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Roy Glashan's Library
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Duell, Sloan & Pearce, Inc., New York, 1942
"Speak of the Devil" is a compact, atmospheric mystery set on the fictional Caribbean island of Riquezas. Karen Peterson, traveling by ship to Havana, is charmed by a suave man named Mr. Fernandez, who persuades her to take a job as hostess at his new island hotel on Riquezas. Though reluctant, she accepts. Once there, Karen quickly senses that the hotel is a nest of secrets. The staff and guests all appear to be hiding something...
MISS PETERSON opened the door of her cabin cautiously, and glanced along the alleyway to the smoke room. And saw Mr. Fernandez looking at her. He rose.
With a sigh, she came out, closing the door behind her. She was well able to cope with Mr. Fernandez, but the weather was singularly oppressive and she felt tired; she would have preferred to avoid him. But it was too late now and she went along the alleyway, tall, broad-shouldered, and long-limbed, very handsome in her black evening dress, with her blond hair in thick braids around her head.
"Dear lady!" said Mr. Fernandez. "I haven't seen you since lunch time."
"I was resting," said Miss Peterson. "I don't like this weather."
"The glass is very low," said Mr. Fernandez.
"I thought so," she said. "You can feel it."
He drew back a chair for her, and she sat down at the table.
"It's all right on a ship," he said. "But on shore... When I think of my new hotel!"
They were both silent for a moment. They had both felt this breathless quiet before; they had seen this slow, sullen sea before; they knew the fury that was gathering somewhere.
"What's yours, Miss Peterson?"
"Gin tonic, thanks," she said.
"Make it two, Henry," said Mr. Fernandez, and brought out his gold cigarette case.
He was, after his fashion, a handsome man; a big fellow, dark, clean-shaven, with black wavy hair that bushed out a little behind the ears. He was soberly dressed in a white mess jacket and black trousers, but nothing could disguise or subdue his prodigious exuberance.
"Well, little lady?" he asked.
"I'm five feet ten..." said Miss Peterson.
He was not to be deflected.
"Been thinking over my proposition?" he asked earnestly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fernandez..."
"You don't know your own heart," he said, briefly.
Miss Peterson turned her sad sea-gray eyes toward the open doorway on to the afterdeck.
"You love me," Mr. Fernandez said.. "Admit it."
Salesmanship, she thought. When that man in Puerto Rico wanted me to sell refrigerators, that was the line he advised. Be positive, he said. Never negative. Tell people that they want an icebox. Be crisp. That was another thing he used to say. He told me I'd be an outstanding success at selling if I'd only give it a trial. But I wouldn't.
The ship had begun to pitch a little; as the stern dipped she saw the leaden water that seemed not to move. The sky was leaden too, no breeze. Why do I do some things, and not do other things? she asked herself. I certainly don't act according to reason. I look reasonable; and nobody can see through me. Do we ever understand one another?
She thought about that, lost in one of her Norse reveries; one of those melancholy moods that came over her occasionally, particularly in hurricane weather.
"Well?" said Mr. Fernandez, with a fond laugh. "You're a serious little lady, aren't you?"
"I seem to be," said Miss Peterson, stifling a sigh. She sipped the gin tonic.
"If you can't make up your mind, I'll make it up for you," he said. "You're going to leave the ship at Riquezas and you're going to stay at another hotel while we put up the banns, and then we're going to be married. Then you're coming to live in my new hotel. A beautiful hotel, modern, beautiful. You'll have your own car. You'll have everything. Like a little queen. When the season's over, I'll take you up to New York and I'll buy you the finest outfit of clothes—"
"Let's come to an understanding, Mr. Fernandez," she said, suddenly businesslike. "I can't marry you, ever. There's no chance of my changing my mind, ever."
"La donna è mobile..." he sang in a very good baritone.
"I don't know about that," said Miss Peterson. "But please take this as final. I like you, and I appreciate your offer. But I'm going on to Havana. I've got a job waiting for me there."
"You like me..." said Mr. Fernandez, seizing on that. "Liking and respect—what's a better basis for a marriage?"
"I don't want to get married," said Miss Peterson.
"That's because you don't understand," he said. "You're unawakened. You—"
She had heard Mr. Fernandez on that subject before, and she did not relish it.
"No," she said, in her slow voice. And nobody could possibly think that she meant yes.
Mr. Fernandez moved his glass so that the ice clinked in it.
"Maybe you haven't known me long enough; only five days," he said. "Everybody's not like me. I make up my mind like that!" He snapped his fingers. "But that's my nature. You may be different. It may take you a long time to know..." His black eyes rested upon her face. "But once you do love—or hate—God!"
Well, if that's what you like to think, Miss Peterson said to herself. At the moment, the only emotion she felt was an overwhelming boredom.
"Another drink, little lady?"
"Thanks," she said. "I'd like it."
"Henry!" he called. "Encore!" He turned back to Miss Peterson. "You're low-spirited," he said. "I've never seen you like this before."
"The weather," she said.
He did not care for that.
"You're not happy," he said. "Tell me—what is this job in Havana?"
"It's in a shop," she said. "They want someone who can speak English, and Spanish, and German."
"I know how good your Spanish is," he said. "But German, too?"
"Yes," she said.
"A good job?" he asked.
"Good enough," she said.
"I wonder..." he said. "I wonder what's happened to make you go wandering around the world like this?"
"I wonder, myself," she said, with candor.
"I wonder," he said leaning across the table and lowering his voice, "what's happened to make you turn against love?"
You'd be surprised, thought Miss Peterson. It's people like you. Men you meet in planes and ships and hotels and trains, talking about love. She said nothing out loud, and he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his drink.
"Lady," he said, "I'm going to make a different proposition. We'll forget about marriage for the time."
"I'm going to Havana," said Miss Peterson.
"Come to Riquezas," he said. "Whatever they were going to pay you in Havana, I'll double it."
She looked up.
"Come to my new hotel as hostess," he said. "You can name your own salary. You'll have a nice room and bath, all to yourself. Fine meals. Plenty of time for swimming, riding, tennis. It's a position of dignity," he added.
This position seemed to Miss Peterson very much more attractive than the one in Havana. Especially at double the salary. But she saw grave drawbacks.
"I'm afraid—" she began.
"Yes," he interrupted. "You're afraid I'd bother you—try to make love. Well, look here..." He paused. "We'll get to Riquezas tomorrow, on the twentieth of September. I give you my word I won't say another word about marriage or love, until the twentieth of November."
Miss Peterson had heard a good deal of talk about Mr. Fernandez since she had come on board at Trinidad. He was a big man in Riquezas; he had a hotel, a club, he owned the sole fleet of launches, he had an interest in the biggest department store, he was in half a dozen other things. He had his enemies; some people spoke of him with fury. They called him bullying, grasping, vulgar, even ruthless. She thought it not impossible that he might have some of these defects; but she thought he would keep this bargain.
"But you'd be thinking all the time that I was going to change my mind," she said.
"Certainly," he said, seriously. "I'm pretty sure you will, too. But if you don't—all right. I can take it."
"I don't think it would be fair to you," said Miss Peterson.
"My dear lady," said Mr. Fernandez. "Even apart from my personal feelings, it would be a big advantage for me to have you in the hotel. It is hard for me to find the right person for that job."
She liked that better. She understood very well his Latin fashion of combining love and business.
"I don't want an American," he went on. "Some of the die-hard Britishers don't like them. I don't want an English girl, because they don't understand American tourists—the backbone of my business. You're neither English nor American. I don't know what you are, and I'm not asking. Simply you'd be a Godsend in that job."
She liked him even more for this. She was wont for the most part to call herself English; she sometimes advertised for a post as 'an English gentlewoman.' Her passport was Uruguayan; but her birthplace was Minnesota. A strange rebellion of her mother's had taken her away from home in her childhood. Still in her twenties, she had traveled far and seen much. But she did not forget the farm where she was born, the wide rich fields in summer, the winter snows. It suited her to wander over the world, but her roots were back there; she had been nourished by reality, and however fantastic her experiences were, she herself was realistic, sober, a little aloof. Not romantic.
"So that if you take the job," said Mr. Fernandez, "you'll be under no obligation to me. On the contrary, you'll be doing me a favor."
"Then—thank you," she said. "I'll come, Mr. Fernandez. On two months' trial."
"Bueno!" he said with a sudden flashing smile.
They went down to the dining-saloon then. Mr. Fernandez sat at the Captain's table because of his importance in Riquezas; Miss Peterson sat at the Purser's table, because the Purser knew her and enjoyed her company. The other people who sat at the table had not yet come down; Mr. Wavill sat there alone.
"I'll be leaving you tomorrow," said Miss Peterson. "I'm getting off at Riquezas."
"Well..." said Mr. Wavill. "You know what you're doing."
No, I don't, thought Miss Peterson. Nobody ever does. For her Norse mood still lingered; the oppression in the atmosphere lay heavy upon her.
"I won't talk business now," she said, "but tomorrow morning I'll come formally to your office, and ask about a refund for the rest of my passage."
"Suppose we have a bottle of Sauterne?" said Mr. Wavill. "As long as this is au revoir..."
"Thanks!" said Miss Peterson. "That would be—"
"Damn!" he murmured. "Here comes Mrs. Fish."
He rose politely, and Miss Peterson looked up with a smile as their table companion approached. She was a tall, slight woman, all in black, even to her stockings, with a long-nosed, chinless face like a melancholy goose, and black hair in a somewhat untidy knot at the nape of her neck. She was amiable enough in her fashion; but she was depressing, so fatigued and silent.
"You'll take a glass of wine with us, Mrs. Fish?" asked the Purser.
"Oh, no thank you," she answered, "I think it gives me neuralgia."
The wine came, and the steward filled their glasses.
"Well..." said Mr. Wavill, raising his glass and looking at Miss Peterson with a faintly sardonic smile; "I hope you'll like—Riquezas."
"If I don't, I'll go somewhere else," said Miss Peterson.
They drank the wine and were silent in a friendly fashion. The electric fans whirred softly, stirring the heavy air; as the ship pitched, the gray water seemed to slide up toward the ports, very slow, very menacing. From the Captain's table came Mr. Fernandez's voice, loud, resonant; an attractive voice.
"One doesn't feel much like eating in this weather," said Mr. Wavill.
"No," Mrs. Fish agreed.
"Let's give up," said Miss Peterson; and they all rose. Mrs. Fish went to her cabin, and Miss Peterson and Wavill sat on deck for a time in the stifling dark; then he went to his office, and she sat alone. She remembered a hurricane in Martinique when she had been in charge of two children... She sighed and remembered an earthquake in Chile. Life is very strange, she reflected.
"Well..." said Mr. Fernandez's voice from the dark. Her chair was on the forward deck; he sat down in one beside her, he offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself, and smoked for a time in silence.
"There's one thing I'll have to explain," he said. "A complication."
A woman I suppose, thought Miss Peterson. If it's too much of a complication, I'm not going to bother with it.
"I took on a girl as hostess," he said. "But she won't do." He was silent for a time. "I was a fool."
"Do you mean she's there now?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Yes," he said, "but she's not hostess any more."
"No? What is she then?"
"Different odd jobs," said he.
"An English girl?"
"American," he said.
There was a long silence this time.
"When I first met this Cecily," he said, "I thought she'd be a fine hostess. She's very musical and so on. But it didn't work at all. She doesn't get on with people. She was unpopular. It was a business arrangement pure and simple, and I couldn't afford to keep it up. I had a talk with her. I offered to pay her fare home." He began to speak in Spanish. "Inutil. We had nothing but arguments, protestations. She begged to be allowed to stay in the hotel, if it must be even in the kitchen. I was sorry for her."
"And she's still there?" asked Miss Peterson in English.
"Sí. Yes. I gave in. I let her stay. She has charge now of the ladies' powder room."
"I don't like that much," said Miss Peterson.
"Neither do I," he said. "It was a weakness on my part and now I'll insist on her going. It's nothing serious, but I thought you'd better know."
"I don't like it," she repeated.
"Dear lady," he said, "look at it this way. You'd already agreed to come. I needn't have told you a word about this. If it is obviously what you think it is, would I have told you? Would I have asked you to come? No! It's nothing serious. Awkward; that's all. Cecily will leave the island by the next boat; take my word for it."
This time Miss Peterson did not believe Mr. Fernandez. Not wholly. She did not believe that he had kept on his former hostess out of sheer kindness or because he did not like scenes. Also if it had been a matter of no importance, he would not have mentioned it.
"I don't like scenes, myself," she remarked.
"There won't be any scenes," he said. "Dear lady, I'm not a fool. Remember too that I have a reputation in that island. I shouldn't be likely to prejudice my business for a girl, eh?" There's something in that, she thought. I don't think he'd risk his reputation for anyone or anything.
"A slight awkwardness, that's all," he said. "But the girl will leave by the next boat, and we'll forget it. Have you told the Purser you're landing tomorrow?"
"Yes," she said. He rose.
"We may arrive early," he said. "You'd better turn in, and get some rest."
"Presently," she said.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips; kept it there a little too long.
"Good night!" she said, very clearly.
He left her there and she sat relaxed in her chair, her long legs stretched out, her ankles crossed. She was an expert packer and she could get ready in half an hour. She did not want to go to her cabin. It was better here, in this airless night.
"I didn't know you were going to Riquezas," said Mrs. Fish's flat, subdued voice from the dark.
"Oh, yes..." said Miss Peterson. She looked about her, but she could not make out the black figure in the shadows.
"I am too, you know," said Mrs. Fish.
"That's nice," said Miss Peterson with courtesy.
"I'm going to the Hotel Fernandez," said Mrs. Fish. "Are you?"
"I've got a job there," Miss Peterson answered. "Hostess."
"Oh. What does a hostess do?" Mrs. Fish asked.
"I'll try and make things pleasant for people," said Miss Peterson. She didn't really know what her duties would be, but she thought it would be unfair to Mr. Fernandez to admit this ignorance.
"I'm so glad you're going to be there," said Mrs. Fish. "I hear you're a trained nurse."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not," said Miss Peterson. She did not want Mrs. Fish, or any other guest of the hotel to know that she was a licensed masseuse. She had learned by experience that when people found that out, they were disposed to make extraordinary demands on her; to cure headaches, to take care of babies, to prescribe for hangovers. But Mrs. Fish had somehow found out something.
"Well, it's practically the same thing," said Mrs. Fish. As others had said. "I'm glad to think you'll be there. Such a strong personality."
"Thank you," said Miss Peterson, stifling a sigh.
There was a soft rustle, and a strong gust of perfume, lily-of-the-valley. Mrs. Fish was close to her now.
"Won't you sit down?" Miss Peterson asked, feeling that this was her duty toward a prospective guest of the hotel.
"Thank you!" said Mrs. Fish, and did sit down in the chair that Mr. Fernandez had vacated.
"You see," she said, "my husband was killed last year."
"How dreadful!" said Miss Peterson in her mild, slow voice.
"It's a nerve-strain," said Mrs. Fish. "Some day, when I'm not so tired, I'd like to talk to you about it."
"Oh, certainly!" said Miss Peterson. But it seemed to her that her new job required a little more of her. "There's nothing like travel, to take your mind off a thing like that," she added. "I should think a nice long stay in a place like Riquezas would help you a lot."
"Well, this isn't a pleasure trip," said Mrs. Fish. "I'm going to Riquezas for a reason." She paused again. "We must talk about it later on. But I'm so tired just now. I think I'll close my eyes and try to get a little sleep."
"That's a good idea," Miss Peterson said. She too, had had the idea of sleeping here, but the lily-of-the-valley perfume was so strong..."I'll have to go to my cabin," she said. "Some last minute things... Good night, Mrs. Fish."
"Good night," said Mrs. Fish. Her fatigued voice seemed to trail after Miss Peterson as she moved away. "You see," she said, without emphasis, "my husband was murdered." Miss Peterson stopped, stood still for a moment. Then, with more haste than was usual with her, she went on her way. I don't want to hear any more about that, she thought. Not now. Not in this weather.
THE sun came up in the morning, but it was a menacing sun; dull, veiled by clouds that did not seem to move. The sea had risen, there was a long heavy swell, the ship pitched heavily.
Miss Peterson staggered as she finished her packing, the light wicker chair in the cabin lurched, everything creaked and strained. The dining saloon was almost empty, Mrs. Fish did not appear, the steward came running downhill with his tray, and checked himself as the floor rose up; there were fidds on the tables.
She ate a good breakfast though, because in the background of her mind was the thought that lunch might be long delayed. She saw the Purser, she got a refund on her passage and a landing permit, and the ship stopped. It was worse then; they rolled helplessly in the long swell that came driven by the invisible fury; the deck chairs were all folded up and lashed, there was a great quiet on board.
