Island in the Sun

by Alec Waugh

  “I have indeed. I was delighted.”

  “But she doesn’t want on that account to lose touch with her friends, and I’m very anxious that she should not be bored. So I’m arranging to have people out regularly to dinner. Not big parties, that would mean her standing about: never more than six: usually only four. And we should so like it if you and your wife could come out one evening. Sylvia often talks of the kindness your wife showed her when she was a child. What day would suit you best? We’d like it to be soon.”

  Did it sound convincing, Maxwell wondered. He had only thought up the scheme on the spur of the moment. But the ideas that came to you in a flash were often the best. First thoughts rather than second thoughts. Like love at first sight. Mrs. Whittingham had run the Girl Guides when Sylvia was at school. It was reasonable that Sylvia at a time like this should need the company of those who had been her mentors when she was finding her feet in life. Anyhow Whittingham had not seemed surprised. He was looking at his diary.

  “Nothing I should enjoy better,” he was saying, “and the old hag’ll love it. She gives a lot to those kids. Never had any herself you know. Misses them when they grow up. She’s touched when they remember her. Sylvia was always a favorite of hers. This’ll genuinely please her. How would Monday suit you?”

  “Monday’s fine.”

  “It’s the day before the Leg. Co. meeting. Sure you don’t want a quiet evening before that.”

  “I shan’t be igniting fireworks, I promise you.”

  “Leaving all that to Boyeur.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Then I’ll ring up the old hag now.”

  He spun the handle and picked up the receiver. Maxwell was taut, excited; very much as he felt when he was playing golf and on his game; alert, concentrated, nervous, but not apprehensive.

  Steady, steady now, he warned himself. This is only half your job, quarter of your job. You must now organize a succession of these parties. It will look suspicious if you ask only Whittingham. Particularly after what you’ve told him. You must go back to your father’s house and start telephoning. Ring everyone that you can think of; so that they’ll be talking about it this evening at the club; do nothing that won’t seem normal.

  “Confound this telephone,” Whittingham was saying.

  He put back the receiver, paused, spun the handle, lifted the receiver.

  “Call Mrs. Whittingham,” he said.

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “At any rate I’m through to the exchange.”

  There was another pause. Was anything more exasperating than waiting while someone else was trying to put through a call? One’s instinct was so strong to grab at the receiver, to say, “Let me have a shot.”

  Maxwell looked away. A copy of The Voice lay on the desk; it was open at the leader page, with Bradshaw’s article staring at him. Whittingham must have been reading it when he came in. He had not meant to mention the case this time: he did not want his invitation to dinner to look like an excuse for discussing the Carson case. But with the article on the desk between them, it would be suspicious if he did not mention it; in view of those earlier talks of theirs.

  “At last,” Whittingham was saying. “I’ve been trying to get you for the last ten minutes. Can you remember, darling, if we’re doing anything next Monday? We’re not: that’s splendid. Young Fleury has very kindly asked us out to dinner. His missus doesn’t feel like traveling and she thought she’d like to reminisce about those old days in the troop. Wants to know what she was like as a kid I suppose so that she’ll know what to be on guard against now she’s about to have a kid herself. Yes, I suppose that’s it. Monday’s all right then. Good. I’ll be home early this evening. No, I’m not looking into the club. I can’t drink with these young fellows any longer; two nights a week is all that I can take. See you around six.”

  He had been looking at Maxwell as he talked, including him in the conversation, talking at him.

  “That’s that,” he said. “What time shall we get out? Half-past six suit you? Time for a chat before we eat. I don’t want to stay up late. I don’t expect you do either.”

  Maxwell half rose, then as he had that earlier time, checked and sat down again.

  “I see you’ve been reading that article of Bradshaw’s.”

  “I was finishing it when you came in.”

  “I suppose he got his facts from you.”

  “He had a talk with me the other day, but you know what journalists are like; they paint with a broad brush.”

  “He says you know who did it.”

  “I know certain things. I can guess at certain things.”

  “What things?”

  “You can’t expect me to tell you that.”

  “No, but …”

  Maxwell paused, embarrassed, putting himself once again in the confessional. Was he being too eager? Was he being impertinent? Whittingham was nearly three times his age.

  “I’m sorry. I apologize. I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

  “My dear boy, you can ask me what you like. I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you quite a lot. I know that you’re discreet. And even if you weren’t discreet, it wouldn’t matter. There are one or two things I’d be quite happy to have that fellow know. I like to remind him now and then that I’m still watching him. That’s my strong point, and it’s a point that the layman forgets; that somewhere in this island there is a guilty man, a man who is conscious of his guilt, and who knows that I’m here, in the center of the web.”

  His voice had a drowsy hypnotic quality. As always the right hand bottom drawer of his desk had been pulled out; he now put his foot in it, and began with its leverage to rotate his swivel chair, his head remaining stationary while the trunk of his body swung.

  “You may think I’m looking for a needle in a haystack; but this island is in proportion much smaller than a haystack and the man is a great deal larger than a needle. I’ve been able to limit the field considerably. I have ruled out a large section of the community. Didn’t we discuss some time back, I think it was with you but I’m a garrulous old codger I know, and I can’t remember whom I say what to; the old hag keeps telling me that I repeat myself, but I believe we were discussing deception tactics.”

