Killed in Paradise

by William L. DeAndrea

  “It happens in the States, too. I heard some clown at an affiliates meeting say he turned a black applicant down for being too light. He said, ‘If I’ve got to hire niggers, dammit, I want everyone to know they’re niggers.’ ” That remark got back to top Network brass (I made sure it did), and Tom Falzet, the President of the Network, replaced the guy within a week with one of the black people he’d turned down. It’s nice, every once in a while, to see justice done.

  “It just proves my point; white people in control or black, the actual manner of the racism remains the same. But we’re getting off the subject, aren’t we?”

  I supposed we were. I said, “Okay, I said I’ll cooperate, and I will. I guess you’ll eventually tell me who’s been killed.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why do you think someone’s been killed?”

  “You said this was a murder investigation. They don’t usually start one of those unless someone’s been killed.”

  “I did not say it was a murder investigation.”

  I nodded toward the stenographer. “She’s been taking down what I say, how about what you say?”

  Buxton made it official with a nod. The stenographer looked back through her notes. She gave Buxton a look as sympathetic and warm as the one she’d given me had been cold. “I’m afraid so, Inspector. ‘Murder investigations frequently take a lot of time and trouble, Mr. Cobb.’ ” Then she gave me a face of scorn for making her boss look bad. I suspected that skin-color politics might have been standing in the way of an otherwise inevitable office romance, and I felt a little more comfortable about her animosity.

  Buxton showed no animosity at all. He threw his blond Afro back and laughed. “I try to be so clever sometimes.” He laughed some more, then said, “Very well, Mr. Cobb, I will tell you who’s been killed. A native of this island named Watson Burkehart.”

  “Ah. I suspected as much.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t seem like a man with a lot of friends. Also, he split the ship while we were lying offshore. He wouldn’t leave a good job unless he’d been paid off or was afraid of something.” I leaned forward in the chair. “I suppose you want me to tell you everything I know about Watson Burkehart.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cobb, I do. And I particularly want you to tell me about this.” He pushed a clear plastic folder across the desk to me. There was a bedraggled piece of S.S. Caribbean Comet stationery sealed inside. There was writing on it, block printing in the smeary blue-gray ink the pens on the ship held. It read:

  I HEREBY ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I HAVE PAID $5000 AMERICAN DOLLARS TO WATSON CLARENCE BURKEHART IN EXCHANGE FOR INFORMATION CONCERNING THE DISAPPEARANCE OF LEE H. SCHAEFFER. I GUARANTEE THAT WATSON CLARENCE BURKEHART SHALL BE HELD BLAMELESS IN ANY FURTHER INVESTIGATION OF THIS MATTER, AND I SHALL MAKE NO FURTHER DEMANDS OF ANY KIND ON WATSON CLARENCE BURKEHART.

  (SIGNED) MATTHEW COBB

  “That was found on his body,” Buxton said. “He was killed very meticulously. He was found on a little-used beach near the fertilizer factory—”

  Probably why it was little-used, I thought.

  “—with his skull very thoroughly crushed, apparently with a smooth stone. Blow after blow, but judiciously applied, so as not to break the skin. Really quite amazing. I had just come from looking at him in the coroner’s office before I came here. It’s really something to see.”

  “I’d like to,” I said. Buxton and the stenographer paused to give me identical dirty looks. I didn’t care. From the sound of what had been done, this corpse’s face was messed up. I wanted to look at it to make sure it was the Watson Clarence Burkehart I remembered. There were probably people on this island who’d known him all his life who had already identified him, including the poor, starving grandmother he’d told me about, but I didn’t care about that, either. When somebody goes to a lot of trouble to mess up a dead man’s head, you have to suspect a switcheroo. The more people who knew him well who swear it’s him, the more suspicious you have to get. I didn’t want to mention this. I had (unintentionally) shown Buxton up twice, and I was damned if I was going to do it again if I didn’t have to.