Miss Peterson stood on deck, her nice narrow feet in low-heeled blue and white shoes planted wide apart to keep her balance, a cool blue and white print dress upon her tall frame, a dark blue hat upon her blond head. Riquezas lay before her, a flat low island looking very unimportant. A launch was coming toward them; the accommodation ladder went down.
"Disagreeable weather," said Mr. Fernandez at her side. And presently Mrs. Fish came, in a sheer black dress and a white helmet with a black puggree hanging down the back. They stood in silence watching the mail sacks go into the launch, they watched the trunks and bags of Miss Peterson and Mrs. Fish and Mr. Fernandez go down. "Well! Au revoir!" said the Chief Officer, and shook hands with them.
Mr. Fernandez went down the ladder first, Mrs. Fish followed, and Miss Peterson went last. The gray sea came up at her, and swooped down; the world seemed to swing in a sickening arc. But down she went slowly; she waited until the launch came up, a sailor caught her arm and helped her on board, and off they went.
The engines of the ship started, the propellers churned; off she went on her own way.
"Going to blow, sah," said the Negro at the wheel.
"May not hit us," said Mr. Fernandez.
"Got to do so, sah. When 'ee don't come for two years, come in three years—"
"Nonsense! Nonsense!" said Mr. Fernandez.
He was, in a subtle way, changing as he sat in his launch; he was growing bigger and grander. When they reached the jetty, he stepped ashore like a king and there was a chorus of greetings from the little crowd assembled there.
"Glad to see you back, sah...Fernandez, how are you?... Did you have a good trip, Mr. Fernandez?"
He raised his helmet, he made a vague gesture of salute with his hand, he smiled. He gave the keys of their baggage to a man in a sort of porter's uniform, and he led them along to an elegant, cream-colored roadster with a tan top attended by a chauffeur in khaki. He waved his hand again as they set off through the town.
A nice little British town, colored policemen in white gloves, a wide square after the fashion of the Spanish plaza, a bank with plate-glass windows, shop windows filled with tourist wares, a post-office with an arcade before it. But the sun was gone now; a fitful breeze stirred the dust, some of the shops had their shutters up already. They crossed a bridge, and entered the open country. They went past fields, with here and there an old estate house or a modern villa standing stark and defenseless in this flat island beneath this sky of lead.
The Hotel Fernandez was on the beach, an elaborate stone building with turrets, a patio, a colonnaded terrace. On the lawn of parched grass stood little iron tables under striped umbrellas that were shaking and straining in the rising wind.
"Those'll have to come in," said Mr. Fernandez.
They entered a large and handsome lounge. "Miss Peterson," he said, "if you'll go to the sundeck, if you please... Straight ahead of you. I'll look after Mrs. Fish—personally."
He led Mrs. Fish by the arm toward the desk, and Miss Peterson continued straight ahead, as he had told her, to a glassed-in veranda that overlooked the sea; there were palms and ferns in pots, a pleasing harmony of green and black chintz, comfortable big chairs and little glass tables. Mr. Fernandez joined her in a moment, followed by a waiter.
"I think we might have a little drink to celebrate," said Mr. Fernandez. "What would you like?"
"I think a lemonade, thanks," said Miss Peterson.
"A lemonade," he repeated to the waiter, "and bring me a beer."
Miss Peterson was standing by the open window and he joined her. The sea was running high, pounding on the white beach, breaking into high crests on the barrier reef. A very high sea for so still a day.
"Yes..." he said, half to himself. "Well..."
He lit a cigarette for her; when the drinks came, they sat down.
"I'm afraid I'll be very busy for a while," he said. "But I'll tell the housekeeper to look after you. Lunch in your own room perhaps. You can look around and get the feel of the place—the atmosphere, eh? And we can meet here for cocktails at—let's say five o'clock. If all goes well."
"Bueno!" she said.
They fell silent, and the pounding of the surf came to them, loud and ominous.
"Of course—" he began, and stopped short as a girl entered.
She was a slight girl in a black dress, and black shoes and stockings. Her long dark hair was brushed back from her forehead, her face was pale, with high cheekbones and a wide rouged mouth, her eyes were a clear, light aquamarine. She was a very unusual-looking girl, and very beautiful.
"Mrs. Barley couldn't leave just now, sir," she said. "So I came to see if I could do anything."
"Ah!" said Mr. Fernandez, somewhat wryly. "Well...Miss Peterson, this is—" He paused. "Cecily," he said. "Cecily, this is Miss Peterson, the new hostess."
The girl made a curtsey. That was a very strange thing for an American girl to do; it was either ironic, or theatrical, or both.
"How do you do?" said Miss Peterson amiably.
"Thank you, madam," said the girl. "Shall I show Miss Peterson her room, sir?"
Mr. Fernandez was more ill at ease than Miss Peterson had believed he could be. "Never mind," he said.
"I think that would be a good idea, Mr. Fernandez," she said rising.
"Bueno!" he said, rising himself. "Then I'll see you at five..."
Miss Peterson followed Cecily through the lounge and into the elevator; they rode up only to the second floor, they went along a corridor and around a corner where the girl opened a door.
"This is the room the former hostess had, madam," she said.
"That was you, wasn't it?"
"Yes, madam."
"Won't you sit down and have a smoke?" Miss Peterson asked. "I'm sorry, but I don't know your name, Miss—?"
"I'm called Cecily now, madam."
"Won't you sit down and talk to me a little? I'd like to get a little information."
"I'm afraid I couldn't help you, madam."
"It's for you to say of course," said Miss Peterson. "But if you feel like telling me some of the chief difficulties—?"
"My experience wouldn't be helpful, madam," said Cecily. "I failed."
"Maybe I'll fail too," said Miss Peterson.
"I'm in charge now of what they call the ladies' powder room," said Cecily, with her pale clear eyes on Miss Peterson's face.
"Well, I've never done that," said Miss Peterson. "But I've worked in a restaurant."
She felt as if she were dealing with a wild gazelle, she felt that if she made one brusque gesture, this young creature would flee. For in spite of the black uniform and the 'madam,' and her gentle voice, Cecily was wild. Certainly not the type I'd expect, Miss Peterson thought. She's obviously a very well-bred girl. And, I should say, a dangerous girl.
"I hope you'll like the position, madam," she said.
"I wish you wouldn't call me 'madam,'" said Miss Peterson. "After all, here we are. Two human beings. Two women. You've lost the job; and I've got it. The wheel turns. Who knows what's going to happen tomorrow?"
The wild gazelle took a few steps into the room, lured by Miss Peterson's calm good-humor.
"I suppose I'll have to leave the hotel now?" she said. "Even the powder room."
"I should think you could find something much more interesting," said Miss Peterson.
"I want to stay here," said the girl. "I've offered to stay without any pay at all. Just my room and meals. But now I suppose I'll have to go."
"I hope not," said Miss Peterson.
The girl glanced at her quickly.
"Of course," Miss Peterson went on, "I've just got here, and I don't know yet what's expected of me. Or what I can do. Won't you sit down and tell me what you had to do when you were the hostess?"
Cecily did sit down then, on a straight-backed chair near the door.
"I played the piano," she said. "Every morning from eleven to twelve, and in the afternoon at tea-time. And on Sunday we gave a concert in the evening. The cellist and the first violin from the orchestra, and myself. But—" She paused. "My playing wasn't liked," she said.
"Well, I don't play the piano," said Miss Peterson.
"You'll have to 'greet' people," Cecily went on. "You'll have to dance with the men, and sit and talk with the women. You'll have to get on with people. With everyone."
"I'm rather good at that," said Miss Peterson.
"I'm not," said the girl.
"Have a cigarette?" asked Miss Peterson.
The girl hesitated and then took one, and she relaxed a little as she began to smoke.
"You must have studied music," Miss Peterson observed.
"Yes. I have."
"I hear you're an American," said Miss Peterson.
"I'm half Polish. My mother was from Warsaw."
"That's interesting," said Miss Peterson. "Do you speak Polish?"
"A little."
Miss Peterson spoke a few words in a foreign tongue; the girl's clear eyes were fixed intently upon her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm afraid I don't understand that."
"Well, maybe it's not good Polish," said Miss Peterson.
"Well, if it's a dialect..." said the girl.
A puff of wind came through the open window, and Miss Peterson got up and went to look out. "You've been here—how long?" she asked.
"Over four months."
"Then I don't suppose you've had any bad weather?"
"I don't pay much attention to the weather," said Cecily. "It's been hot enough, and it's rained, if that's what you mean."
"That's not what I mean," said Miss Peterson.
"Miss Peterson?" said a voice, and the girl rose quickly.
A short, gray-haired woman with a long upper lip stood in the doorway. "I'm Mrs. Barley, the housekeeper," she said earnestly, and moved to let Cecily go past her out of the room. "Have you everything you want?"
"Yes, I think so, thank you," Miss Peterson answered.
"I'm afraid," said Mrs. Barley, "that we're going to have some disagreeable weather."
"Is there a warning up?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Oh, you know then?" said Mrs. Barley. "Yes. They've just put up the flag."
They were both silent for a moment.
"Well," said Mrs. Barley, "we only have five guests now, and one came by this boat. The season doesn't really begin until the end of October as a rule. We have no Americans here. Fortunately."
"Don't you like Americans?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Oh, very much!" said Mrs. Barley. "But they're more excitable. If we're going to have disagreeable weather... I'm sending up a man, Miss Peterson, to put up the shutters."
Another puff of wind came in and stirred Mrs. Barley's hair. And Miss Peterson thought of what was coming across the water, rushing past one island, sweeping across another, giving a careless glancing blow at a third. Nobody could know where the fury would strike; at this moment, hundreds of people were doing what they could to prepare for the onslaught; men were looking at their cane fields, at the banana plantations that might vanish overnight. People were going to die.
"Let me know if you want anything," said Mrs. Barley.
Like a goddess. Suppose I answered, give me peace, thought Miss Peterson.
Her trunk and her bag came, and she unpacked them; a colored boy came up with an excellent lunch on a tray. Fried flying fish and plantains, salad, an ice, and very fine coffee. She was hungry, and she enjoyed it, and she was glad to be alone to do a little thinking.
She thought about Cecily. That's a very strange child, she said to herself; and I don't wonder that Fernandez is afraid of her. There's a terrific vitality in her, and it's exactly the other sort of vitality from his. He's exuberant and expansive, and she's channeled all in one direction, whatever it is. I should say that anything she really wants, she'll get. Even if it's Carlos Fernandez. An interesting child... Her hair is certainly dyed; and she certainly doesn't speak any Polish at all. Because when I spoke to her in Swedish, she didn't know the difference. Interesting, and dangerous...
She finished her lunch, and then a man came to put up shutters at her windows. That was depressing, and she thought she would go outdoors while she could. But a chambermaid came to the door just as she was going out.
"Mistress, Mis' Fish say, will you please step by she room? On the next floor, mistress, three-fifteen."
I don't want to see Mrs. Fish, thought Miss Peterson, half-surprised by her own reluctance. I don't want to hear about her husband. Murdered, she said. That's no reason for disliking the poor woman, of course, but there's a sort of aura about her, lily-of-the-valley perfume, and black clothes—and death.
She sighed and straightened her shoulders. Come now! she said to herself. Be a hostess. And she walked up one flight of stairs and knocked at the door of Mrs. Fish's room.
"Come in," said the flat, tired voice, and entering, she found Mrs. Fish lying on the bed in a gloomy dusk, the windows shuttered. "I have a toothache," she said. "I wonder if you can do anything?"
"Oh, yes," said Miss Peterson, and returning to her room, she got a tiny plaster, two aspirin tablets, and three tablets of sodium bicarbonate. "I'm afraid I'll have to turn on the light," she said.
"Oh, by all means," said Mrs. Fish.
She was wearing a crimson silk kimono embroidered with gold dragons; and that made her look paler and more tired than ever; her black hair was loose, spread out on the pillow. Miss Peterson moved quietly about; she went to the bathroom and mixed her tablets in a glass, adding a brown cough drop she had in her purse, to give it a strange flavor and color.
"What's that?" Mrs. Fish asked.
"Oh, that's a secret," said Miss Peterson, who understood the therapeutic value of mystery.
Mrs. Fish sipped this exotic drink, and Miss Peterson glanced about the room. A big wardrobe trunk stood in a corner, still locked, but a suitcase was open on a chair, and a few things had been set out on the chest of drawers. There was a photograph in a silver frame, Miss Peterson glanced at it, stared at it, moved a little nearer to examine it.
It was a photograph of the Devil, a big, burly, fierce devil, with a bold nose and mocking eyes and an elegant Vandyke beard; he stood with folded arms, dressed in a mantle and a cap that revealed his horns.
"Are you looking at that picture?" Mrs. Fish asked tonelessly. "That was my husband. In a masquerade costume. It suited him very well, don't you think?"
"Oh, yes!" said Miss Peterson. She went into the bathroom and held the tiny plaster under the hot water tap until it was thoroughly warmed, then she applied it to Mrs. Fish's gum.
"Such a relief..." Mrs. Fish mumbled, and closed her eyes.
"I'll come back presently," said Miss Peterson, and withdrew, closing the door behind her. For a moment, she stood in the corridor thinking about that extraordinary photograph. The Devil...she thought. And he was murdered. That's not right. That's not natural. Well...!
She sighed and started down the stairs. The lights were on everywhere, every window was boarded up, it was stiflingly hot. A small group was sitting in the lounge, and she did not feel like talking to them; she made her way to the sundeck, and there was Mr. Fernandez in his shirtsleeves, sitting at a table with his ledgers before him, and an oil lamp, unlit, beside them. There was a damp patch between his shoulder blades, he wiped his face with a mauve silk handkerchief; at the sound of her step he glanced up and rose.
"According to the latest wireless news," he said, "the worst of the storm will pass to the East of us. Ojala Dios!"
"Here comes the rain," she said.
It came like hail, like machine-gun bullets against the boards; the wind had a hollow spinning roar. Miss Peterson sat down, pushing her damp hair back from her temples.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"Oh, no, Mr. Fernandez," she answered. "Only, coming to a new place, there are always things you want to sort out in your mind."
"Cecily, for example?"
"She seems to me to be a very interesting girl," said Miss Peterson.
"Too interesting," said Mr. Fernandez. He wiped his face again. "She came down here on a cruise ship," he went on. "And when she asked to see me, I thought—naturally—she was a tourist, wanting to stop a little longer in my hotel—my other hotel that was. I was very much surprised, I can tell you, when she said she wanted a job. But she seemed—at that time—a very sensible girl, quiet, well-bred. She played the piano for me. I'm no judge of music, but it seemed good to me, very good. She said she could give these little concerts, and that she could help to entertain the guests in other ways. I'd never employed a hostess, but she didn't ask for a large salary, and it seemed a good idea—at the time."
"But it didn't work?"
"Por ejemplo! Complaints began almost at once. The guests complained, the servants complained. She wanted to practice; and one morning she started at seven o'clock, waking up people. I put a stop to that, and then she started practicing at nine, when people were sitting in the lounge. She has no tact. She quarreled with the orchestra leader. She wanted to go into the kitchen, and order coffee and sandwiches for herself, and that led to a quarrel with the cook. I advised her to go home. I told her there was no future here. But she was so insistent upon staying..." He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. "I'm a very good-natured man."
I wonder...thought Miss Peterson.
She could hear the surf, the waves pounding on the beach; the wind had a new note, a thin piping whistle, the rain came more furiously. There was nothing to do but wait, and to hope that the mad violence could find no crevice by which to enter, no weakness in this brave, new building, standing stark and alone by the sea.
The lights went out.
Mr. Fernandez turned on a flashlight, and by its beam he lit the oil lamp.
"I'll have to reassure the guests," he said. "If you'd come too...?"
The guests were admirably tranquil. By the light of two oil lamps in the lounge they could be seen, a middle-aged couple sitting at the card table, but not playing; one old lady was knitting, another was doing nothing at all; a thin, tall man with a weather-beaten, hollow-cheeked face was moving aimlessly about, smoking.
"If you had your electric fans working properly," he said sternly to Mr. Fernandez, "it wouldn't be so bad."
"Unfortunately, the electricity has failed, Major," Mr. Fernandez explained.
"Then why don't you have punkahs?" the Major demanded. "Put some of these worthless boys to work. Gad! No air at all!"
"Do keep quiet!" said the old lady who was knitting.
"What?" the Major demanded. "What did you say, Mrs. Green?"
"I said, do keep quiet," the old lady repeated. "You have just as much air as anyone else."
"What?" he cried. "What?"
