and—”

  “Yes,” Crane said, and then reconsidered. “That is, the Farrows and Sally Reeves and Freddie went back in the Farrows’ car just awhile ago. I stayed on for a bit to go over some things with my manager but Keith went back earlier. Right after dinner as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “Said he had a headache, though I imagine that was only an excuse.”

  “When was that?”

  “It might have been around ten. Keith wasn’t very good company tonight. You remember how he was at the Farrows’? Edgy. Out of sorts. Hardly blame him though. He’s had to see about shipping the body back to the States and trying to locate some relative of Julia’s and—”

  He broke off and they walked back into the building and Scott said he had better be on his way.

  “Have another one of those before you go,” Crane said, tapping Scott’s glass.

  “No, thanks. These two were just what I needed.”

  “Well—all right. But do come up some time when it’s daylight. Some afternoon. I’d like to show you what we have here. Bring your swim things.” He grinned. “Bring Sally.”

  Scott said it sounded like a good idea and he would consult Miss Reeves, knowing as he spoke—as Crane must also have known—that this was only small talk and that no one was going to have any fun until Julia’s death had been properly explained.

  The Aquatic Club bar and concessions had been closed for the night when Scott parked his car at the Yacht Club and came out on the beach. A light showed here and there but he saw no one, and as he stood there by his dinghy he found himself wondering if Sally had gone to bed. He did not want to disturb her, but if there was a light on in her apartment-He made no attempt to rationalize the impulse that started him along the beach. He was not at the moment worried about her; he simply wanted to hear her voice and see her smile again. What he might say if he had the opportunity did not concern him as he hurried along, cutting now to his left through the trees so he could skirt the end of the pier.

  There were a few cars in the parking lot, apparently belonging to tenants of this row of small apartments where Sally was staying, and he was still some distance away when he realized that of the second-floor apartments, one showed light through the tilted shutters and this one was Sally’s. Then, even as he watched it, he saw the door open and close, saw the shadowy figure start along the gallery towards the stairs at the end.

  Scott did not know who it was, nor did he understand why anyone should be coming from her room at this hour. This in itself was enough to make him quicken his steps. For the strain was working on him and had been for many hours, though he may not have realized it, and his nerves were jumpy, his thoughts apprehensive rather than practical.

  His chief concern was, and always had been, Sally; and now, slipping into the thick shadows below the gallery, it seemed important that he know who had been with her—and why.

  He could hear the steps coming down now as he waited beneath the outside stairs and, still not knowing who it was, he stepped into the open so that this man, who had turned towards the parking lot, bumped into him. He heard the startled gasp as the man stiffened and then he was looking down into the round bespectacled face of Freddie Gardner.

  “Hello, Freddie.”

  “Oh—” Freddie exhaled noisily. “You—you startled me.

  “Kind of late to be calling, isn’t it?”

  “Calling? I brought her home.”

  “What?”

  “My car was at Howard’s. The Farrows drove us up there and I brought Sally home. Keith had left earlier.”

  Simple enough. A reasonable explanation. That is what Scott’s sense of logic told him. His emotions, however, were less tractable. For in the back of his mind were the thoughts of Julia lying dead in the forward cabin, of the attack on Sally by someone in the dinghy, the plan to get Luther off the island. All these things served to point up Scott’s own fears and what he did then was perhaps more impulsive than well reasoned, and, having ma
de up his mind, he stuck stubbornly to the decision.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Why—yes, naturally.”

  “Let’s go back up and see.”

  “What?” Freddie peered up at him through the darkness.

  “I just want to be sure,’

  “Don’t be a damned fool. I brought her home. I went in for a minute.”

  “Come on.” Scott’s grip tightened on the other’s arm. “It won’t take long.”

  “No.” Freddie tried to jerk free but Scott caught his sleeve. “Will you stop this damned nonsense.”

  “Come on,” Scott said, still grimly patient. “Humor me.

  Freddie tried again and now Scott had a wristlock on him and so they turned and marched up the steps and along the gallery, Freddie muttering under his breath but no longer resisting. Sally answered Scott’s knock almost immediately.

  “Yes?” she said.

  Scott identified himself and the door opened. With the light behind her he could not see her face but she apparently had been combing her hair since it slanted over one eye and she was still fully dressed.

  “What is it?” She looked from one to the other. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Scott said and let go of Freddie. “My mistake, pal,” he said wearily. “I must have had what you fellows call the wind up.”

  Freddie grunted. His muffled remark sounded profane but was otherwise unidentifiable. He shrugged his drill jacket in place and stalked indignantly towards the stairs.

  Sally was still puzzled. “What happened?”

  “One of my screwy ideas,” Scott said, drawing her out on the gallery and reaching behind her to close the door.

  Over in the parking lot a car’s headlights slashed through the trees. A motor started and the car came briefly in view as it circled. That was how Scott happened to see the cracked lens that he had seen twice before, once that night and once the night before.