  At that, Buxton may have gotten a whiff of what I had in mind. He raised his brows and intimated it might be arranged, after he was done with me.

  I tapped the plastic-covered note with my finger. “Well,” I said, “now I know why you had me hauled in.”

  “It was indicated. I wanted to hear your explanation. I still do.”

  “You will notice,” I said, “the note’s not signed.”

  “I’ve noticed quite a bit, Mr. Cobb. Now, if you will please simply tell me what this is all about.”

  “Oh, God,” I said. “Where do I start?”

  Buxton looked irritated. “You might start,” he suggested, “by telling me who Lee H. Schaeffer is.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “I’m only sorry he’s not here to hear you say that.”

  But I didn’t start with Lee H. Schaeffer. I went back to the beginning, to Bogie’s, and Joe Jenkins, and the radio contest.

  15

  “And he would tell him stories of how it all began.”

  —Theme song,

  “Pow Wow the Indian Boy,” “Captain Kangaroo”(CBS)

  IT TOOK HOURS. EVERY once in a while, I’d pause for breath, or as the night wore on, for a yawn, and the stenographer would massage her hand to ward off writer’s cramp.

  And, strung out in a line like that, it sounded even stupider than it had seemed when I was living through it. I had more or less emptied the bag for him. I did euphemize my way around my relationship with Kenni. I mean, the whole ship knew we were sleeping together, and half of them would tell him, but I was raised always to be as much of a gentleman as I could. Buxton got the message. He didn’t make an issue out of it.

  “...So we decided to go out for a safe meal, which I still haven’t had, by the way—got any all-night diners on this Island?—and Bolt and friend picked me up, and here I am.”

  Buxton sat back in his chair, looking stunned.

  “A fabulous story, Mr. Cobb. Simply amazing.”

  “The really amazing part is that it’s all true, and I’ve got witnesses for practically all of it.”

  “Except your negotiations with Burkehart.”

  “Except that, yes. And they weren’t even negotiations. I was just stringing him along.”

  “Hmm, so you said. Pity you never got a chance to reel in the string.”

  “I’ll say. Now I’ll probably never know if he was killed over something to do with Schaeffer, or some other peccadillo right here on the Island.”

  Buxton tightened his lips and looked at a closed Venetian blind as he debated something with himself. “That’s the main reason—Evelyn, you may go home now. Thank you for staying so late. Type your notes up in the morning.”

  Evelyn gathered her things up, said good night, and left. I didn’t watch her go. It was more politic to let Buxton appreciate her by himself. When the door closed behind her, Buxton said, “That’s the main reason I tend to believe your story, ridiculous as it sounds.”

  “What is?”

  “The fact that Islanders do not murder each other. They just don’t.”

  “Clem, the chef, is an Islander. He had a broken bottle to Burkehart’s throat.”

  “He would not have used it. If you hadn’t persuaded him not to, someone else would have.”

  “He looked serious to me.”

  “We are a theatrical people, Mr. Cobb, not a violent one. To be a policeman on this Island is to investigate petty burglaries and motorbike accidents. When the word about Burkehart arrived, I consulted the records to see when the last murder on St. David’s Island took place.”

  It was obvious he wanted me to ask. “When?” I said.

  “Nineteen fifty-eight. A German tourist stabbed a Danish tourist for flirting with his boyfriend.” He made a face. “Before the new hotel complex the bulk of our tourists were that sort of person.”

&n
bsp; Buxton seemed vaguely ashamed, which was ridiculous. I would have to be absolutely mortified about living on the Upper West Side if the very presence in your midst of “that sort of person” was something to be ashamed of.

  “I cannot find,” Buxton went on, “a case of an Islander killing an Islander with malice aforethought since 1926, when man strangled his wife for consorting with the Devil. Even then, he was judged insane and detained at His Majesty’s pleasure.”

  “You’ve made your point. Chances are overwhelming it wasn’t an Islander who did Burkehart in. Therefore it was someone not from the island.”

  “A tourist.”