"What's that girl doing here?" asked one of the old ladies, and turning her head, Miss Peterson saw Cecily standing in an open doorway near the desk. She was outside the circle of lamplight, and in the shadowy background, she looked all black and white, a little white apron now over her black dress, and a white frilled cap on her head. It was strange to see her there, unmoving.
"Panicked," the Major observed.
Miss Peterson went over to her.
"I've just killed a man," Cecily said, in an even, very low voice.
MISS PETERSON was accustomed to responsibility, and her first thought was to keep those guests quiet. They were all looking toward Cecily, but they were, she thought, too far away to have heard the girl above all the noise of wind and rain.
"Come!" she said, and the girl followed her past the desk and out to the sun-deck. Mr. Fernandez came after them.
"I've just killed a man," Cecily said again. She spoke quietly, her light clear eyes were steady, but she swayed on her feet.
"Sit down!" said Mr. Fernandez; and she did sit down on the couch, straight and rigid in her dainty theatrical uniform, the little fluted cap like a crown.
"I killed a man," she said.
"Yes, we understand that," said Mr. Fernandez. "But how? Where did this happen?"
"In your room," said Cecily. "I shot him. I killed him."
The two tall people standing before her looked down at her with no sign of emotion. She herself was quiet, but she was breathing fast.
"I was going to speak to you, Mr. Fernandez," she went on after a moment. "I knocked at your door and a man opened it and dragged me in. He tried to—make love to me, and I shot him."
"Who was he?"
"I don't know. Someone I'd never met before."
"Where did you get the gun?"
"It was there on a table."
"In my room, eh?"
"Yes," she said, and snapped her teeth shut. But still her jaw trembled. She shivered in this airless place. Miss Peterson proffered a glass of water, and the girl took a sip. Mr. Fernandez looked at Miss Peterson over the girl's head; their eyes met.
"I'll be back in a moment," he said. "In the meantime, we'll say nothing about this to anybody, eh?"
He went out, closing the door behind him, and Miss Peterson sat down in a wicker chair, stretching out her long legs and crossing her ankles.
"I didn't know the wind could be so bad," said Cecily.
"It can be worse than this," said Miss Peterson.
"Will it last long?"
"It will seem long," said Miss Peterson.
There was a moment's silence.
"Just one shot?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Yes," Cecily answered.
"Then maybe you didn't kill him."
"I did. I know I did."
Miss Peterson clasped her hands behind her head, and gazed before her at nothing.
"Well, let's hope for the best," she said. "Let's hope the police believe your story."
There was a moment's silence.
"Do you mean that you don't believe my story?" Cecily asked with a sledge-hammer directness.
"That's right," said Miss Peterson. "I don't."
"You don't?" Cecily repeated. "But—why? What is it you don't believe?"
"Well..." said Miss Peterson, "you said you were dragged into Mr. Fernandez's room by an unknown man. He attacked you, and you found a gun lying on the table, and you fired one shot, and you killed him. If I were you, I shouldn't give the police that story."
"You mean—" Cecily began, and stopped short. One of the old ladies was trying to open the glass doors, a spare and very straight old lady in a white blouse and a long black skirt, and a broad belt about her neat waist-Her gray hair was done in two hard little rolls up from the temples, giving her an alert air. She rattled the door handle furiously in a sort of convulsion of annoyance.
"Mrs. Boucher," said Cecily. "She hates me."
"You'll remember not to say anything, won't you?" said Miss Peterson, rising. She looked at Cecily then, and the girl looked back at her, her strange, pale eyes brilliant. "All right!" she said.
Miss Peterson tried to open the doors from inside, but the old lady kept on twisting at the handle. The doors burst open suddenly, and Mrs. Boucher rushed forward against Miss Peterson.
"I want to go up to my room," she said.
"Certainly, Mrs. Boucher," said Miss Peterson, a little surprised at so ordinary a request after such an energetic struggle.
"Well, it seems that the lift's not working," said Mrs. Boucher, indignantly. "I can't walk up five flights of stairs at my time of life. And I want to go to my room. It's time for me to take my pill, and I want to write a letter. I want to go up at once!"
In the absence of Mr. Fernandez, Miss Peterson felt obliged to cope with this.
"I think we can arrange that, Mrs. Boucher," she said. "If you'll come back into the lounge, I'll see..."
She closed the glass doors as they went out, and glancing over her shoulder, she saw Cecily in her theatrical uniform, standing in there as if in a glass cage. The other guests still sat in the lounge, with three oil lamps on tables; they were silent now, in a haze of tobacco smoke. There were none of the boys about, and she borrowed a flashlight from the Major, and went out to the kitchen in search of them.
The kitchen presented an extraordinary appearance. A big room lit by two oil lamps, it was crowded with people sitting and standing; an old Negress was on her knees before a chair. "Oh, Lawd! Take away this wraf!" she chanted. "You got some good an' faithful people here, oh, Lawd!"
Miss Peterson had a few words with the cook, a thin and sorrowful man with gold earrings, standing before the big stove in a heat that was beyond belief. He was attending to his business.
"Maybe the end of all things," he said, stirring a red sauce.
"I want two good strong boys, to carry Mrs. Boucher up to her room," she said; and the cook called two for her. They were, oddly enough, enchanted by the proposal; they found it humorous. "But you mustn't laugh!" Miss Peterson said.
"She goin' to ride up in she chair like the great golden idol!" said one of them, bent double with laughter.
"If you drop she," said the cook, "going to be calamity."
"But you must stop laughing," said Miss Peterson.
The old lady accepted the arrangement in a matter-of-fact spirit. "I hope you're quite sure the boys haven't been drinking," was all she said.
Miss Peterson picked out a wicker arm-chair, a light chair, and the old lady was light; the boys lifted her without any difficulty, and Miss Peterson went ahead of them with a hurricane lantern. In his modern hotel Mr. Fernandez had a modern fireproof staircase of stone, all enclosed, with a heavy door on each landing. And somehow this staircase caught and held the noise of the wind in a great, steady rushing roar; it pressed against the ears, it confused and almost stunned the little party mounting by the light of the lantern.
When they reached the fifth floor, Miss Peterson opened the door into the corridor, the boys set down the chair and the old lady rose. "Thank you!" she said, and set off briskly. Miss Peterson followed her to light her way; she left her in her room with a lamp lighted and everything very neat, and a vase of flowers, dead as if smothered. The boys had gone; as Miss Peterson returned to the enclosed stairs she could hear their voices from below, muffled by the roar of the wind; they were in complete darkness, and looking down, she saw a little light flash as a match was struck. The flame went out, and the voices were silent, the wind obliterated the sound of their footsteps. She went on, went fast, anxious to get out of this gloomy cavern.
A frightful yell came up to her, and she stopped with a sharp intake of the breath. For of all the sounds in the world, she most feared and dreaded a human voice screaming. Another yell came. "Oh, ma sweet Lawd!"
"What's the matter?" she called, holding out the lantern and looking down. She could see nothing, she could hear nothing but that eternal hollow roar of the wind. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"
There was no sense in going back up the stairs again, she thought. No one there who'd be any help. There's no other way down but this. And she went on down the stairs. She went half sideways, keeping close to the wall, moving the lantern so that she could see above and below her. As she drew near the next landing she stopped for a moment. I hope that door won't open, very slowly, she thought. She went on past the door. She had to go on down, to see what had happened to the boys, and to get out of this tomb.
I'd be very glad to see Carlos Fernandez just now, she thought.
She had lost track of the floors now. She didn't know where the boys had been when that yell came; she wouldn't know when she came to that door. I hope I won't go too far and come out in some sort of cellar, she thought. I hope there's plenty of oil in the lantern. This is the way it is in a nightmare. You go on, and on, and on, downstairs like this, and after a while, you try to run...
Nerves, that's all. This weather, with the glass so low... After all, what does this amount to? I'm going down the stairs, in a hotel, and there's a gale blowing, and two colored boys yelled.
But there's a dead man somewhere. A murdered man.
And what of it? A dead man is one man we don't have to worry about. If... She stopped short, because a door was opening. Slowly. She was two steps above it, and she waited with her back to the wall, holding the lantern steady.
A round white circle of light from a flashlight played on the wall; the door opened wider. "Who's that?" she asked.
"My dear girl..." said Mr. Fernandez. "Where the devil have you been?"
He came toward her, and the heavy door began to close very slowly after him. He laid his hand on her shoulder, looking at her with a smile. In the light of the lantern, his dark face had a copper tinge, his lips looked very red, his teeth very white; there was an air of gaiety about him.
"I was worried," he said. "Those fool boys came running down to the kitchen with some crazy story about seeing the Devil—"
"The Devil?" said Miss Peterson.
"You know the sort of thing," he said. "And you didn't come along... I was getting damn worried. I was afraid you'd slipped, fallen in the dark."
"I didn't hurry," she said.
"Come and have a drink?" he said, and began to push open the heavy door. Over his shoulder she could see the desk, and a young man sitting at the cashier's window, with the light of a green-shaded lamp on his bent fair head. He glanced up, and she saw his face, a wide mouth, a blunt nose; a sort of Pierrot face, half rueful, and half merry.
"Mr. Fernandez..." said Miss Peterson. "About the man in your room?"
He let the door go, and it began to close by itself.
"That?" he said. "Well, I went up to my room. The door was locked, of course. All the doors lock automatically. Well, I opened the door—" He made a gesture with his wrist. "I went in. All right! There's nothing there. No man. No gun. Nothing."
"Nothing?" she repeated.
"Absolutely nothing. Are you surprised? Did you believe the girl's tale?"
"You don't think there's any truth at all in it?"
"Not a word," he said.
No, thought Miss Peterson. That won't do. Cecily wasn't putting on an act. Something certainly happened. "Did you tell Cecily you didn't find anything?" she asked.
"Certainly! I went to her at once. My dear girl, I said, I've looked in my room, and I can't find any dead men. She sat there looking at me with those big, cat's eyes, and never said a word."
"Do you think you convinced her, Mr. Fernandez, that she'd made a mistake?"
"I don't know about that," he said. "I don't care. I said to her, if you're not satisfied, then later on, when the telephone is working again, call the police if you like. Tell them this little story. By all means."
"Is she going to do that?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," he said again. "Now let's go and have a drink, eh?"
She made no demur, and they went out through the door. The guests were still sitting in the lounge, as they had been for ever and ever.
"I've ordered tea to be served to them," said Mr. Fernandez. "Also to the two ladies upstairs in their rooms."
As they passed the desk, Miss Peterson glanced sidelong at the young man, and he looked straight at her with an odd smile; a mocking smile, she thought.
"Is your clerk an American?" she asked Mr. Fernandez.
He was struggling to close the glass doors; he got them closed at last.
"I must tell you about that lad," he said. "Sit down, dear lady. What will you have to drink?"
"Nothing, thanks," she said. "Do you know, I think the wind is letting up."
He turned his head alertly; they both listened. The hollow spinning roar went on, and that savage pounding of the surf; but a high whistling note that was like the shriek of a Fury, was gone.
"I believe you're right—as always," he said, and offered her a cigarette; he bent to light it for her, his eyes smiled into hers. Very debonair, he was.
"Six months ago I was in Havana," he said. "That's my favorite place to take a holiday. You know Havana? Little Paris... Well, I was in a bar, having a drink, when somebody reached for the package of American cigarettes I'd laid down beside me. I caught hold of this fellow's wrist, and he laughed. He apologized. Said he was tired of the native cigarettes. There was something about him... He was down and out, all right, jacket all buttoned up, and no shirt, pair of tennis shoes all coming to pieces. But there was something... I offered him one of the cigarettes and a drink, and we got into a little conversation. He told me a wonderful tale, which I certainly didn't believe. But I took a liking to him. I thought he'd be an asset to my new hotel; and I brought him back with me."
"How about his passport?" asked Miss Peterson.
"You always come right to the point," he said. "I never saw such a woman. He had an American passport, all right. For Albert Jeffrey, aged forty. He said he'd come down with one of those tours, and that he'd lost his money and his luggage in a poker game."
"He's young-looking for forty..." she observed.
"He is, isn't he?" Mr. Fernandez agreed. "And he seems to have grown a little since he got his passport. Two inches, I'd say." He smiled. "Still, nobody bothered much about the passport, and I don't either. If there's something in his past, some little difficulty—very well. I was glad to give him a chance. It's worked out very well, too."
"I see..." said Miss Peterson, and smiled a little herself. She thought that Mr. Fernandez would know very well how to take the fullest advantage of any 'little difficulty' in an employee's past. But about taking a chance...? I don't know how far he'd go, she thought. Or how far he has gone.
Because, though she had not entirely believed Cecily's story, she did not believe his story, either. Something has happened, she thought. Something bad.
The wind was undoubtedly moderating; it came fitfully now; the rain would come rattling against the boards and then withdraw, and the heavy artillery of the sea would advance, shaking the earth.
"It may be just a lull," said Mr. Fernandez. "In that case of course, it will come back from the opposite quarter, and possibly worse than ever. But I don't think so. I think it's missed us this time. We—" He stopped. "What's that?" he asked.
It was music; somebody was playing the piano. He sprang to his feet and wrenched open the glass doors, and a Chopin mazurka came to them, loud, very brilliant.
"No—diga!" he said, appalled. "No! This is too much!"
He hastened along the passage to the lounge, and Miss Peterson went after him. There was Cecily at the piano, still in her cap and apron. The mazurka came to an end, and the Major clapped. But nobody else did. She began a waltz.
"Please stop her!" said Mr. Fernandez to Miss Peterson. "It's an outrage!"
"Don't you think that perhaps it might amuse the guests?" Miss Peterson asked.
"No! I don't! Did you ever see anything of the sort in a first-class hotel? And after what she told me... That girl is a devil! Please make her stop!"
Miss Peterson moved forward, and stopped, because above the virtuoso playing of the waltz she heard another sound; a hammering at the door.
"My God!" said Mr. Fernandez.
Miss Peterson went to the girl, and laid a hand on her shoulder; the music ceased and a little stream of fresh air blew in, exquisitely cool, as Mr. Fernandez opened the door to admit three men in rubber coats, two white men and a Negro. And two of them were police constables. Mr. Fernandez closed the door.
"Ah, Superintendent!" cried Mr. Fernandez. "Overtaken by the storm, eh? Well, it's an ill wind, eh...?"
He was too genial. And the man he was speaking to would notice that, Miss Peterson thought. He looked like a man who would notice everything; a slender, almost slight man with dark hair growing a little gray, a big bony nose, and small deep-set blue eyes.
"Quite!" he said civilly enough. "I'd like a word with you, if you please, Mr. Fernandez."
"This way, Superintendent. This way, please!"
Mr. Fernandez opened a door at the far side of the desk, he bowed the superintendent in before him, and the door closed.
"What's all this?" asked the Major. "Accident? Anything wrong?"
"I could not say, sah," answered the negro constable.
In her heart, Miss Peterson echoed the Major's question. What's all this? Something of grave importance to bring out a police superintendent in this weather... She started nervously at the sound of stirring chords on the piano; the opening of Weber's Invitation to the Waltz.
"Don't!" she said.
But Cecily went on until Miss Peterson took her right wrist and raised her hand from the keyboard. The superintendent had come out and stood beside them.
"Will you ladies be kind enough to step into the office?" he said.
Cecily rose, and they followed him into a small room, hot as an oven, furnished with a flat-topped desk, a swivel chair, a safe, a glass-fronted bookcase, and two fancy armchairs with green plush seats. Mr. Fernandez stood waiting to receive them.
"Miss Peterson," he said, "allow me to introduce Superintendent Losee. Superintendent, this is Miss Peterson, our new hostess, and a great acquisition to my little hotel."
He was overdoing it. He was too flowery, his smile was too brilliant.
"Thank you," said the superintendent, and glanced toward Cecily.
"This is Miss Wilmot, Superintendent," said Mr. Fernandez. "I'm afraid she's the only one who can give you any information about this—killing. She's the only one who seems to know anything about it."
Cecily made a faint sound like a gasp; Miss Peterson, too, was startled by this sudden attack, and by the venom in his tone.
"You're not obliged to answer any questions," said Losee to everyone in general. "It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be written down and may be subsequently used in evidence against you. Will you be seated, ladies?"
They sat down in the green-seated armchairs, Losee took the swivel chair, Mr. Fernandez sat on the edge of the desk, smoking a cigarette. He looked very debonair in his white suit; he looked too debonair, even arrogant. And Losee and his constable looked very businesslike.
Well, something's happened, she thought. I wish they'd get on with it. She glanced about the little office, and on the top of the bookcase, directly behind the superintendent's head, she caught sight of a stuffed baby alligator dressed in a constable's uniform, helmet with chin-strap, belt and so on, leaning back a little to rest upon its varnished tail. She stared and stared at it, half hypnotized by this grotesquerie.
