Moment of Violence

by George Harmon Coxe

  Dave thought it over. He was disturbed by what he had heard and he resented Mike Ludlow’s dishonesty though it did not surprise him. He wanted to do what he could to see that Allison got his share of the deal but he wasn’t sure just what the professor had in mind. He said so.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Do?” Allison’s tone was impatient. “Why go down there and make sure Joan doesn’t get herself into trouble.”

  “How? She doesn’t even like me.”

  Allison opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “David, you sometimes surprise me. Sometimes you’re rather naive. Joan has been a fan of yours ever since she came to live with me when you were in law school. But she’s impatient with you, and the things you do—maybe tolerate is a better word—have often exasperated her. One of these has been the way you’ve always let Mike Ludlow take advantage of you. When you knew he was going off with Gloria Hayes—you were to have been married in a month, remember?—and you didn’t even try to stop him, Joan gave up on you.”

  Dave said he didn’t believe it. He said that every time he’d been here when Joan was a guest she’d always been reserved, polite, and distant.

  “Maybe I can tell you why,” Allison said. “Maybe it was because you were so damned proper and polite yourself. She knows you have such proper values as honesty and consideration and self-integrity but—” He let the sentence dangle and tried a new one. “Do you know what she said once? That you were too much like a J. P. Marquand hero. Polite, proper, gentlemanly and basically kind—but with no drive, no fire, no—”

  “All right, all right,” Dave cut in, not hurt by what he had heard and recognizing much of it as the truth, but not wanting to discuss it. “I don’t suppose it makes much difference what she thinks, but I still don’t see what I can do.”

  “Make damn sure she doesn’t get into trouble. She respects you and she’ll listen—”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know but—” Allison broke off, hoisted himself to his feet with the help of his cane, and moved over to a kneehole desk. When he had pulled out the center drawer he said, his voice concerned: “I had a gun in there, David. Had it for years. A .32 Mauser given me by a German friend after the first war. I’d fire a load about once a year—don’t ask me why—clean and oil it and put it back. It has wooden stocks and my initials—J.A.—are neatly carved on one side. Joan knew about that gun and—it’s gone.”

  Dave had heard every word but he didn’t believe them. He started to say so, but one look at his friend’s face told him that the professor was serious about his fears, and he put down the impulse to scoff.

  “Wait a minute, John,” he said quietly. “Assuming that she did take the gun.”

  “If she didn’t, who did? Mrs. Wright?”

  “But you can’t think—”

  “That she would deliberately shoot anyone? No, of course not. But in the right mood, talking to a man she despises, knowing how he tricked me—Well, if she thought it would help to get that option back she could threaten Ludlow with that gun and don’t think she wouldn’t.” He shook his head silently as if to dispel the mental picture. “That’s what worries me because Ludlow doesn’t scare. He’s got too much of that kind of courage. He’d walk right up to a gun and try to take it away from her and under those circumstances it could go off. That’s why—”

  Dave stood up to interrupt such brooding, knowing what he had to do even though he could not agree with his friend.

  “Okay, John,” he said. “But I think you’re exaggerating things. Joan’s a capable girl and she can take care of herself, but if you’re going to sit around worrying about her I’ll go. There won’t be any trouble, but anyway the climate is better in Barbados this time of year than it is in Bermuda. I’ll stop in at the office and get that power of attorney and check the airlines.”

  “You don’t need to check Idlewild for the Barbados flight.” Allison moved up and for the first time he grinned, the drooping fid giving it a crooked look. “I already did that before you came. They’re holding a seat for you on tomorrow morning’s plane.”

  2

  THE VISCOUNT was a few minutes late taking off from Idlewild and they flew that way to Bermuda and Antigua, not losing any more time but not making it up either. During the last short hop from Antigua, David Payne had a window seat on the port side and he was far enough back to get a glimpse of Barbados under the wing as the pilot made his approach.

  There was still light in the sky but the sea was gray and darkening fast, the pear-shaped island still darker so that its mountainous northern slopes were barely visible. On the left he was able to see the white lines of the Atlantic as the surf broke against the rocky eastern coast before the aircraft banked gently and the port wing lifted. Because of the prevailing trade winds the approach was invariably made from the same direction and he waited as they lost altitude and banked again under reduced power. Minutes later he saw another shore below. The lights were on now and the land black, and he could see the brightness of Bridgetown and make out the small glitter of the Aquatic Club pier.

  There were other lights marking the St. Lawrence coast, and then Maxwell, the engines quieter now as the flaps whined down. A slight thudding sound told him the wheels were in place and now land was beneath the wing. Intermittent moving lights marked the cars on the highway, and flat fields of sugar cane, some of it already cut, stretched almost to the perimeter of the strip. The landing lights came on and seconds later the aircraft swooped gently, bumped once with one small squeal of rubber on concrete, and then they were rolling, the passengers relaxing somehow as the propellers were reversed.

  They came out on the parking area in the soft evening air, about twenty-five altogether, most of them bound for Trinidad and moving toward the entrance that said Intransit. There were seven others who walked with Dave toward the second entrance and he saw how much the terminal had changed since he had been here before. That one had had a jerry-built look; this was bright and modern, with a bar and lounge and shops—closed now—and an overall air of spaciousness.