  “We certainly did. You talked about Operation Cicero.”

  “Then it was to you that I was saying it. It comes back now. We were wondering whether it was a question of a thief interrupted at his work, or a clever man wanting to make it look like an interrupted theft. I told you as far as I can remember that I had an open mind.”

  “You did.”

  “Now I’ve made up my mind. I’ve decided that it was a clever fellow who wasn’t quite as clever as he thought.”

  Maxwell wanted to close his eyes, as you do when a cloud of dust blows at you. But he mustn’t; he knew that: nothing out of the ordinary.

  “What made you come to that conclusion?”

  “Quite a few things. First of all I became convinced that the man who had the wallet was speaking the truth. I couldn’t explain to you how I knew. But after a while if you’re in my game you get a second sense of when you’re being told a lie. I believed that he was speaking the truth, that he did find the wallet in a cane field as he said. I went out with him to the spot where he said he found it. I’ll tell you about that. It’ll interest you.”

  He spoke very slowly, repeating himself, taking a quarter of an hour to explain how he had thrown the wallet out of a car that was being driven northward, along the windward coast.

  Maxwell fidgeted as he listened: he wanted to interrupt, to break in on this dawdling exposition.

  Yes, yes, he longed to say, you’re absolutely right. That’s the way it was and two miles farther on if you look you’ll find the watch.

  It was difficult to look interested in the recounting of an incident with whose each least detail he was familiar. It was hard not to prompt him, to hurry up the telling, hard not to be impatient
. He must not look bored. He ought not to be bored. He should be fascinated. What wouldn’t the ordinary person give to be taken behind a policeman’s mind, to be shown how that mind worked, and in the most exciting of all cases, a murder case? He ought to be thrilled. Yet he was bored, exasperated, irritated. He wanted to scream. Yet at the same time he was mesmerized, fascinated; outside himself, watching himself, thinking This is how a murderer gets caught.

  At last Whittingham reached his climax. “You see how that narrows the field?” he said.

  Maxwell started. The cessation of that slow monotone shook him out of his trance. He must now be intelligent, ask questions, the right kinds of question.

  “How does it do that?” he asked.

  “A clever fellow, who thinks he’s cleverer than he is. There are not so many of those in Santa Marta.”

  “But is that all you know?”

  “Of course not; not by any means.”

  “What more then do you know about him. I’m assuming that it’s him not her.”

  “Yes, I’m assuming that.”

  “A woman wouldn’t have been strong enough.”

  “I don’t see how she could.”

  “Though I have heard that a person who is really roused has the strength of ten.”

  “I have heard that.”

  “Have you read Kipling’s story about a man who killed a baboon with his bare hands?”

  “I’ve read that story.”

  “Mightn’t a very jealous woman have had that strength.”

  “She might.”

  “Or a very heavy woman.”

  “I’d thought of that.”

  “If she knelt across his arms, so that he couldn’t throw her off.”

  “Knelt across his arms?”

  “Suppose that he had slipped, and fell with his arms spread wide and she knelt across him, a knee on either arm, then she’d have her hands free at his throat.”

  “Knelt across his arms. Yes, that’s how it might have been done, that’s how it probably was done.”

  “And that’s why there were no marks upon his face.”

  “On whose face.”

  “His or hers, the murderer’s.”

  “Yes, that would explain it, if there were no marks.”

  “But there were none were there?”

  “That’s something I don’t know as yet. How could I?”

  “Oh, I see. I thought, I mean if anyone had had marks, someone would have noticed them and wondered how they got there.”

  “That’s true, of course.”

  “So I’d assumed there were no marks.”

  “Naturally, naturally.”

  “So that in that way it might have been a woman mightn’t it?”

  “It might, but I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  “Why are you so sure.”

  “There was no woman in his life, light or heavy.”

  “Can you be sure of that?”

  “In a place like this I can. Have you heard of anyone keeping an intrigue secret, here where there are no locks on doors, and half the time no doors to lock.”

  “That’s true.”

  And it was because he had forgotten that, refused to realize that, that he was sitting here now ferreting out what Whittingham knew and what he didn’t know. How could he have been so crass as to have suspected Sylvia and Carson on account of a Turkish cigarette, and a raised toilet seat. How ridiculous it seemed in retrospect.

  “If it wasn’t done by a thief who was surprised,” said Maxwell, “and if it wasn’t done by a jealous woman; if it was done by a clever man who wasn’t as clever as he thought, why on earth should that kind of man want to murder Carson?”

  “It was not premeditated.”

  “Then why on—”

  “It was an accident. That’s what I’ve concluded. Carson was in a strange mood that night. He had drunk a great deal. He had been humiliated in the club. He was a choleric man. He might have found an acquaintance waiting for him when he got back, or he might have met someone in the street, and asked him to come in for a drink. He did that kind of thing. Then when they got back they had a quarrel, and Carson took a slug at the chap and slipped, and as he fell, he flung out his arms and the other fellow was across him, pinioning him with his knees; he was seeing red, his hands were at Carson’s throat; you’re right: that’s how it must have been. In two minutes there was Carson dead. It was the last thing that the poor devil had in mind. If only he’d come to the police station right away, we might have smoothed it out. What a fool he was.”