"We have received information," said Losee, in his level voice, "that a murder has been committed on these premises.
"May I ask—how you received information, Superintendent?" Mr. Fernandez asked.
"We'll go into that presently," said Losee. "It is the duty of anyone having any information to communicate the information to the police."
"Miss Wilmot is the only one with any information," said Mr. Fernandez.
Cecily looked up at him with her clear pale eyes, and he looked back at her; it was a long and deadly glance that they exchanged.
She took time to answer.
"I killed a man," said Cecily briefly.
"Cannon," said the-superintendent, and the constable brought out a notebook and a pencil.
"Do you wish to make a statement, Miss Wilmot?"
"I killed a man. I shot him—in self-defense."
"Where did this take place, Miss Wilmot?"
She was slow to answer that.
"In one of the rooms upstairs," she said at last. "I don't know which."
Mr. Fernandez looked at her quickly.
"On what floor, Miss Wilmot?" the superintendent asked.
"I'm not sure," she answered.
"You will save everyone—yourself included—considerable time and trouble, if you give me some idea—"
"I don't know," she said.
"Will you relate the circumstances which led up to this occurrence?"
"I was coming down from my room on the top floor," said Cecily. "I thought I'd stop and ask Miss Peterson if there were any orders for me. I was going along the hall—"
"On what floor is Miss Peterson's room?"
"The second."
"You were on the second floor, then?"
"I don't know. The lights were all out. I only had a flashlight. It might have been another floor."
"Very well. Continue, please."
"I saw an open door and a light inside. When I went there, a man dragged me inside. He attacked me: There was a gun lying on a table, and I picked it up and shot him."
"What did you do then?"
"I came downstairs and told Mr. Fernandez and Miss Peterson."
"How many flights of stairs did you go down?"
"I don't remember."
"What happened when you fired the shot?"
"The man fell down."
"What reason did you have for believing him dead?"
"He looked dead," said Cecily. "I spoke to him. I touched him. He was dead."
"Mr. Fernandez," said the superintendent, "can you supply Constable Cannon with a lantern? Thank you! We'll have to make a search of the premises."
"Some of the rooms are occupied," said Mr. Fernandez. "I hope you won't feel it necessary to disturb any of the guests, Superintendent."
"I hope not," said the superintendent. "Miss Wilmot, I'll ask you to come with us. You have a passkey, Mr. Fernandez?"
"Oh, yes. Certainly. But I'd better come too. I can tell you what rooms are occupied."
"Quite!" said the superintendent. "And Miss Peterson as well, if you please."
He looked at Miss Peterson; for the first time, their eyes met. And it seemed to her that his small, deep-set, unwinking eyes were a little like the alligator's.
THEY went in a procession past the desk, where Alfred Jeffrey still sat; Mr. Fernandez opened the door to the staircase and they began to mount, Constable Cannon going first with the lantern.
I don't like these stairs, Miss Peterson thought. The wind was still loud here; their shadows were monstrous on the stone walls. Nobody said a word. We're going with a lantern to look for a body, she thought. Why does he want me along? What does he think? What information has he got, and where did he get it from?
Mr. Fernandez opened the door on the first landing.
"In what part of the corridor was the room you entered, Miss Wilmot?" asked the superintendent.
"I don't remember," she said.
"Then we'll begin here," he said.
"Allow me!" said Mr. Fernandez, and approached the door facing the staircase; he opened it with a flourish, and Miss Peterson saw him smile, vividly.
The light of the lantern showed a neat and somewhat desolate little room. Losee entered, looked in the big wardrobe, he opened the door of the bathroom. They went on to the next room, and it was the same. They turned the corner into the main corridor.
"This," said Mr. Fernandez, "is Miss Peterson's room."
"Sorry, Miss Peterson," said Losee. But he looked in there, in her wardrobe, in her bathroom. He was going to look in every room; this was going on for ever and ever.
"This is Mrs. Barley's room," said Mr. Fernandez. "She may be in there. My housekeeper, you know."
He knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again; then he unlocked the door. A candle burned in there, and by its light they could see Mrs. Barley lying on the bed, her face flushed, her gray hair disordered. She was snoring with her mouth open, and there was a bottle of gin on the floor beside her. It was a distressing spectacle, at which Miss Peterson felt ashamed and unhappy. But undaunted, the superintendent looked into her wardrobe and her closet.
They finished with that floor, and they returned to the staircase. As Mr. Fernandez opened the door, a gay faraway voice called from below. "Ahoy, there; me hearties!"
"Come up, Doctor!" said the superintendent; and they stood waiting while a man with a flashlight mounted quickly into the ring of lantern light. He was a tall man, very thin, long-legged, moving springily with bent knees; he had cropped white hair, and a brick-red face and a meaningless smile.
"Dr. Tinker," the superintendent announced, and Mr. Fernandez shook hands with him. "Glad to see you, Doctor," he said.
"Where's your corpse?" the doctor asked cheerfully. "Oh, still hunting? I had a time getting here. Trees down, wires down. We may have some more corpses. But the worst of it's over. Oh, yes. Glass is rising."
Mr. Fernandez opened the door on the second landing.
"My little suite is on this floor, Superintendent," he said. "Perhaps you'd like to look at that first?"
"We'll take the rooms in order, thank you," said the superintendent; and once more Mr. Fernandez unlocked and opened a door.
But this time it was different.
"My God!" cried Mr. Fernandez.
No one else made a sound. The light of a lantern showed a bald little man lying on his back, his eyes wide open, a pinched look about his hooked nose. He wore a singlet, and dirty white duck trousers; his heels were together and the toes of his heavy-soled shoes were turned out at right angles; his bare arms were straight at his sides.
"My—God!" said Mr. Fernandez again.
They all stood in a group in the doorway, Constable Cannon holding out the lantern so that they could see what was there.
"Can anybody identify this man?" asked the superintendent.
"That's the one!" said Cecily instantly. "That's the man I shot."
The doctor turned to look at her.
"Very well," said Losee. "Now then, kindly go down to the office and wait, Miss Wilmot. Miss Peterson and Mr. Fernandez too, if you please. Constable Cannon will accompany you."
The doctor moved forward, the superintendent took the lantern and closed the door, and the four others were left in darkness. But Mr. Fernandez and the constable both brought out flashlights; Cannon went first, holding his behind him, like a movie usher. After him came Cecily alone; as he illumined the steps, her foot in a gleaming high-heeled pump would appear. Mr. Fernandez took Miss Peterson by the arm, in a grip a little too tight. When I came down here before, she thought, that poor little bald man must have been lying there in that room, close to the staircase... What made those boys yell? The Devil, Fernandez said. Maybe...
They went past the desk where Alfred Jeffrey was still working; the people in the lounge were still there, waiting. They went into the stifling little office, and Cannon shut the door and stood before it. Now Mr. Fernandez was sitting in the swivel chair with the alligator constable behind him. The great wind still rushed at the walls.
"Couldn't we have some air?" Cecily asked.
"Presently," said Mr. Fernandez, without interest.
The door opened, and Losee and the constable entered. Mr. Fernandez rose. "Take this chair, Superintendent!"
"No. No... Don't move, Mr. Fernandez."
"I insist..."
So Losee sat again in the swivel chair, and Mr. Fernandez sat on the edge of the desk.
"Miss Wilmot," said the superintendent. "I'll ask you to repeat your account of the occurrence."
"You mean—all over again?"
"If you please."
"I was going along the hall—"
"Can you remember now which floor?"
"No," she said. "I'm sorry, but I can't. I saw a room with a light in it, and I thought it might be Miss Peterson's room—"
"You don't know which Miss Peterson's room is, Miss Wilmot?"
"Yes. Yes, I know. But the halls were dark. I was mixed up. I knocked, and a man pulled me in—"
"Will you describe the man?"
"It was that one. The one you saw."
"You're positive of that?"
"Yes," she said. "That was the one."
"Continue, please."
"He—put his arm around me. He wouldn't let me go. I struggled with him. Then I saw a little gun lying on a table, and I picked it up, and I shot him."
"Where was the man when you shot him?"
"Standing there."
"Then you had escaped from him?"
"For the moment. But he was between me and the door. He started to come at me again. I told him to stop. And when he kept on coming, I shot at him."
"What happened then, Miss Wilmot?"
"He fell."
"What was your aim when you fired this shot?"
"I didn't aim exactly. I just wanted to stop him."
"After the man fell, what did you do?"
"But I told you. I came down and told Mr. Fernandez and Miss Peterson."
"After how long an interval?"
"Oh, only a moment."
"What would you consider a moment?"
"I came down right away."
"Miss Wilmot, did you make a telephone call to the police station at two thirty-eight?"
"No," she said, staring at him. "No, I didn't."
"At two-thirty-eight, a call was received by Sergeant Brown. This call asked for police protection. According to the sergeant the call was made by a woman. 'Please send a policeman here. I'm afraid there's been a murder.'"
"I didn't say that. I didn't ring up anybody."
"This call was made just before the telephone service was disrupted. Approximately two hours before you notified Mr. Fernandez of this shooting."
"I didn't make the call."
"Were you aware of the presence of the deceased in the hotel before you confronted him in the room on the third floor?"
"No."
"Miss Wilmot," he said, "I'm going to ask Constable Cannon to read aloud to you the questions I have asked you, and the answers you have given. Go ahead, Cannon."
In a gentle sing-song voice Cannon read his notes, and Miss Peterson listened with uneasiness. The girl's lying, she thought. I can't tell which part of her story is a lie, but maybe the superintendent can.
"Miss Wilmot," he said, "do you wish to reconsider any of the answers you have given?"
"No, I don't!" she said.
"You wish it to go on record that you shot this man, and that he then fell to the ground?"
"Yes."
"Very well," he said. "I shall be obliged to place you under arrest, and subsequently to charge you with homicide. You may take with you a few articles—"
"Take...?" Cecily repeated. "But you're not—? I don't have to go—to prison, do I?"
"You are under arrest, Miss Wilmot, for shooting and killing un unknown person on these premises—"
The girl rose, her eyes fixed on his face.
"But it was in self-defense!" she said. "That's not murder."
"Miss Wilmot," said the superintendent, "that man was shot in the back."
THERE was a complete silence.
"Kindly get your things together," said the superintendent.
"May I go upstairs with her, Superintendent?" asked Miss Peterson.
"I'm sorry, but that's not possible. Constable Cannon will accompany Miss Wilmot to her door, and wait for her."
Miss Peterson rose and held out her hand to the girl.
"Take it easy!" she said.
But Cecily did not look like one who took anything easy. Her beautiful, narrow face had a look of proud scorn; the little frilled cap gave her, Miss Peterson thought, a Marie Antoinette air. Her fingers closed tight on Miss Peterson's.
"Thank you!" she said.
Cannon opened the door, she went out with her head high; and he followed her. Mr. Fernandez was lighting a cigarette.
"Superintendent," said Miss Peterson, sweet as honey, "doesn't the fact that the man was shot in the back invalidate her story completely?"
"Miss Peterson," he answered, "that young woman has stated three times that she killed this man."
"I thought the police were a little distrustful about confessions."
"Quite!" he said. "It's not at all unusual for people to confess to crimes they've nothing to do with. But this case has certain elements... This young woman has had ample opportunity to commit the crime, and she doesn't seem at all the hysterical type. On the contrary. She was playing the piano when I arrived here."
Miss Peterson believed in the maxim live and let live. But for her, that meant a little more than keeping herself alive—which she did very efficiently. She was often willing to go to considerable trouble in helping other people keep alive. She had a fairly good idea of what the prison in Riquezas would be like, and how it would be there for a young white girl.
And she had an extremely good idea, based upon experience, of what could be done in a place like Riquezas by influence. Not by bribery, but purely by prestige. Which Mr. Fernandez had. She looked at him, and he raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
"Superintendent," she said, "if bail could be arranged...?"
"Out of the question, Miss Peterson, in a homicide case. Except in most unusual circumstances."
"But self-defense...?"
"Shooting a man in the back doesn't give the impression of self-defense."
"He may have whirled around. She may have lost her head a little—been panic-stricken."
"Miss Peterson," said the superintendent, "you're wasting your time. We received a telephone call asking for police protection, and informing us that a murder had been committed. As soon as the weather allowed, we came here; and we found that a murder had been committed. A young woman on the premises voluntarily confessed to the shooting."
"She's very young," said Miss Peterson.
"Her age, according to her passport, is twenty-one," said the superintendent.
Miss Peterson waited for a moment.
"Perhaps you'll be kind enough to give me the name of a good lawyer?" she asked. "I'd like to employ someone at once for Miss Wilmot."
"It's not within my province to recommend lawyers," said the superintendent. And in spite of his amiable and polite manner, she could see that he was growing more and more angry. "Our jail is completely modern, and very well administered," he said, and paused; and then said with suppressed fury, "The girl isn't going to a torture chamber, y'know."
No, I don't know, thought Miss Peterson. A wild gazelle in jail... But I'll have to keep quiet now. I'm irritating the superintendent. And Fernandez is not going to lift a finger to help the girl; that's plain enough.
"Shall I go into the lounge and see if everyone's all right?" she asked.
"I must ask you to remain here," said the superintendent. "When Cannon returns, I'd like a statement from you. I shall have to question everyone on the premises, naturally."
"Naturally," Mr. Fernandez repeated. "Well... You'll have my fullest co-operation, Superintendent." He smiled wryly. "A fine opening for my new hotel, eh? This fellow...off some ship, don't you think?"
"What ship do you suggest?" asked the superintendent.
"I hear that a schooner put in here," said Mr. Fernandez.
"I haven't enough facts yet," said Losee. "The very brief examination I made didn't yield anything much. No papers, nothing."
"My theory is that he's off some ship. He looks like a sailor, a deckhand. He came ashore, and when the storm broke, he wandered in here. He could have got in very easily without being noticed. There's a side entrance, for example... He gets in, he goes around to see what he can pick up."
"All your bedroom doors lock automatically?"
"Yes, that's a fact."
"How would it be possible for anyone to enter one of the rooms?"
"Locks can be picked, eh?"
"Now, about your staff, Mr. Fernandez. How many people do you employ?"
"God knows!" said Mr. Fernandez. "You know how it is here. I have on my pay roll a cook and a helper, three waiters, three chambermaids, five boys, one clerk. A skeleton staff until the season begins. But they have their relations and their friends hanging around."
"Your housekeeper, now. What can you tell me about her?"
"A fine woman," said Mr. Fernandez. "I had her in the old hotel, y'know. A very fine woman, capable, trustworthy. An Englishwoman. The only thing is, she has this little weakness—You understand."
"You mean she drinks?"
"From time to time. But it doesn't interfere with her work. Only from time to time, and only at night. This storm would get on her nerves."
"Quite. This Miss Wilmot, now?"
"Yes?"
"Did she have any love affair, to your knowledge?"
"She didn't. And if she did, it would have been to my knowledge. I assure you of that. I know very well what goes on in my hotel. No love affairs, no letters. Not one single letter since she came here."
"What do you know about her antecedents?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. She came here on a cruise ship. She came to my hotel, and she asked me for a job. Well, I thought, why not? I thought, here's a girl of education, good manners, very musical. Why not? She had a passport; everything in order. And her conduct's been above reproach, except—"
"Except?" said the superintendent.
"She's a little hot-tempered. High-spirited."
"Any instances of violence?"
"Oh, no!" said Mr. Fernandez. "A little hot-tempered, that's all. Impulsive. She's inclined to act without thinking." He was doing his best to close the prison gates upon the wild gazelle, and doing it deliberately.
"Did she ever, to your knowledge, possess or carry any weapons, Mr. Fernandez?"
Mr. Fernandez knocked the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray in the form of a scarlet lobster.
"No..." he said, "No." At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Constable Cannon appeared carrying a small suitcase. Cecily stood behind him. She had taken off the cap and apron, but she still wore the black dress and shoes and stockings, and she had a wide black straw hat on the back of her head. She had put on more lipstick; she looked superb, pale, beautiful and fierce.
"Have you a room that's not being used, Mr. Fernandez?" asked the superintendent. "The writing-room? Very well. Tell Humber to remain in the writing-room with Miss Wilmot, Cannon. I'll need you here."
"Au revoir, Cecily!" said Miss Peterson. "And remember—take it easy."
"Thank you..." said Cecily, and her clear eyes rested upon Miss Peterson's face for a moment.
That kid is frightened, thought Miss Peterson. It's a damn shame to let her go to jail, even if she gets out in a few days, even if she gets out tomorrow, it's too much.