  A uniformed Negro stood behind the immigration desk. When it came Dave’s turn he checked his landing card against a list, glanced at his passport, passed it to a second Negro at the adjoining desk. This one asked how long he would be staying and Dave said he didn’t know.

  “Probably only two or three days.”

  “Where will you be staying, sir?”

  “I don’t know that either. If I don’t stay with Mike Ludlow I’ll be at one of the hotels.”

  The officer stamped the passport and nodded to indicate that he was to stop at another desk behind him. There was a dark-skinned girl here, an airline representative, and all she wanted was to make sure that Dave let the downtown office know where he could be reached. Then he was at the counter, picking out his suitcase and flight bag, a moderately tall man with good shoulders and a flat-muscled body that seldom varied much from the hundred and seventy-five pounds he had weighed in college. His hair was brown, like his eyes, and worn rather short; his mouth was wide and quick to smile, and his angular face was nice-looking rather than handsome. Basically a conservative man, both in philosophy and dress, he waited patiently for the customs official, not yet minding the heat in spite of his well-cut, three-button worsted suit and the topcoat over his arm.

  Once or twice he looked up ahead to see if Mike Ludlow was waiting. He had cabled Ludlow the previous afternoon and half expected to be met. But that part of the room was empty now. A blue-uniformed policeman with a sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves stood in the doorway. His job was to make sure no one left before the formalities were over, and at the moment he was talking to a dark-haired man with a broad swart face. He was clad in slacks and a figured sport shirt and Dave had the fleeting impression that the man had been watching him. Then his attention was claimed by the customs inspector and he was explaining that he had only a few extra packs of cigarettes, no liquor, and carried no fire
arms.

  The man at the door was gone when Dave followed the porter to the door. The policeman on duty there nodded at a fat man standing under the marquee. He apparently got the message because he signaled for the next taxi in line, asking as he did so whether Dave was being met or whether he wanted a car. Dave said he guessed he’d need a car, and when his bag was loaded he asked the man if the driver knew where Mike Ludlow lived.

  “He knows, sir,” the fat man said and spoke to the driver. “To Mr. Ludlow’s bungalow.”

  He opened the rear door but Dave said he would ride in front and climbed in beside the driver. The door slammed and the car started, moving past other parked vehicles and continuing beyond the in-coming entrance. As they cleared the end of the building Dave could see the Viscount taxiing down to the opposite end of the field for its final take-off; then they had turned right, coming presently to the main coastal highway where they turned left toward Bridgetown.

  For a half mile or more they followed this and Dave found the oncoming traffic confusing, not just because it all moved on the left side of the road but because of the single bright lights of the bicycles that passed, many of them carrying a girl on the crossbar. When they turned right into the country Dave said:

  “Don’t we have to go through Bridgetown?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. But this way is faster because we don’t meet so much traffic.”

  Dave settled back and when he had a cigarette going he glanced at the driver, finding him neatly dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, his black face partly obscured by the brim of his gray felt hat. As though aware of the inspection the driver spoke, and while his phrasing was correct, the accent was soft and unfamiliar and Dave, remembering it now from that other trip, had to pay attention to be sure he understood exactly what was said.

  “Will you be staying long with Mr. Ludlow, sir?”

  Dave said he wasn’t sure. He said he had cabled Ludlow but if he wasn’t home he would probably have to go on to a hotel tonight.

  “But you will be needing a car during your stay.”

  “Probably.”

  “I will give you my card.” As he spoke the driver reached up on top of the sunshield and extracted a business card. As Dave accepted it he leaned forward to inspect it under the dash light. It said:

  STARR’S GARAGE

  TAXI SERVICE

  CARS BY DAY—WEEK—MONTH

  In the lower left-hand corner was the name—Clarence Hayworth. Opposite this were two telephone numbers, and the driver said one of them was the garage and the other his home.…

  “Could I have your name, sir?”

  “Payne,” David said. “P-a-y-n-e.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Payne. If you wish to drive yourself you will need a license and I can take you to police head-quarters and help you tend to it.” He hesitated a moment. “Some people prefer to have a driver who knows the island. In the end I do not think you will find it much more expensive.”

  “Thanks, Clarence,” Dave said. “I’ll keep it in mind.… How are things, anyway?”

  “Very hard but fair, sir.”

  Dave repeated the phrase and chuckled softly because the expression was new to him and he liked its philosophy. Then, as the silence grew between them, he gave his attention to the roadside and tried to figure out just where he was. Gradually the traffic became thicker and the bicycles more numerous. They came to stop streets and intersections with neighborhood stores on the corners, most of them shuttered now, and he decided they were going through Bridgetown but north of the downtown section. Finally a highway number on an intersection told him they had reached the coastal road on the leeward side and he said they must be getting close.

  “Yes, sir,” Clarence said. “Not far now, sir.”