  “Probably someone from the ship. We had the best chance to know and hate him. And on the ship, we already had mysterious events.”

  “To say the least. And you have found nothing of Mr. Schaeffer?”

  “A charred curve on the rug and a little chip of plastic. If they mean anything.”

  Buxton looked at his blind again. He stared at that thing as though he could see through it to some beautiful vista. Maybe he was remembering Evelyn’s exit.

  “You know, Cobb,” he said at last, “Burkehart may have been easy to hate. Everyone who knew him was glad when he got the job with the cruise line because it would mean he would spend less time on the island. Strings were pulled, I am told, to help arrange it.

  “But he was still one of our own, still an Islander. I have sent cables to New York, inquiring about you. I have received glowing replies. I know that in your eyes I am a small-town policeman with little experience and subordinates who do not respect him. Please; we will take your reassurance as spoken.”

  I closed my mouth.

  “I intend to find the killer of Watson Burkehart. If that means I must put any number of people under bond to stay here until I do, or return here when I need them, I shall do it.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. I could see the hundred people with the notebooks watching Clem threaten Burkehart over the knives. I could see them told they’d have to come up with ten thousand dollars each, or they wouldn’t be allowed to go home.

  I could see Billy and Karen in bankruptcy. I could see Billy unleashing jujitsu. I could see a wave of murders the like of which this island had never dreamed of.

  I kept my mouth shut. For all I knew, Buxton was one of the type who get stubborn when you point out flaws in their plans. And since my brain kept seeing only more and more horrible ramifications of the flaws in his plan, there was nothing to say. Buxton was showing the window how tough and dedicated he could be.

  The phone on the desk rang. We both jumped.

  Buxton picked up the phone, said yes a few times, then, “Shortly, Mr. Maxwell,” then yes again, and finally, “I’ll tell him. Goodbye.”

  “That was Mr. Maxwell at the American Embassy,” he explained. “Some sort of attaché. He’s really a DEA man, but I’m not supposed to know that. He’d like to speak to you, after you’re done here. Simply phone the Embassy, and they’ll send a car around.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “I wonder what for.”

  “Our unsavory past, Mr. Cobb. Your government thinks that any crime on this island must be drug-related, despite the best efforts of our new government. Since I am questioning you, Mr. Maxwell suspects you might know something about drugs.”

  “He’s going to be disappointed.”

  “Hmm. Your story sounds like it was caused by drugs, but it has nothing to do with them per se. Still, I suggest you see the man. He can be very persistent, and if you avoid him, he’ll just get more suspicious. Every time I talk to him, he mentions our numbered bank accounts. No matter what the conversation started out to be.”

  I sighed. “Sure,” I said. “What the hell. They’ve got a kitchen at the Embassy, no doubt. Maybe Maxwell will whip me up a hamburger. As soon as you’re done with me, I’ll call him.”

  “That should be a matter of minutes, Mr. Cobb.” He used the phone again. This time, he just said, “Results?” then grunted a few times before hanging up.

  He turned to me. “Either everyone on that ship is a liar, Mr. Cobb, or you are one of the better-alibied men in the world. Dozens and dozens of people, it seems, have been taking care to study your movements.”

  I took a silent moment to thank God for fanatical mystery fans. I stood up; Buxton did the same. We shook hands again.

  “You can use this phone,” he said. “I know that number. Or did you mean it about wanting to see Burkehart’s body?”

  “I meant it.”

  “Having learned of your reputation in New York, I will admit I will be happy to have the benefit of your thinking.”

  I should have taken this cruise sooner, I thought. I was rapidly becoming a legend.

  The morgue was in the basement of Davidstown Hospital. It was, to my somewhat jingoistic surprise, quite large, modern, and well-equipped. Especially the emergency room and the morgue. Probably because of all the motorbike accidents.

  It was a short walk from Constabulary headquarters. On the way, Buxton asked me why I wanted to see the body. This time, I told him.