"Now, Miss Peterson, if you please..." said the superintendent; and he began asking her questions. He wanted a detailed account of her movements since she had arrived at the hotel. He got it. He wanted a full account of Cecily's dramatic announcement.
"Quite. Did she appear agitated?"
"Very. Her teeth were chattering. She was badly upset. She told me what she told you—that the man had dragged her into a room, and that she shot him in self-defense."
"Do you recall any other details?"
Miss Peterson looked down at the floor with an air of serious concentration. She was making up her mind whether or not she would tell Losee what Cecily had said at first. That this shooting had taken place in Mr. Fernandez's room. Fernandez has got it coming to him, she thought. He threw Cecily to the wolves.
But Cecily herself didn't mention that to the superintendent, she thought. Mr. Fernandez may have persuaded her to keep quiet about it, or she may have some very good reason of her own. I might make matters worse by telling him.
"Do you recall any other details, Miss Peterson?" the superintendent repeated.
"No..." she said, slowly, deliberately giving herself a chance to 'recall' something later on, if she chose.
"Miss Peterson, before the removal of the body, I'll ask you to take another look at the deceased."
"But, Superintendent," Mr. Fernandez protested. "That's a very difficult ordeal for a young lady."
"There are a good many unpleasant details connected with any murder," said the superintendent.
"Miss Peterson's never been in Riquezas before," Mr. Fernandez went on. "She had no intention of coming now. She was on her way to Havana via New York when I met her on the ship, and offered her this position."
"Quite!" said Losee. "I'll ask you to hold yourself in readiness, Miss Peterson. And now, Mr. Fernandez, I'd like to interview your clerk—alone."
Mr. Fernandez rose.
"It won't be necessary to disturb the guests, will it?"
"I'll take your staff first," said Losee. "But if none of them is able to identify the body, I'll have to ask the guests."
"Not the ladies?" he cried. "But, Superintendent, they're not the sort of ladies who'd know a man like that! This is obviously what you might call a—an extraneous accident. The man doesn't belong here. He came in to shelter from the storm. Or possibly to steal. Some fellow off a ship."
"We'll investigate every possibility," said the superintendent. "You can count on that."
"Won't you try every other avenue, before you disturb the guests of the hotel?" Mr. Fernandez asked. "If you'd make inquiries as to whether anyone is missing from a ship—?"
"We shall use all reasonable discretion," said Losee, stiffly. It was high time to let him alone, and apparently Mr. Fernandez realized that.
"The matter couldn't be in more capable hands," he said, with a very un-English bow. "I'll send Jeffrey in, Superintendent. The rest of the staff is at your disposal."
He held open the door for Miss Peterson and followed her, closing the door.
"Now we're going to have a nice time," he said, wiping his face with his mauve silk handkerchief. "A nice time... When he starts asking those boys questions, he'll hear plenty. Devils, God knows what. Well...!" He shrugged his shoulders. "Can you do anything with Mrs. Barley?" he asked.
"I can try," she answered, dubiously.
"I could wring her neck," he said. "I have a nice staff, eh? I have that Cecily, I have Mrs. Barley... Now, if there's any little trouble about Jeffrey, that's all I need. You have a torch, eh? I'll send Jeffrey in, and then I'll have a talk with the guests. We must keep up the morale."
They looked at the guests. Tea had been served to them, very nicely, too, on little individual tables spread with pink linen cloths; they sat there in the light of the oil lamps, in the stifling heat, displaying the most admirable morale.
"I think I can give them a little air," said Mr. Fernandez. "Well! If you can get Mrs. Barley in shape to see the superintendent...? And while you're up there, you might look in on Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Boucher—see if they're all right."
They moved forward together, he stopped at the desk to speak to the clerk, and she went on to the stairs. She met the doctor coming down with the hurricane lantern, nimble as a grasshopper.
"Cheerio!" he said waving his hand.
Cheerio yourself, and see how you like it, thought Miss Peterson. I think I'll start at the top and work my way down. I'll see Mrs. Boucher first. And I'll never climb these stairs again. She was so tired, and hot, her legs ached, her temples throbbed, there was a feeling of pressure against her ear drums. The wind was still roaring by, and it seemed to her that the building shook from it. I hate these stairs, she thought, climbing up and up and up.
She knocked at Mrs. Boucher's door. "Come in!" said the old lady. And it was like entering a different world. A wonderful coziness prevailed; in her thin black dressing gown, the old lady sat at the little writing table with a shaded lamp on it, a tea-tray stood on a table; there were photographs in frames, and there was a big yellow cat lying in the armchair.
"I came to see if you wanted anything," said Miss Peterson.
"You shouldn't have come all the way up for that," said the old lady. "You look tired, child. Sit down and rest. Taffy, get out of that chair!"
The cat looked up at her, and closed one luminous green eye, and didn't stir. Miss Peterson picked him up, and sat down with him on her knees. The old lady glanced at her, and then went on writing her letter. This happened to be exactly what Miss Peterson needed. She stroked the cat with her fine expert hand, and she thought about things. It was the first chance she had had, the first moment of peace and quiet. There's too much monkey-business going on here, she thought. Things I don't like. For instance...
She thought about the things she didn't like, and she began to get a steadier view. With a sigh, she rose and put the cat back on the cushion.
"This was a nice little visit," she said.
"Come again!" said the old lady. "You're welcome at any time."
Miss Peterson returned to that eternal staircase, and went down feeling much rested. She counted the landings; she opened the door on the second landing, and went to Mrs. Fish's room. No coziness here; it was curiously untidy, and Mrs. Fish herself, still lying on the bed, looked wilted.
"How is the toothache, Mrs. Fish?" Miss Peterson asked.
"It's almost gone, thanks to you," said Mrs. Fish. "Do you know, the last time I had a toothache was in Guatemala in the jungle, and an old Indian woman cured it, by magic."
"That's very interesting," said Miss Peterson.
"I had a good many strange experiences, traveling around with my husband," said Mrs. Fish in her flat tired voice. "We went to Nicaragua, Venezuela, Brazil, Peru, Chile. Jungles, swamps, mountains... I've had fevers. I've been bitten by poisonous insects. It was all very picturesque."
"It must have been," said Miss Peterson, trying to imagine Mrs. Fish in a jungle.
"My husband was very adventurous," Mrs. Fish went on, and turned her head a little to look at that photograph of the Devil. "Quite out of the ordinary. I told you he was murdered, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did."
"I'm looking for his murderer," said Mrs. Fish. "That's really why I'm here."
"Here?" Miss Peterson repeated, startled. "But do you think he's here?"
"If he isn't here now, he's coming," said Mrs. Fish. "I've been looking for him a long, long time."
Miss Peterson looked down at the pale, limp little woman with a sort of dismay. It's not human, she thought, to say a thing like that, without any expression at all. It's crazy.
"But—do you know who the murderer is?" she asked.
"Yes—I do," said Mrs. Fish, still looking at the photograph.
"Have you told the police?"
"You see," Mrs. Fish explained, "I've spent so much time in places where there weren't any policemen, that I've got into the way of attending to things for myself."
"But this—" said Miss Peterson, "this isn't a thing you can attend to yourself."
Mrs. Fish said nothing to that.
She's out of her mind, Miss Peterson thought, and in a very dangerous way. Or if she isn't out of her mind, it's still worse. It's—ghastly.
"I'm sure the police here are very efficient," she said. "If you have any private information, Mrs. Fish, do take it to the police. It's always a mistake to try to handle things like that alone."
"No," said Mrs. Fish.
It was a rare thing for Miss Peterson to be at a loss, or at all irresolute. But she was now. Shall I try to draw her out? she asked herself. Shall I try to find out who she thinks is the murderer? And how she expects to 'attend' to things when she finds him? Or is this all just fantastic nonsense?
Mrs. Fish turned her eyes away from the photograph, and looked up at Miss Peterson.
"Is there any news?" she asked, with the first spark of interest she had shown.
"But—what sort of news?"
"Has anything happened?" asked Mrs. Fish. "Any accident?"
Well, there's a dead man on this floor, thought Miss Peterson. A murdered man, if that means anything to you.
"I mean anything about ships," said Mrs. Fish.
"I haven't heard anything about ships," said Miss Peterson.
She had to get out of here. The heat, the pressure against her ear drums, the sound of this flat voice, had suddenly become too much. She had to get away.
"I'll be back—" she began, when suddenly the lights came on; the chandelier and the bedside lamp in dazzling brilliance.
"Would you mind turning off that top light, please?" said Mrs. Fish closing her eyes.
Miss Peterson snapped off the switch, and went, closing the door after her. If the current's on, the elevator will be running, she thought, and I'm going to ride down to the next floor to see Mrs. Barley. Because I'm sick and tired of those stairs.
It was nice to see the corridor lighted. She rang for the elevator and waited, and it was very agreeable to hear it coming. The door rattled open; there was the boy in his uniform. Miss Peterson looked at him.
"You're one of the boys who carried Mrs. Boucher upstairs, aren't you?" she said.
"Yes, mistress. My name Howard, mistress."
"What was it you saw, Howard?" she asked.
"I do not understand, mistress."
"Was it a ghost?" she asked. "I was there on the stairs myself, behind you, and I thought I felt something."
"It was the Devil we see, mistress," he answered. "Oh, it was bad!"
"I've never seen the Devil," she said. "How did he look?"
"Oh, he was tall, mistress, tall as a tree, and he wear a white robe shining with fire. It was bad."
"A white robe? I didn't think the Devil wore white."
"He look anyhow he want, mistress. He can—"
The bell rang below, and a little red light showed in the car. Miss Peterson stepped into it, the door closed, the gate closed, and they started down. And then, out went the lights, the car stopped.
"Oh, Gawd!" moaned Howard. "What coming now?"
The Devil, probably, thought Miss Peterson, leaning against the wall of the car. Howard and the other boy saw the Devil, and Mrs. Fish has a photograph of him... And here I am, shut up in a little box, hanging in the air... All right! Let him come. I'm tired.
SHE turned on her flashlight to confront Howard. His face was a mask of anguish.
"Death in the house, mistress," he said. "Devil come to fetch he own."
He knows about the dead man then, thought Miss Peterson. Probably they all know by this time; and possibly they knew before we did. The Devil in a white robe, shining with fire... I'd like to know what it was they saw—who they saw.
"We cannot get out, mistress. Door will not open until we level with the floor."
"Mr. Fernandez will get us out," said she.
She was perfectly sure of that. She had complete confidence in Fernandez in all such matters. Combined with a very definite distrust of him in other matters. He would certainly get you out of an elevator that was stuck; he would, she thought, be the right man to have beside you in an earthquake, or a flood, or any such peril; he was resourceful, energetic and audacious.
But he would not forget his own interests. He'd save your life, in danger, she thought, but if anyone threatened his life, or his money, or his prestige, he'd... Well, what? What is he capable of? He did his best to make sure that poor kid went to jail, and he knew as well as I that she wasn't guilty. What else would he do? What else has he done?
Sabe dios! she said to herself with a sigh, leaning her broad shoulders against the wall. I'm tired. I don't seem to feel very well—but I think that's because I'm hungry. If I could have some dinner now, and a cup of coffee—a little cup of Brazilian coffee, very sweet...
"Devil can go where he like, mistress," said Howard, in a miserable, hollow voice. "He can pass through the air."
"He can't come here," she said, almost mechanically, because it was second nature to her to reassure people. "I have a charm."
"Charm too strong for Mister Devil?" he cried.
"That's it," said she; and he laughed.
"Mister Losee, he don't believe us see the Devil," he said, and laughed again. "Maybe some day Mister Losee meet him, heself."
The lights came on, and the car began to descend, slowly, as if floating. Miss Peterson got out at the second floor, and went along to Mrs. Barley's room. She knocked, but there was no answer; she knocked louder, very loudly. But still there was no answer.
I don't like my job, she thought, going into the corridor and ringing for the elevator. The lights were still on, and that was something. Up came the elevator, and Howard opened the door. "Will you get me a passkey?" she asked, and stood waiting, unhappy about Mrs. Barley. She's a damned nuisance, she thought. I want to get to my room and take a bath, and then I want my dinner. She waited and waited in the bright, airless corridor with a floor of some dark-red composition. The wind still blew and the rain still rattled against the boarded windows at the end of the hall, but no longer with ferocity.
Oh, hurry up! she said within herself to Howard; but it was a long time before she heard the elevator start upward; it stopped, the door rattled again, and young Jeffrey stepped out.
"Lock yourself out?" he asked cheerfully.
"No. It's for one of the other rooms," she said, and held out her hand for the key.
"I'll open the door for you."
"No, thanks," she said. "If you'll just let me have the key for a moment."
"That's against the law," he said. "It's a Fernandez statute that I'm never to give the passkey to anybody. Ever."
"It's only Mrs. Barley's door," she said.
"If you wouldn't mind advice from an old hand," he said. "I think Mrs. Barley'd better be let alone for a while."
"I know," said Miss Peterson. "But she can't be. The superintendent will want to see her."
"He did see her, didn't he?"
"Let's get on with it," Miss Peterson suggested, gently; and he went along the hall and unlocked a door. "Thank you!" said Miss Peterson, wanting him to go. But he stood with his back against the open door, looking into the room where the candle had burned down very low in the glass shade.
"Suppose I open the shutters?" said Jeffrey. "Our Mr. Fernandez is ordering all of them on this side of the house opened."
"Well, all right, thanks!" said Miss Peterson reluctantly, for her instinct was to protect the wretched Mrs. Barley from the blithe and mocking gaze of Alfred Jeffrey. As he crossed the room, she turned on the bedside lamp and blew out the candle. Mrs. Barley still lay there, flushed and disheveled; she still snored. Miss Peterson bent to pick up the bottle of gin from the floor; she put it away in a bureau drawer. Then she picked up a lacy white cotton sweater that lay on the floor by the bed, and something fell out of it with a thud. It was a small automatic.
She dropped the sweater back on top of it, and glanced toward Jeffrey who stood by the window. And she found him looking at her. The little gun was covered now, but she couldn't tell whether or not he had seen it. In any case it must not be touched. She sat down in a chair and waited until he got the heavy shutters unfastened; the blessed fresh air came in, and the loud pounding of the surf and the hiss of the falling rain.
"Thanks," she said. "And will you please send somebody up with a pot of coffee, good and strong, and hot?"
"With pleasure," he said. But still he didn't go. "Poor old Barley..." he said, looking at her. "A victim."
"Of what?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Of Fate, very likely," said Jeffrey. "She has a past, you know. She used to have a little hotel of her own, doing very well, so I've heard. But one night, when she'd had a little drop of something to comfort her, she accidentally set the place on fire. It burned to the ground with a frightful loss of life."
"How frightful?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Thousands," he said. "A holocaust of cockroaches."
"I see!" said Miss Peterson. "Will you ask them to send the coffee as soon as possible, please?"
"I don't think you like me," said Jeffrey.
"Give me time," said she.
He went away then, and Miss Peterson set to work to do what she could for Mrs. Barley. She bathed her face and her wrists with cold water; she kept on speaking to her by name, with a quiet insistence. "Mrs. Barley, try to answer me, will you? Mrs. Barley? Mrs. Barley? Mrs. Barley."
"Yes...?" said Mrs. Barley, thickly, without opening her eyes.
"Mrs. Barley. I'm Miss Peterson. The storm is passing, Mrs. Barley. If you'll sit up, you'll feel the breeze. That's the way!"
She helped Mrs. Barley to sit up and propped the pillows behind her. She waited a moment, then she said very quickly and clearly.
"There's been a murder here."
She had hoped to shock Mrs. Barley out of her semi-stupor, but it didn't work.
"Yes..." Mrs. Barley said, trying to keep her heavy eyes open.
"The police want to ask you some questions."
Tears began to trickle down Mrs. Barley's face; her long upper lip quivered piteously.
"The police...?" she said. "The police... I know... It all—it all happened before. The police... They said—crimiley—crimiley..."
"That's all over," said Miss Peterson, bathing her face.
"Crimiley—negli..." said Mrs. Barley, struggling miserably. "This time tried... Tried... Saw him—throw a match—on floor... I tried... But banged the door—in my face."
"One of the servants?"
"Prowler."
"A prowler here?"
"Prowler," said Mrs. Barley, weeping. "I tried. Resplons...responsi..."
"You're not responsible," said Miss Peterson. "Don't cry, Mrs. Barley. Just take it easy."
"I saw him... Dead as a doornail.... So I took... I took it..."
"The gun?"
"I took the glun... Then I—then I—"
It was painful to witness this. Her mind was clearing a little; but her tongue, her lips were beyond her control, and her tears, too.
"You took away the gun?" said Miss Peterson.
"Flon—floor..." Mrs. Barley said, with a frantic effort. "Tel—floor—"
"Telephone?"