  Dave was watching the side of the road and looking for familiar signs when Clarence slowed down, and because his attention was elsewhere he was not quite sure what caused the near accident. He felt the car brake, heard Clarence’s muttered curse. The headlights of the other car were right in his face as the taxi swerved and came to a stop, and as the other car slipped past, Dave couldn’t be sure whether it came from the lane that opened on the left or whether it had been parked on the wrong side of the street and had started up without warning. Then it was over and Clarence was muttering and Dave knew that this was the lane that led to the bungalow.

  Clarence was still talking as he shifted and made the turn, but his accents were pure Bajan now as he talked to himself. All Dave could get was the gist of his comments, which said in effect that that was the trouble with renting cars to tourists who really didn’t know how to drive and could not get used to the right-hand steering and left-side-of-the-road traffic. When Clarence subsided, Dave asked if that was one of the company cars.

  “Yes, sir,” Clarence said, “but I think not one of our drivers.”

  Dave said there was no harm done and now he was following the headlights as they cut down the narrow lane past the wooded land where casuarinas, sea grapes, and a few mahoganies stood. The lot was open on the beach side, and presently he could see the ocean beyond the squarish outline of the bungalow. A stilted-looking white-washed shack, once used by servants but abandoned now, stood at the rear, and ahead of this was the garage. As Clarence made his turn and braked the taxi Dave could see the car beyond the open doors and knew that Mike Ludlow must be home and that the trip had not been in vain. He felt better now as he got out and pulled the bags after him. Clarence offered to help and Dave said it wasn’t necessary, and how much did he owe him.

  “That will be three dollars, sir.”

  “In your money?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Then three bucks American should take care of the trip.”

  “Three dollars American will do very nicely, sir. And you will keep my card and telephone me when you are ready in the morning?”

  Dave said Clarence could count on it and stood a moment watching the car turn and start down the lane before he moved toward the rear door of the bungalow. It was a frame building with a peaked tin roof, an extension of which covered the veranda that extended along both sides and the front. Light showed through the shuttered cracks of the kitchen window and although the front of the house seemed dark he could hear the sound of music coming from somewhere in that direction. Four stone steps put him on a square landing and then he stepped into the hall which bisected the rear half of the building.

  The source of light came from a hanging fixture and on his immediate left was a bedroom, the door of which stood open. Next to this was a cement cubicle containing toilet, bowl, and a stall shower. When he had put his bags down he glanced into the empty pantry on the right and then at the second bedroom beyond the bath. Here, too, the room was dark. Ahead of him the door to the large front room was closed. As he opened it he saw that the room itself stood in darkness; he also discovered the source of the music which came from somewhere on his left.

  He called: “Mike,” and stood a moment with the light spilling past him from the hall. Very gradually as his eyes adjusted themselves he could make out certain details, and remembered things came back to him—the heavy diningroom table on the right with its sideboard, the cane settee on the left, the occasional tables and chairs, all of them old and of local construction. The double front doors stood open and a moon moving up above the horizon somewhere on the left showed him the pale reach of the beach and the shimmering blackness of the sea beyond.

  He said: “Mike,” once more, not really expecting a reply now and not worrying too much about it. Then, as he started for the front veranda, the toe of one shoe kicked something and he heard it slide metallically across the floor in front of him. Stooping to retrieve it, he could tell it was a door key with a flat, composition tag loosely attached. He felt rather than saw its contour and he continued on outside, pocketing the key absently as he reached for his cigarettes and thinking no more about it.

  The air seemed very still here and the warmth of it was soakin
g into him. His body felt hot and damp beneath his woolen suit and he reached up to loosen his tie and open his shirt. Off to the right, lights showed through the trees back of the gently curving shoreline, and as he listened he could hear, faintly, the monotonous rhythm of a steel band. This, he knew, must be coming from the Carib Club and he wondered if perhaps Mike Ludlow had gone up there for a while. Telling himself it didn’t matter, he decided that what he wanted to do most was to get rid of his jacket and tie and make himself a drink. It was then that he heard someone mount the side steps round the corner of the house to his left.

  He started that way, the cigarette between his lips. He turned the corner; then stopped when he saw the man not more than ten feet away. With the light of the moon behind the figure and mostly obscured by the trees beyond, Dave could only tell that he was rather tall and thin and that something gleamed darkly in the right hand, which was held belt high.

  The man stopped when he saw Dave and he spoke one word. He said: “Mike!” and the inflection seemed so odd that it startled Dave, not the word but the sound of it. There was somehow a clipped pre-emptory cadence that carried an undertone of savagery so immediate that his reply was quick and automatic.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Mike doesn’t seem to be here.”

  The man, who by then had started to move forward, stopped instantly. He said: “Oh,” and the silence came again and the right hand dropped. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I saw a car drive up and I assumed—” He broke off again but Dave had heard the confusion in his voice along with its British accent.

  “That was my taxi,” he said. “I’m a friend of Mike’s. Payne’s the name. David Payne. I thought I’d wait around until he showed up.”

  “Yes—I see.” The man turned slightly as he spoke but his face was still in shadow, the features obscured. The right hand was out of sight now, too, and suddenly Dave remembered what John Allison had said the day before about Mike Ludlow’s neighbor. “Are you Mr. Dunning?”