  “Indeed.”

  It came, that “Indeed,” from his very heart. What a fool he’d been. What a crazy fool.

  “So that’s the way it was,” said Whittingham. “You see now, don’t you, that I’ve narrowed my field considerably.”

  “You’ve got a great deal to find out still, though, haven’t you? Simply to know that he’s a clever fellow who isn’t as clever as he thinks, doesn’t get you far.”

  “I know more than that.”

  “Yes?”

  “I know a great deal more than that. He’s a man of a certain position.”

  “How do you know that.”

  “He owns a car, or at least he drives a car.”

  “Can you be sure of that?”

  “I can be sure of nothing. But it seems to me most unlikely that a man would throw a wallet into a cane field, and such a wallet, when he was being driven by someone else. Do you think it likely?”

  “I can’t say I do.”

  “You see how this limits the field.”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “There are three hundred and seventeen cars in Santa Marta. There are a hundred and twenty-seven trucks. Six hundred and three driving licenses have been issued. I have told my constables to check on the whereabouts on that night of each of those six hundred and three persons.”

  “Can you expect them to remember what they were doing on a given night.”

  “I can’t. I don’t. In fact if some of them did I should consider it most suspicious.”

  “Some of them must have lied.”

  “As you say, some of them did lie. They lied automatically. They didn’t know what I’m after, but they felt it was as well I shouldn’t get the truth and so they lied. Actually their lies told me more than the truth would have done. That old point in psychoanalysis again. The first thing that jumps into a man’s head. It’s very useful to know what sometimes.”

  “So you found out things that helped you.”

  “I found out a lot of things, altogether independent of the Carson case. It’s surprising how often when you’re fishing for pilchard you catch a sole, but oh yes, I did find out at least half of what I needed. I’ve a pretty shrewd idea which cars were on that road that night.”

  “You know that mine was, for example.”

  “I do.”

  “But can you be certain that it was on that same night that the wallet was flung away?”

  “I can be sure of nothing. But it’s probable. If you’d been in his position, wouldn’t you want to get rid of it as soon as possible.”

  “I suppose I would.”

  “Of course you would, and so did he.”

  And you suspect me, don’t you, Maxwell thought. Or you think it’s possible. And you’re right, damn you, but you can’t prove it. You’ve got no evidence. You never will get it. How can you hope to. You’ve got all the tangible facts. There’ll be nothing more. You may find the watch but will it help you. How can it? You’ve nothing to go on. You’ll never have anything to go on.

  “But all this is supposition, isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s not even circumstantial evidence. It’s only guesswork.”

  “That’s what it would look like in a court of law; but you can’t think what a difference it makes to the policeman when he knows who his prey is, and what a difference it makes to the criminal when he knows that the detective knows. There’s a very curious cat and mouse relationship between the two.
Have you read Crime and Punishment?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “It’s a novel by Dostoevski, about a young student who needs money to continue his studies and kills an old pawnbroker, then robs her. It is a curious book; it was written by an intellectual that highbrows rave about, yet he wrote the best detective story I’ve ever read. He understands both the criminal and the detective. I was rereading it the other day. I go back to it to remind myself of the essentials of my profession. As a matter of fact I’ve got my copy here, I’ll lend it you. It’ll show you how the game is played. A person who can’t imagine himself committing a crime, a person like yourself for instance, can’t realize the curious affinity that exists between the policeman and the criminal. The criminal lives in a prison of his own devising; he can’t speak openly to a soul: he inhabits a secret world: the only person who understands him is the policeman who is chasing him. They share a secret; they have a deep-based bond: there is a curious collaboration: it is like a love affair. The criminal is drawn to the detective because the detective is the one man in the world who understands him. Ordinary people, his friends and family, are foreigners. He is only himself in the detective’s company. You read it. It makes all these thirty cent whodunnits look like milk and water. You won’t be able to put it down when you’ve once started. I’ll collect it when I come out on Monday. You’ll have finished it by then. You won’t be able to put it down, I promise you.”

  3

  He knows, Maxwell told himself as he drove that afternoon along the windward coast to Belfontaine. He knows. And he knows I know he knows. But there’s nothing he can do: nothing, nothing. He’s got no evidence. He’ll never get any evidence. But he knows all right.

  It was pointless to have invited all those people out to dinner. It wouldn’t fool Whittingham. The parties would bore Sylvia. She didn’t want to be pestered with acquaintances; she didn’t want to be bothered with arranging meals. She was perfectly happy sitting on the veranda talking, reading, listening to the radio. She had wanted parties a year ago. She didn’t now. She was dreamily content, brooding about the future. Why on earth had he asked all those people out. Why hadn’t he had the courage to have a showdown with Whittingham: to lay his cards upon the table. I know and you know but you can’t prove it. That’s what he should have said. Why was he continuing this insane pretense, ringing up all these people, putting up this blind.