"Tele-flon—police..."
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Barley gave a cry. "Don't worry," said Miss Peterson.
It was a colored boy with a pot of coffee and cup and saucer on a tray.
"Miss Wilmot ask if you will say farewell to she, mistress?" he said.
"Is she going now?"
"Yes, mistress."
She took the tray and set it down on the bedside table. "I'll be back in a moment," she said to Mrs. Barley. "In the meantime..." She poured a little coffee into the cup. "If you'd just sip this, you'll feel much better. I'll be back in a moment," she repeated.
She was sorry to leave Mrs. Barley just at this point, but there was no help for it. She rode down in the elevator with Howard, and came out into the lounge that was utterly transformed, pleasantly lit by little gold-shaded lamps, the electric fans all purring away, stirring the damp, fresh air. It was empty.
"Sup'intendent in Mr. Fernandez's office, mistress," Howard told her, and she hastened there. The office, too, was changed, with the window open and an emerald-shaded lamp glowing on the desk. The superintendent was there and Constable Cannon, and Mr. Fernandez, all standing, and Cecily standing among them. She turned quickly toward Miss Peterson, and in those clear, light eyes there was a strange look, of appeal, of dismay, of fear.
"Miss Wilmot asked to see you before she left," said the superintendent. "I granted this request."
"I only wanted to say good-by," said Cecily.
Miss Peterson held out her hand to the girl a little absently. "Superintendent," she said, "I've just been talking to Mrs. Barley, the housekeeper. I think you'd be interested. She was the one who called up the police."
"She...?" said Mr. Fernandez, with a start.
"I thought you'd like to talk to her. Before Miss Wilmot—leaves," said Miss Peterson.
"Very good," said the superintendent. "Presently."
"She has a gun there, Superintendent," said Miss Peterson. "A little automatic. You'd like to see that, I'm sure."
"Quite!" said Losee. "Cannon, you'll stop here with Miss Wilmot. Miss Peterson, I'll ask you to come up with me. You needn't bother, Mr. Fernandez."
"No bother!" said Mr. Fernandez. "Mrs. Barley would talk more if I was there. She's used to me, you know."
"Quite!" said the superintendent. "But I shan't need to trouble you just now, Mr. Fernandez."
Ja, ja, ja, don Carlos! You lost that move, thought Miss Peterson. And maybe you'll lose the next one, too. Maybe Cecily won't go to jail at all. She glanced at him and smiled, a slow wide smile that showed her even white teeth, and he raised both hands a little in a graceful and somehow rather touching gesture.
He walked with them to the elevator, he bowed them into it. "Oh, the key!" cried Miss Peterson.
"Mrs. Barley is locked in her room?" asked the superintendent.
"Oh, no! It's to save her the trouble of getting up," Miss Peterson explained, and got out of the elevator and went to the desk. There was nobody there; and she rang the bell standing on the counter. Out came a colored boy through a door next to Mr. Fernandez's office.
"Superintendent Losee wants the passkey," she said, and the boy gave it to her. They arrived at last before Mrs. Barley's door, and Miss Peterson knocked. No answer.
"Superintendent," she said, "will it be all right if I go in first? To—" She paused. "To prepare her?" she asked in a low, earnest voice. "She might not be fully dressed..."
She knew that would embarrass him. "Quite!" he said, and she unlocked the door and entered.
For a moment she stood motionless, completely at a loss. Then she stepped back into the corridor.
"I'm afraid," she said, "that Mrs. Barley isn't so well."
"Pardon me!" said Losee, and went past her into the room. The coffee tray had been pushed aside, it was balanced half over the edge of the table, making room for the bottle of gin that stood there, uncorked. Mrs. Barley was asleep again.
"I shan't get any information from this quarter," said Losee, affronted.
"She was better when I left her," said Miss Peterson.
Losee said nothing to that; he looked around the room. "I'd like to see this gun you mentioned," he said, "if you please."
"But—it's gone!" said Miss Peterson.
He closed the door and set to work searching the room; in the wardrobe, in the drawers, under the chair cushion.
"Be good enough to look in the bed," he said, and Miss Peterson did; she felt under the pillows, under Mrs. Barley, everywhere.
"Superintendent," she said, "somebody's been in here."
"What grounds have you for stating that?"
"The gun is gone," she said, "and the gin has come out again. I put it away in a drawer."
"Mrs. Barley may have brought out this bottle herself," he said. "She may have thrown the gun out of the window."
"I don't think she was capable of that, Superintendent."
"Have you had medical training, madam?" he asked. And there could be no doubt about his attitude.
"No, I haven't, Superintendent," she answered. "But I've seen people in her condition before this. I don't believe she could have got up and found that bottle so quickly. And I don't believe she'd throw the gun out of the window. She wanted to keep it, for some reason."
"You might give me a brief account of your conversation with Mrs. Barley," he said.
"She told me she'd seen a stranger—what she called a prowler—in the hotel."
"Where? In what part of the hotel?"
"She didn't say."
"When?"
"She didn't say. But it must have been before the telephone went dead, because she said she telephoned the police."
"Why did she telephone the police?"
"I suppose she was alarmed."
"Did she state that she was alarmed?"
"She couldn't speak very clearly, Superintendent. But that seemed to me the natural explanation."
"Did she state that she notified the police without telling anyone in the hotel of the presence of this prowler?"
"We didn't talk very long, Superintendent. But what she did say seemed to me so important that I wanted to let you know at once. I ordered coffee for her. If she'd drunk that, I'm pretty sure she'd have been able to give you an account..."
"Quite!" he said. "Well, we'll have to wait until this good lady is able to speak for herself." He put the cap on the gin bottle, and stood looking down at Mrs. Barley.
"I think I'll ask Doctor Tinker to take a look at this good lady," he said.
"Quite!" said Miss Peterson.
LEFT alone with Mrs. Barley, Miss Peterson sat down near the open window, and looked out into the darkness where the rain was falling softly. Somebody came in here, she thought. I suppose it could have been anybody. Mrs. Barley might possibly have been able to open the door if someone had knocked. But I don't think anybody knocked. I think somebody came in with a key. The key that belongs to this room, or a passkey. And I think it was Alfred Jeffrey. He has a passkey. He knew the gun was here. He saw where I put the bottle of gin. Well, the gun's gone, and the poor woman is thoroughly hors de combat, and Superintendent Losee has a pretty poor opinion of me.
There was a jaunty rat-ta-ta-tat on the door, and she opened it to admit the merry Doctor Tinker.
"What have we here?" he asked. "A spot of alcoholism?"
"I hope it's not serious," said Miss Peterson. "There doesn't seem to be so very much gone out of the bottle."
"Well, we'll see," he said. But he was looking at Miss Peterson instead of at Mrs. Barley. "Your first visit to Riquezas?" he asked.
"Yes, doctor," she answered, gentle as a dove.
"I hope you'll stay a long, long time," he said.
"Thank you, doctor."
"I've been to New York three or four times," he said. "American girls...oh boy!"
Miss Peterson looked absently past him and turned to Mrs. Barley. She saw his thin brows twitch and draw together as he took her pulse. He raised one of her eyelids, he got out his stethoscope and he listened for a long moment. When he straightened up he was no longer blithe.
"Is it serious?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Yes," he said briefly. "However..." He took up the telephone, he waited, he signaled impatiently. "Will you be good enough to go down and ask the superintendent to come up here please?" he said. "And will you call the hospital and tell them to send the ambulance at once? Thanks!"
Miss Peterson went quickly out of the room; she rang for the elevator and waited in the quiet corridor. Very much too quiet. Not long ago the prowler must have been moving through this corridor. And after him had come his killer. Mrs. Barley's killer, too?
The elevator was coming down; it stopped for her, and in it she found old Mrs. Boucher, in a long black crepe dress with a black velvet band around her neck. "Good evening!" she said, bowing her head majestically. "The storm has passed, and I hope things are running smoothly again."
"Oh, I think so," said Miss Peterson. Everything's all right, she thought, except that there's a dead man on the third floor, and Cecily's been arrested for killing him, and the housekeeper's in a bad state. Otherwise, everything's just dandy.
It was startling to hear gay music as the elevator stopped at the main floor; it was a paso doble. The lounge had altogether an unexpected air of festivity; they were all there, the middle-aged couple, old Mrs. Green, Mrs. Fish, and the Major; all dressed for the evening, too. A colored boy stood beside a big cabinet phonograph, holding a record in his hand, and Mr. Fernandez was moving about, light-footed and urbane, in white mess jacket and black tie.
Miss Peterson stood still, and he approached her. "Anything else?" he asked, and she told him while the paso doble went on. He listened to her with his head bent; his face was blank.
"Losee has gone," he said. "I'll ring him up. And I'll send immediately for the ambulance. In the meantime... If you could dress in fifteen minutes, d'you think...? I'd appreciate it if you could go into the dining room with the guests."
He looked up at her, and his black eyes seemed opaque; the lines from his nostrils to his mouth looked deeper.
"I want to divert their attention," he said. "While that carrion is taken away."
She did not like his words or his tone.
"I thought everyone would have to view the body," she said.
"The cook identified him," said Mr. Fernandez briefly. "Now... I don't want to hurry you, Miss Peterson, but if you'll be good enough to get ready..."
"The cook identified him?" she repeated. "Did he—?"
"If you please—" said he. "We can talk about this later."
"Certainly, Mr. Fernandez," she said.
She was downstairs again, well within the fifteen minutes, in a dark blue evening dress of dotted Swiss, with blue linen sandals; she went into the dining room, and the head waiter conducted her to a table, the worst table in the room, beside the screen that concealed the service door. Mr. Fernandez was not present.
It was a good dinner, and she ate steadily through all the courses. But she did not enjoy it. The hurricane had passed them by with no more than a flick of the tail, yet that oppression she had felt last night on the ship still lay upon her, heavier than ever. She was nervous, as cats are nervous; when somebody coughed, she turned her blond head with a twitch. She had a feeling of things going on around her; invisible and ominous things, while she sat imprisoned here.
What's happened about Mrs. Barley? she thought. And did they find the gun...? So the cook identified the body, did he? Well, who was it? I'd like to know. I'd like to know about the Devil in a white robe shining with fire. And Cecily... Shut up in a cell now? Mr. Fernandez could have stopped that. But he did all he could to make things worse.
She was very anxious to escape, to make some private inquiries. But before she had finished her dinner, the middle-aged couple came to her table, and asked her to make a fourth at bridge with them and the Major. This seemed too obviously part of her hostess duties to refuse, so she joined them in the lounge. It was not bridge they were after; it was inside information.
"Such a dreadful thing, isn't it?" said Mrs. Fredericks, the middle-aged lady. She was a bright-faced little soul in pince-nez, with a soft pink and white skin. "Fancy that tramp trying to murder poor Cecily!"
"Doesn't make sense to me," said her husband, square, solid, serious. "Mean to say if the police had believed that, they wouldn't have arrested the girl."
"Lot of fools," said the Major.
"No," said Mr. Fredericks. "No. I heard of Losee when he was in Ceylon. Did a very good job there. No. The probable explanation is, that the girl had a rendezvous with this fellow—brought him into the hotel—"
"That's an unwarrantable assumption on your part, sir!" said the Major, growing red.
"No," said Mr. Fredericks, still serious and equable. "It's sensible, that's all. In the first place, there aren't any tramps in an island like this. In the second place, if he was a tramp—as you call it—the last place he would go into would be a hotel. In the third place, if there'd been anything to support the girl's statement that she shot him in self-defense, she'd have been given the benefit of the doubt. They don't put a white woman in jail in a place like this unless it's unavoidable. No."
"You never heard of a policeman making a mistake?" the Major asked.
"Not often," said Mr. Fredericks. "No. I don't believe in this tramp theory. I'd be willing to wager anything you like, that the deceased came here for a purpose. A definite purpose."
"Good God!" said the Major. "Did you see this man, sir?"
"I did," said Mr. Fredericks. "I don't suggest that—if he had a rendezvous with the girl—it was necessarily connected with any love affair. He may have come to deliver a message. He may have come for the purpose of blackmailing her. Or someone else."
"Very well, sir!" said the Major, with triumph. "If your man came to blackmail the girl, you'll admit she was justified in shooting him."
"No," said the serious Mr. Fredericks. "Certainly not, though in considering the alleged identification of the deceased by the cook, Robert—"
"Why alleged?"
"It's completely unsupported by any other evidence, or presumptive evidence," said Mr. Fredericks. "The cook, Robert, alleges that he saw deceased last night on the North Shore, sitting by the roadside. He further alleges that he entered into conversation with him, and that deceased said that his name was Elfie, and that he was a seaman who had come here as a stowaway on some ship."
"Very well, sir! Very well!" the Major demanded. "Why shouldn't this story be true?"
"Several reasons," said Mr. Fredericks. "I don't credit—"
"And who are you, Sir?" cried the Major.
There was a moment's silence.
"Oh... Nobody in particular," said Mr. Fredericks, and wandered away. Miss Peterson looked after him with astonishment.
"Armchair strategist!" observed the Major, and went off himself.
"Well, we shan't have any bridge this evening," said Mrs. Fredericks with a cheerful little laugh. "I suppose I might as well fetch my book and read."
Mrs. Fish was reading a magazine with a lurid cover, a picture of a girl with large, crazy eyes and a sinister hand covering her mouth; old Mrs. Green was knitting, and old Mrs. Boucher was doing a cross-word puzzle. It seemed to Miss Peterson that they could now be left to their own devices while she went to inquire about Mrs. Barley.
She moved away toward the elevators, and as she was passing the desk, Alfred Jeffrey spoke to her.
"Miss Peterson," he said, "could you spare me five minutes?"
"Why, yes," she said. "I just want to see how Mrs. Barley's getting on, first."
"She's gone off in the ambulance," said Jeffrey. "She's going to die in the hospital. It is one of Mr. Fernandez's regulations that employees must not die on the premises. Anyone caught doing so, will be fined. Five hundred marks, lira, or kopecks."
"You have a cheerful disposition," Miss Peterson observed.
"It hides a breaking heart," he said. "Will you step into my parlor said the fly to the spider."
"I'm a spider?"
"I don't know what you are," he said. "But if you'll step in here...?"
He opened a door next to that of Mr. Fernandez's office, another office, smaller and hotter, and in every way inferior. "As a test—" he said, "will you take a drink with me?"
"A test of what?"
"I'm prohibited to touch alcohol while on duty. Reasonable enough, isn't it? I'm only on duty from eight A.M. to eleven or twelve at night. But I want a drink now. And if you'll take one with me, then I'll trust you. Then I'll know you're on our side."
"What side is that?" she asked.
"The Peepul. The workmen versus the Boss. I make a mean mint julep."
"A mint julep can be good," said Miss Peterson.
He went out of the little office and she sat down. I don't know...she thought. And I want to know. I'd be glad to have Jeffrey talk a lot. It might help me to make up my mind. About a lot of things. But the chief thing is, shall I tell Losee what Cecily actually said? That she killed the man in don Carlos' room. If I only knew why she changed her story... Did she find the man there, and deny it later? Or is there anything in Mr. Fredericks's theory of a rendezvous? Fredericks is another dark horse. An official manner, and an official mind. You can't mistake it. Blackmail...?
Jeffrey came in again, with two tall frosted glasses on a tray. All ready beforehand, thought Miss Peterson. He couldn't have made them so quickly. He sat down on the desk beside her, looking at her with his mocking smile.
"Here's to our alliance!" he said.
Miss Peterson took a sip, and it was a very, very powerful drink. Is that his idea? she thought. To get me talking?
"Are we going to be friends?" he asked.
"Who knows?" said she. "Friendship is a plant of slow growth—"
"As Confucius say!"
His gaiety was nervous; he was wary.
"Well!" he said. "Cecily's gone. And Mrs. Barley's gone. That's—convenient, isn't it?"
He was working around to something. Wary, adroit, but nervous.
"Convenient?" she repeated.
"Only I'm sorry for Cecily," he said.
"She's young," said Miss Peterson. "She can get over things."
"If she's tried for murder, she won't get over it."
"I don't know about that," said Miss Peterson. "I've met at least two people who'd been tried for murder, and they'd recovered." She glanced sidelong at Jeffrey, and went on. "One was a woman, too. She'd been tried for poisoning her husband. It's quite a long story, but it's unusual. If you'd like to hear it...?"
"I should," he said. "Only, right now, I'm afraid I haven't very much time. Don't you like your drink, Miss Peterson?"
"Fine!" she said, and took another sip, a very little one, looking at him over the rim of the glass.
He wiped his forehead and the palms of his hands with a handkerchief, like an acrobat getting ready for some difficult feat. He was very nervous.