  “Ah,” he said. “But I knew the man well. I arrested him at least six times. For your theory to be tenable, I would also have to—”

  He gave me a dirty look.

  “Hey,” I said. “No hard feelings. You checked me out.”

  He chuckled at that, and I liked him better than ever.

  One look solved the problem, anyway. They pulled out the slab, and there was Watson Burkehart. I mean, I recognized him, but not without having to make certain mental adjustments, allowing for the new shape(lessness) of his skull. It was as if someone had painted a detailed and faithful portrait of the man on a bag of grapes.

  “Nasty,” I said.

  “Very,” Buxton said. “You can see why I want the devil caught.”

  “I could see why you’d want the devil caught even if Burkehart’d been hit only once.”

  “The coroner believes it possible that once would have done it. A smash upward to the occipital bone, you see.” He pointed to a particularly deep dent in the back of Burkehart’s head. “Or, if that one alone wasn’t enough, that one and any one of the others.”

  “Right-handed or left-handed?”

  “Too many blows to tell. They obliterate each other.”

  “Well,” I said. “I’ve seen enough.”

  Buxton seemed relieved as he nodded to the attendant to cover up the body. I have this strange thing about looking at dead bodies. At the time, I’m fine. My macho glands kick in, and they overcome the urge to retch, faint, run away, etc. But they come back later and haunt me; they establish permanent residence in my memory. It was getting, I reflected, too crowded in there.

  I sighed. “Next stop, the Embassy.”

  Buxton smiled. His next stop was home to bed, and with or without Evelyn, it seemed an attractive prospect.

  “I’ll ring them for you,” he said.

  They came for me in a big black Cadillac. It made me proud to be an American. It had little flags on the fenders and everything. Never mind that the car itself was wider than, at a conservative estimate, thirty-five percent of the streets in Davidstown. And never mind that there was a statute on the books since colonial days (so Buxton had told me) that no vehicle on St. David’s Island, including bicycles, roller skates, or horses, was allowed to travel at a speed greater than twenty miles an hour. So here’s a million horsepower, loaded on a boat, brought to an island that’s only about fifteen times the length of the car, and condemned to drive at twenty miles an hour, scraping its sides against the buildings as it did so.

  I must admit the driver did not actually scrape anything on the way to the Embassy, but there were several close calls. I know damned well he never topped twenty. Never even put it in danger. I was beginning to suspect an overzealous Constable could have arrested Buxton and me on our way to the morgue for walking too fast.

  We got there eventually. I could have walked it in less time
, because I could have gone down the narrow streets the Cadillac had to stay away from. The Embassy itself was a lovely old Victorian building that looked like a hotel. The driver informed me it used to be a hotel. Now, however, that there was the big, modern Davidstown Plaza on the bay, the hotel company had sold their stately old building to the United States for practically nothing, saying the space would be needed to serve the needs of the large influx of American tourists who would soon be arriving. They were, the driver told me, still moving in.

  That was an understatement. The place was chaos, wallpaper half up (or down, it was hard to tell), cardboard cartons everywhere, scaffolding up, the smell of paint thinner scenting the night air. The Marine in the booth looked a little woozy from it. I told him I was to see Mr. Maxwell; I told him my name, he checked it on a list, and buzzed me in.

  I had to duck under a scaffold to get into Maxwell’s office, but other than that, he seemed to be in fairly good shape. He had his desk in place, and there were only six or seven cartons in a big room. He even had a chair for guests. Sitting in it was Kenni Clayton. Lying alongside it was Spot.

  Spot usually gets browned off at me when I leave him alone too long, but this time, he seemed to understand the special circumstances. At any rate, he took a sniff in his sleep, sprang to his feet, and ran to me, giving me a few of his patented Flying Face Licks before calming down enough for me to scratch behind his ears and under his throat and generally assure him I still loved him.

  Then it was Kenni’s turn. I don’t mean I scratched her anywhere, but I did hug back. I didn’t want to make her feel like her hugs weren’t welcome, even in the august confines of the Embassy.