"I suppose you've known Mr. Fernandez a long time?" he said.
"Not very long," said she.
"Quite a lad, isn't he?"
"He seems a good businessman."
"Yes, he's all of that," said Alfred Jeffrey. "Is your drink too sweet, Miss Peterson? Do I have to call you 'Miss Peterson?'"
"Yes," she said amiably. "I'm conservative."
She was not sure that patience was a virtue, but she knew it was a most valuable asset, and she saw that she had more of it than Alfred Jeffrey.
"Suppose I told you that Mr. Fernandez is not what you think?" he said.
"Well, you couldn't," she said, reasonably. "Because you don't know what I think he is."
"I could tell you something," he said. "If you'll give me your word not to say where you got the information."
"I couldn't do that," she said looking up at him again. "You seem very nice, but after all I don't know you. I don't know Mr. Fernandez, or anybody else here. I'm a stranger. Only—" She took up the glass again. "I'm very discreet," she said. "I'm not in the habit of talking too much."
His brows twitched in a frown of impatience. But he had to get over that. "I'm only asking you not to say where you got this information," he said.
He waited, but no reassurance came. "All right!" he said. "I'll trust you anyhow. There's a picture on the wall of our Mr. Fernandez's sitting-room. A very, very sweet picture of a young girl all in white, with a dove on her wrist. I think it's called 'Innocence,' or maybe it's 'Purity.' If you shift that picture, you'll see something interesting behind it."
"A secret panel?" she asked.
"A bullet-hole," said he.
She said nothing.
"And it's a bullet-hole that wasn't there yesterday. The picture's been moved to hide it."
"That's dramatic!" said Miss Peterson.
"Cecily's gone off to jail," he said. "I understand she's 'confessed.' And our Mr. Fernandez let her go. He didn't bother to mention that bullet-hole to the police."
"Mr. Jeffrey," said Miss Peterson, "why don't you tell the police about it?"
He looked down at the floor.
"Well, y'see," he said, "it would be pretty awkward for me. There's absolutely no legitimate reason for me to have gone into his room with a passkey. It puts me in a bad light."
"Wouldn't it put me in a bad light?" she asked.
"I thought—" he said. "With Barley out of the picture, I thought it would be a very natural thing if you fluttered around, doing some housekeeping kind of supervising tomorrow. Looking at the rooms and what not. You could notice that a picture was crooked and you could go to straighten it, and you could make this dramatic discovery."
"Why?" she asked.
"Why?" he repeated, surprised. "But—I mean to say—you want the police to know, don't you?"
"Why?" she asked again.
He was badly taken aback. "Well," he said, "it might be important for Cecily, y'know."
"Oh! Then do you think she's innocent?" Miss Peterson asked.
"I know damn well she's innocent!" he cried, losing all the mocking nonchalance. "And I know Fernandez is guilty as hell. He's—"
There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Fernandez entered, smiling.
"Oh! Here you are, Miss Peterson?" he said. "I've been looking for you. Sorry to disturb you, but I'd like to talk over some little business matters." He turned his head toward Jeffrey. "By the way," he said. "A curious thing happened. Extremely curious."
He and Jeffrey stood facing each other. And Miss Peterson suddenly thought of a bull fight she had seen, and the moment when the bull and the matador stood facing each other. Alfred Jeffrey might be the slim and wary matador, and Mr. Fernandez a fresh and vigorous bull, decorated with flowers. She remembered that, in the bull fight she had seen, the bull had killed the matador, as sometimes happens.
"I found this," said Mr. Fernandez, taking something out of his pocket. It was a passport, lying in his long narrow hand. Jeffrey rose, slowly, his eyes still fixed upon Mr. Fernandez. It seemed very hard for him to lower his gaze, to look at the passport. When he did look, his face grew white as paper; he reached back to rest one hand on the table.
"I found this," said Mr. Fernandez again. "Very curious, no?" He turned to Miss Peterson. "If you'll excuse us, dear lady?" he said, "A little business to discuss..." He held the door open for her as she went out.
SHE was very glad to get up to her own room... She was tired, she was unhappy; that indefinable and leaden oppression still lay upon her. Bad enough things had happened already, but she felt that worse was coming.
Part of this heavy dread was pure superstition, and she knew it. But part of it was logic and common sense. Things had to happen as a result of the poor little bald man's death. Things had to happen as a result of Mrs. Barley's strange relapse. And more things had to happen to Cecily.
I like that girl, she thought, lying relaxed in a hot bath. I dare say she's a fool, but that's the kind of fool I like. She's not a muddled, panic-stricken fool. She's a definite, vigorous, crashing sort of fool. What she's doing is probably a disastrous mistake, but at least she's doing it on purpose. She could shoot a man if it were necessary; but not in the back. No...
Then who did it? I don't know. The Devil, probably. The Devil in a white robe shining with fire. And Mrs. Fish has a photograph of the Devil in her room. Only she says her Devil was murdered...Mr. Fredericks and his rendezvous theory...
She gave a long sigh, and deliberately stopped thinking about all this. That was something she could do when she chose; just as she could sleep quietly and soundly when she got a chance. She came out of her bath, refreshed, in a pale-blue silk kimono with a delicate pattern of mauve wisteria; she sat down on the bed and brushed her long flaxen hair, yawning, and letting little pictures of charming scenes drift through her mind, the snow-capped Alps, and the Andes, and the ineffable peace of a Norwegian fjord; she made two smooth braids, and took from the chest of drawers a new jar of cold cream. She was unscrewing the top, when there was a knock at the door.
She got up and turned the key expecting to see a maid. But it was Mr. Fernandez.
"Dios!" he murmured.
"Yes, Mr. Fernandez?"
"But you are so beautiful..."
"Nice of you to say so."
"Well..." he said with a sigh. "I came to ask if we could have a little chat. I know you're tired, but I'm afraid it's necessary."
"I'll be ready in five minutes. Where? In the sun-deck?"
"In my little suite, if you don't mind. If you'll take the elevator up, and ask the boy which door..."
She understood this. He wished her to come openly, publicly, and he was quite right. This was the way to avoid gossip.
"I'll be there in five minutes, Mr. Fernandez."
"Do you have to put up that beautiful hair?" he asked.
"I think so, don't you?" she said. "If I went up in the elevator like this..."
"Yes," he agreed with another sigh, and went off.
She dressed quickly, and pinned up her hair, and in a very short time she was knocking at Mr. Fernandez's door. His sitting room was remarkable; there was a sofa upholstered in pink brocade, pink silk lamp shades; on a table she observed a white china swan filled with rosebuds. The effect was almost girlish. But Mr. Fernandez had none of the Anglo-Saxon male's anxiety to have a 'man's' room. He took it for granted that his masculinity was well established; he did not feel that he needed any pipes, and leather armchairs, any dogs.
"Sit down, dear lady," he said.
She had excellent eyesight, and she had a chance for a quick look at all four walls. There was no picture of Innocence, or Purity, or of a young girl with a dove. And that, she thought, meant that Mr. Fernandez had overheard most or all of the conversation between Jeffrey and herself.
He opened the door into the corridor, so that anyone could see them, Miss Peterson on the pink sofa, he in a fancy armchair. Also they could see anyone getting out of the elevator. He offered her a cigarette; she declined but he lit one for himself and smoked for a brief moment in silence.
"Well, my dear lady," he said, "I'm going to lay all my cards on the table. I'm going to be completely frank."
Miss Peterson put on the right look for that; grave and attentive.
"I'm on the spot," he said, briefly.
"You mean—?"
"I mean," he said, "I've got my back to the wall. I'm fighting for my life."
"Your life?"
"Dear lady," he said, "I have plenty of enemies, only looking for a chance to pull me down. One of my enemies is Willie Losee."
She was struck by the incongruity of that stern man being called Willie, but she dismissed that as frivolous.
"That's too bad!" she said.
"It's very bad," he said. "But while there is life, there is hope, no? Anyhow I won't go down without a good struggle. Be sure of that. I've been in a tight corner before this, and I've come out of it. Just two things are necessary. Courage. And even one loyal friend."
"I'm sure you have lots of friends, Mr. Fernandez."
"Oh, yes," he said. "There are people who would do anything for me—anything at all. But, unfortunately they're very stupid. What I want is someone who is loyal and intelligent."
And that means me, thought Miss Peterson. Well, I'm afraid my stock of loyalty is not high just now.
"I'm putting all my cards on the table," he said again. "I've sunk a great deal of money in this hotel, and at this moment, I have commitments elsewhere." He paused. "There are some very fine friends of mine engaged in a little enterprise in Venezuela. No sense in going into all the details; it's a business matter, but also a little political. Anyhow, I've lent a great deal of money there. So that at the moment, I'm—financially embarrassed. Only until my hotel is on its feet. For that reason, I'm going to advance the date of my gala opening. I'm going to have it this Saturday night."
"This Saturday?"
"I've just telephoned a note to the newspapers, and Jeffrey's typing a little note to the guests. We ought to get a nice little crowd of local people, anyhow. Also, one of the Marquis boats will be in."
This is not my affair, Miss Peterson said to herself; and probably she looked like that.
"You're thinking of this unpleasantness this evening?" he said. "That's just the reason, dear lady. I've got to counteract that. There's nothing more important to a hotel than atmosphere. This thing that happened made a very bad atmosphere—gloomy. It's got to be counteracted, and at once."
"But...Mr. Fernandez, suppose Cecily is tried for this shooting?"
"Yes?" he said.
"Don't you think that might—" She paused. "That might put a crimp in the gala opening?"
"No," he said. "In the first place, I don't believe it will come to that. The police will investigate, and they'll find that there's no evidence at all against the girl except her own hysterical confession. She can't even tell a straight story about it."
"Her story was very much straighter—when we first heard it, wasn't it?" said Miss Peterson.
He lit another cigarette. "That tale about finding the man in my room?" he said. "That was impossible. I asked her not to repeat that to Losee unless she was certain; and when she thought it over, she was not certain."
Miss Peterson was slow to anger, but she was growing angry now.
"If Cecily had told Losee that," she said, "I don't imagine she'd be in jail now."
"Who d'you think would be in jail, then?"
"I don't know," she said. "But I'm sure Cecily didn't shoot that man in the back."
"Bueno. I'm sure of that myself," he said, coolly.
"And still you wouldn't lift a finger—?"
"My dear lady," he said. "I am—realistic. It won't kill that girl to spend a little time in prison. I've got other things to think about. Mrs. Barley is very ill, you know!"
"It's serious?"
"Yes. She's in the hospital. Suicide without a doubt."
"Is it?" Miss Peterson asked.
"Without a doubt. She's been in a suicidal mood for a long time. There are people who can attest that. I have a very clear picture of what happened. The poor woman caught sight of this prowler. Very good. The storm had already upset her; she'd been drinking. She saw this prowler and she called up the police. Then she began brooding over her former experience with the police, when her little hotel burned down. You can understand that. She thinks, I'm going to be questioned by the police again. She is depressed, nervous; she can't face the police. So she takes a dose of poison."
"Oh! poison, was it?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Who knows?" asked Mr. Fernandez.
"I wonder where she got the poison."
"Maybe we'll never know that," said Mr. Fernandez. "Let's hope the police won't come to a wrong conclusion about that."
"For example?"
She looked at him, and he looked back at her, and his face had that heavy look, his black eyes opaque, the lines from nostril to mouth very deep.
"You know the peccaries?" he said. "They can drag down a jaguar. I'll see to it that I'm not dragged down that way. I'll see to it that my hotel isn't ruined by slander and malice. I want to be frank with you. I know what Jeffrey said to you. I know just how he feels about me. I know how to keep him quiet. Do you know what I showed him? I'll tell you. It was a passport I picked up in the corridor. Certainly the passport of the man who was killed. Very good. D'you know what his name was? I'll tell you that also. This dead man's name was Alfred Jeffrey."
Miss Peterson looked up, startled.
"You'll have to tell the police."
"I don't 'have to,' my dear lady."
"Then—suppose I do?"
"You can't," he said. "You never saw it. All I've got to do is to deny I've got such a thing."
"You're taking a pretty serious chance, Mr. Fernandez, concealing evidence like that."
"I've taken a good many chances in my life, dear lady. I'll take more, to keep from being dragged down by the peccaries."
"Mr. Fernandez," she said, "why are you telling this—to me?"
"Because I hope you'll stand by me," he said.
"In deceiving the police? In breaking the law? In letting that girl suffer for something she didn't do?"
"The girl brought all this on herself. And in any case, she won't hang for it."
"And why do you think I'd take the risk of getting into trouble with the police?"
"For this reason," he said. "Because I think you like a jaguar better than a pack of peccaries."
She glanced away, more impressed than she wished him to know. For it was quite true that she preferred jaguars to peccaries.
"Cecily's not a peccary," she said.
"She's chosen to run with them," he said.
"It seems to me," she said, looking at him again, "that Cecily's been remarkably loyal to you, Mr. Fernandez."
"Oh! You think she did all this for me?" he asked with a smile. "Well, I'm afraid you're mistaken, dear lady."
"Then why?"
"I think I know," he said. "But there's one thing I'm very sure of. The motive was—not love."
"May I have a cigarette?" asked Miss Peterson, after a moment.
He sprang up with a somewhat exaggerated gallantry; he gave her one, and lit it for her.
"That rat of a clerk of mine won't talk any more about 'bullet-holes,' he said, standing before her. "He wouldn't care at all for this second passport to come to light. It has a more recent photograph of Mister Alfred Jeffrey—somebody else. If anyone should happen to find this second passport around anywhere...well! Our fine Mr. Jeffrey would be in jail, half an hour after the police saw it. Then he'd be deported, and maybe he wouldn't like that."
"You take a very great deal for granted," said Miss Peterson. "You say you're laying all your cards on the table. Well, suppose I don't want to play your game?"
"I don't take it for granted that you'll play my game," he said, unsmiling. "I only hope you will."
He moved away and sat down in his chair again.
"I think the weather will be clear tomorrow," he said.
MISS PETERSON was seldom plagued by doubt or uncertainty. She had seen plenty of trouble and plenty of danger; but she had known almost always what she wanted to do, and meant to do. Now, however, she did not, and it upset her, so that she lay awake a good half hour.
I don't know about don Carlos, she said to herself. I honestly don't. I don't know what his limits are. I don't know what he has done, or what he's likely to do. He certainly did not put all his cards on the table. He'd never do that. He'd always have an ace up his sleeve. But, to a certain extent, he did trust me.
Well, I don't much like being trusted with illegal secrets. If I keep quiet about the possible bullet-hole, and about the dead man's passport, I'm an accessory after the fact. And after what fact? The man is dead; and Mrs. Barley is seriously ill.
Don Carlos had the means and the opportunity for both of these killings. It's easy to see what motive he could have had, too. He wants to save his precious hotel. The question is whether or not he's capable of cold-blooded murder. And it's a question I can't answer.
Maybe I'm a fool, she thought, turning restlessly in her bed. Perhaps the only sensible thing to do is to go to Losee and tell him everything. Everything. All that I've seen, which isn't much; and all that I've heard, which is plenty. Certainly that's the sensible course and the consequences are none of my business.
But suppose don Carlos hasn't done anything seriously wrong or criminal, and I help to ruin his hotel? I don't much care to be a peccary. And suppose my truth-telling makes things much worse for Cecily?
Fernandez said the motive wasn't love. Then what? Hate? Jealousy? What sort of hate could make a girl confess to a killing she hadn't done? Because she didn't kill that man. I'm certain of that. He was shot in the back. And it happened in Mr. Fernandez's room. Fernandez doesn't deny that there's a bullet-hole in the wall.
The rain had ceased, and the breeze was sweet and steady; she could see stars in the sky. We were lucky, she thought. But the words echoed in her mind. Lucky? Not the poor little bald man. Not Mrs. Barley. Not Cecily. The storm had passed, but it had left a trail of wreckage.
Oh, go to sleep! she said to herself, angrily. And, after a time, she did.
It was better in the morning with the sun up. The surf still ran high; standing at her window she saw the giant breakers smashing on the barrier reef, and, even broken, they came rolling up on the beach in a long indomitable tide. She rose, she put on a bathing suit and a terry robe, and went down on the sands. She went into the sea and had a swim. She was an excellent swimmer, but she kept close to the shore this morning, for this was unknown terrain. There might be an undertow, a swift current; a shark or a barracuda might have found a way through the reefs.
She came out and sat in the sun, and there was not a soul to be seen all up and down the beach. The gulls mewed, and screamed and swooped, and she saw timbers beginning to come in, big timbers that made her narrow her eyes to see them better. They were not good to see. Those rounded boards looked very like part of a small boat—a lifeboat...
"There was considerable damage done last night," said a voice behind her.
She glanced up at Superintendent Losee, but she did not move; she sat there in her neat, dark-blue suit and her black rubber cap, her hands clasped about her knees. He moved so that he stood before her, lean and grim in his white uniform and helmet.
"This case," he said, "puts me in mind of cases I've handled in India. Native cases."
"Oh, does it?" she said with polite attention.
"It does," he said. "The most extraordinary amount of evasion and downright perjury. I'm quite well aware, y'know, that I haven't had one single complete and honest statement from anyone involved."
"Oh, haven't you?" she said, considerably taken back.
"Not as yet," said he. "However..."
There was a silence.
"Is Mrs. Barley any better?" asked Miss Peterson.
"Mrs. Barley is dead," he answered; and the words were as hard as bullets. Miss Peterson was not given to sentimentality, she could pretend to no personal emotion for Mrs. Barley. Yet it shocked her to hear this, in the sweet sunny morning. It gave a sudden reality to what had been a nightmare. She was silent, remembering Mrs. Barley in her dim, untidy room, struggling to speak, to get in touch with the last human creature she was ever to recognize.
"Do you think she was murdered?" she asked with the sledge-hammer directness she sometimes used.
"I do," said he.
"It was a brutal thing," said Miss Peterson.
"Murder generally is," said the superintendent.
They were both silent again. The sun was getting too hot for the blond and fair-skinned Miss Peterson; she rose. "I think I'll go in and dress," she said.
"Quite," said he. "And by the way..."
"Yes, Superintendent?"
"Would you care to visit Miss Wilmot?" he asked.
"Why, yes."
"I think it might be a good idea," he said. "Can you be ready in half an hour?"
Miss Peterson dressed quickly but carefully in a black linen dress with a white collar. Then she hastened down to the dining room and ordered a substantial breakfast. It was still early; the room was deserted, and she was glad of that.
She was finishing the last drop of coffee when Losee appeared in the doorway; she rose at once. "Exactly on time," he observed, and she thought she saw a faint flicker of approval in his stem little eyes.
He had a small car outside which he drove himself; he set off very slowly.
"The coroner's inquest will be held this afternoon at two-thirty," he said. "You may be summoned, Miss Peterson."
They drove past a banana plantation, and the leaves of the plants were tom into rags; they passed fields where the cane lay beaten flat, there was a little house with a great palm tree athwart it; there were queer things strewn about, a white-painted door with a brass knob lay by the roadside, a chintz curtain was caught on a hedge. Yet the sky was an unclouded blue and the sea beyond the fields was a burning sapphire; all that violence, all that noise and fury were utterly gone. Two lives had gone with it, as swiftly and as completely.
"You mentioned getting a lawyer for the young woman," said Losee. "She refuses to see a lawyer. I propose—if you're still interested in her—I propose that you advise her to tell the truth."
"It's a great responsibility, to give advice, Superintendent."
"Even advice to tell the truth?"
"I think so, Superintendent."
"I questioned the young woman last night," he said. "Her answers were highly evasive and inconsistent. If she goes before the coroner's court with her present statement, the consequences will be most serious for her."
"But won't the consequences be serious, whatever she says or does now?"
"I'll see the Commissioner," he said. "With his consent, we haven't charged the young woman—as yet. Because her statement makes a charge of manslaughter or justifiable homicide impossible. The only charge possible—in view of her statement—is murder."
"Still," said Miss Peterson, warily, "I shouldn't think there'd be much chance of a conviction."
"A jury always attaches an exaggerated importance to a confession. What's more, the young woman makes an unfavorable impression. She's defiant, and reckless, and obviously lying; she insists she shot the deceased while facing him. The fact is established that he was shot in the back; but there are other discrepancies. I hope you can persuade her to make a complete and truthful statement."
Well, I don't know about that, thought Miss Peterson. And aloud: "She could retract her confession entirely, couldn't she, and plead not guilty?"
"She'll have to plead not guilty, if she's charged with murder," he said. "But if she wants to enter a plea of homicide in self-defense, she'll have to make a truthful and intelligible statement. And there's very little time."
"She's got to have a lawyer."
"She'll be assigned one by the court, if the coroner's jury finds her guilty." He was silent for a time, still driving very slowly. "I'm going to give you a free hand, Miss Peterson," he said. "I'm going to give you half an hour alone with the young woman. You can take my word for it there'll be no eavesdroppers." He gave a bleak smile. "No secret panels, or dictaphones," he said. "Your talk will be absolutely private."
"But you'll expect me to give you a report of it?"
"Not at all," he said. "I only hope you can persuade the young woman to tell the truth, that's all."
He turned the car up a side road where four brand-new bungalows stood, each in its garden with a wall. He stopped before the first of these; the wooden gate was blown half off its hinges, and a leafy bough lay in the path, but otherwise it was all neat and tranquil.
"But is this the jail?" Miss Peterson asked.
"With the Commissioner's approval, the young woman is detained in the custody of my sister and myself," he said. "Only temporarily, of course. After the inquest, you understand—"
"Yes, Superintendent... Will you let me send for a hairdresser?"
"A hairdresser?" he repeated with a look of distaste.
"You know how things are," said Miss Peterson in an earnest and confidential tone. "It'll make a difference, if she has a hairdresser before she goes into court. If it could be arranged—If I could just stop and see a hairdresser and tell him what to bring along...?"
He thought that over, and then turned the car and drove her into the little town; he waited with exemplary patience while she waked up a hairdresser and gave directions. They drove back to the bungalow and as they turned the corner, the sound of Brahms's Hungarian Dance Number Three came to them, played very brilliantly upon a piano badly out of tune.
"Good God!" said Losee.
A colored maid opened the door for them, and they entered a neat and cheerful little sitting room that seemed to rock with that music. Cecily sat at the piano in her black dress; she went on playing until the superintendent touched her on the shoulder.
"This won't do," he said.
"Is it against the law to play the piano?" Cecily demanded.
"At this hour of the morning it is," said he. "Here's Miss Peterson, very kindly come to visit you."
The girl was very pale; she looked tired and half-ill, her strange, light eyes fierce and hostile.
"I haven't anything to say," she answered.
"Half an hour," said he, and withdrew, closing the door.
"Will you have a cigarette?" asked Miss Peterson, sitting down and lighting one for herself.
"Well... Thank you!" said Cecily.
"You're lucky," Miss Peterson resumed, "I thought I'd find you in a cell."
"I'd rather be in a cell," said Cecily.
"You don't know what cells are like," said Miss Peterson. "I visited a woman in jail, once, in Bahia. Well, here we are, all by ourselves. Nobody's listening."
"I don't believe that," said Cecily.
"Please do," said Miss Peterson. "And please believe that I'm here out of friendliness, and for no other reason."
"People aren't like that," said Cecily, blowing smoke through her narrow nostrils. "Nobody does things simply to help somebody else. It's everybody for himself. That's life."
"The law of the jungle?" Miss Peterson asked.
"That's it," said Cecily.
"I've never lived in a jungle," said Miss Peterson. "I seem to have come across a lot of very decent people. I've even seen people die to save somebody else. I've seen that more than once."
"Possibly," said Cecily. "In an emergency."
The precious time was going. But it was necessary to be patient with the wild gazelle, to lure it within reach.
"Of course," she said, "I think artists are privileged people." That worked. She noticed the girl's start, and her air of frowning attention.
"Most people don't agree with that," she said.
"Oh, I think so. The Major, for instance, was so much impressed by your playing. And the superintendent—"
"Him?" said Cecily. "He's the most absolutely narrow, bigoted blockhead... And his sister's nothing but a doormat for him. Last night he kept on asking me questions until I was almost frantic. You don't know what it's like, to be asked the same questions, over and over, and over. He was just trying to mix me up, and trap me."
"He will trap you," said Miss Peterson. "That's his job, and he's good at it."
"All right. Let him," said Cecily.
"I suppose you're counting on being acquitted?"
"Well, I certainly don't expect to be hanged," said Cecily.
"That could happen, though," said Miss Peterson. "But even at the very best, you'll be shown up as a most awful little liar."
"That doesn't worry me."
"And of course you'll be deported."
"Deported?" Cecily cried.
This, at last was the right word. "Oh, yes," said Miss Peterson. "That goes without saying. You'll be deported, turned out of the place on any ship they choose."
"I—don't want to be deported."
"I don't blame you," said Miss Peterson. "It's pretty humiliating."
The girl sat on the piano stool, holding the cigarette in her thin fingers, and staring at the floor.
"But, if they try me, and I'm acquitted...?"
Miss Peterson shook her head. "There'd still be all those false and misleading statements," she said. "And you're antagonizing people, too. Why do you do that? It's so stupid."
"I don't care, that's why," said Cecily. She frowned, she closed her eyes tight; when she opened them the black lashes were wet. "Look here!" she said. "If I give you some information, will you promise I won't be deported?"
"I can't promise anything."
There was a silence.
"If I—change my statement, will that superintendent promise?"
"I don't know," said Miss Peterson. "I just think it will be better for you if you tell the truth."
There was a long silence.
"I didn't realize how complicated the damn thing was going to get," said Cecily, unsteadily. "It's hard now... How do I know that pig-headed martinet will believe me if I tell the truth?"
"The truth is generally pretty convincing," said Miss Peterson.
There was a knock at the door, and an amiable face looked in. "The hairdresser is here," she said.
"Oh, thank you!" said Miss Peterson. "If she'll wait a few minutes, please."
The amiable face withdrew and the door was closed. "Hairdresser?" Cecily said, frowning.
"For you," said Miss Peterson.
"I don't want a hairdresser."
"If you've got the sense that God gave geese," said Miss Peterson, "you'll let her get that black henna out of your hair—"
"No!"
"And you'll go into court, all natural and gentle, and you'll be polite, and you'll tell the truth. There isn't much time left."
"No!"
"Then I'll go," said Miss Peterson. "I've got other things to think about. There's Mrs. Barley's funeral—"
"Funeral? But what—?"
"Didn't you know how ill she was?"
"I didn't see her yesterday. She didn't like me, you know."
"Well, she's dead," said Miss Peterson, rising. "And I'll have a lot to do. I wish you luck. You'll need it."
"Wait!" said Cecily, and added, "If you please, Miss Peterson."
"Karen."
"Karen," the girl repeated, docilely.
They stood facing each other, and Miss Peterson had a curious feeling that was almost panic. I don't know whether I want to hear...she thought.
"I didn't shoot that man," said Cecily. "He was dead when I found him. I just fired a shot at nothing. That's the truth. All the rest of it is a lie. There wasn't any struggle. I just found him, lying there dead."
"Lying where?" asked Miss Peterson.
Cecily was a long time answering.
"I don't remember," she said, curtly. "But I didn't shoot him. I'm willing to tell the superintendent so."
Miss Peterson stood motionless. Oh, don Carlos! she thought. I'm a little sorry for you...
MISS PETERSON went out into the hall, and in the little dining room opposite she saw the amiable Miss Losee talking to the hairdresser, a woman with a strangely radiant pink face, and an elaborate arrangement of white curls.
"If I could see the Superintendent...?" she said.
"Oh, certainly!" said the pleasant Miss Losee, jumping up. She went out of the room, and Miss Peterson heard her clear voice:
"William, Miss Peterson's ready for you."
He came out into the hall promptly, and he looked somehow different, perhaps because he was carrying a pipe in his hand, or perhaps because he was in his own house, which often changes people.
"I think Miss Wilmot has something to tell you," she said.
He looked at her, and then he smiled; a very unpleasant smile she thought, crafty.
"Quite," he said.
"Shall I wait?"
"Oh, no, thanks!" he said. "My sister will drive you back to the hotel. Thanks very much."
She lingered, hating to go, and knowing how futile it was to stay.
"Thanks very much," said he again, and she went away.
Miss Losee chatted pleasantly all the way back. She was a fresh, brisk woman of thirty-five or so in a brown print dress; she went all over the world, where her brother went, and in all places she tried to have tea at four o'clock, and some sort of pet, animal or bird. She talked about some of them.
The Hotel Fernandez was looking very attractive, dazzling white, with the beach and the blue sea visible behind it, the drive before it lined with palms, the tables set out on the lawn under the striped umbrellas, chairs with bright cushions on the terrace. I'm sorry for don Carlos—in a way, thought Miss Peterson.
"Thank you so much, Miss Losee," she said.
"Oh, it was pleasant to have such a nice little talk," said Miss Losee; and off she drove.
The lounge was empty, except for the soi-disant Alfred Jeffrey behind the desk. He glanced up at her with his rueful smile.
"I saw you go off with the superintendent," he said. "I thought you were being arrested."
"Not yet," said Miss Peterson, moving away.
"Cecily...?" he said with a sort of jerk. "Did you—is there any news about her?"
"Well... I saw her," said Miss Peterson. "She seems to be all right."
"Any message for me?" he asked, again with an obvious effort.
"I'm sorry, no," she answered.
He leaned over the counter and lowered his voice.
"Did you mention the bullet-hole to Losee?" he asked.
Miss Peterson looked at him thoughtfully.
"It might help Cecily," he said.
"I don't exactly see how," said Miss Peterson.
"At least, it might help our Mr. Fernandez—" he said, "into jail."
"Is that what you want?" he asked.
"Yes. If I can't see him in hell," said Alfred Jeffrey, softly.
"I'd advise you to be careful," said Miss Peterson, and went toward the elevator.
Howard seemed pleased to see her. "Mawning, mistress!" he said. "Mis' Fish she ask to see you; and Mis' Boucher she ask to see you."
"I might go up and see Mrs. Boucher now," said Miss Peterson, for she had taken a liking to that purposeful old lady. It would be a relief, she thought, to see somebody so pleasingly without emotions.
The old lady was still in bed, with a breakfast tray beside her; in a lacy white knitted bed-jacket, her hair neat, she sat propped up straight with pillows, and she was writing letters on a board.
"Good morning!" she said. "And what's this nonsense I hear about Mrs. Barley?"
"She was taken ill—"
"And what's the name of this illness if you please?" the old lady demanded.
"I don't quite know..."
"Don't you? Well, maybe I do," said the old lady. "Poor soul. And it's a sin and a shame for a young man to aid and abet an unfortunate woman, old enough to be his mother."
"How is that?" asked Miss Peterson, sitting down on the arm of a chair.
"That young Jeffrey brought her liquor," said Mrs. Boucher. "I saw him myself, a week or so ago, when I was down on that floor. I saw him with my own eyes opening her door with his key, and taking in a big bottle of gin. A sin and a shame."
"Yes," Miss Peterson agreed.
"Tell me, child! How is that poor Barley woman?"
"I'm afraid it's very serious."
"Do you mean that she is dead?" asked the old lady, gravely.
"I'm sorry..."
There was a little silence.
"Well! I shall go to her funeral," said Mrs. Boucher. "And I shall send flowers. She had that dreadful weakness, but she was a good woman. And she was absolutely loyal to Fernandez. Which is more than I'd care to say of that young Jeffrey. Poor woman...!"
Miss Peterson rose.
"Let me know in good time about the funeral, child," said the old lady. "And send someone to take away this tray."
Miss Peterson decided to walk down those stairs again; because she wanted a few minutes by herself. She wanted to think about that young man who was not Alfred Jeffrey taking liquor to Mrs. Barley. Mrs. Barley, who was absolutely loyal to Mr. Fernandez, and who had wanted very much to tell something...
The staircase was perfectly normal today, close, and with a dank and moldy smell, but in no way sinister. She sat down on a step and lit a cigarette. I'll have to see Mrs. Fish in a moment. And Mr. Fernandez. And everybody else. I'll have to go to the inquest. But first, I'll have a smoke.
I believe Cecily's told the truth at last. But I never did believe she'd killed the man. Killed the real, genuine Alfred Jeffrey. The logical one to have killed him is the bogus Alfred Jeffrey. But why in Mr. Fernandez's room? And if he was killed there by accident, why try to hush it up?
Then how did the deceased get down to the third floor? Maybe he wasn't killed in Mr. Fernandez's room. The bullet-hole might easily have been made by Cecily when she shot 'at nothing.' But that means she found the dead man there.
And Mrs. Barley... That's what sticks in my throat. It's not nice to shoot a poor little bald man in the back—but maybe he was a prowler, and up to no good. But Mrs. Barley... That was brutal. That was horrible. I'd like to know who did that.
The bogus Alfred Jeffrey? Or Mr. Fernandez? Or somebody else? I hope it was somebody else. What about psychology? Would Jeffrey or Fernandez be capable of murdering Mrs. Barley? God knows. And nobody but God does know anything much about psychology. When you wander around the world, you see the most unlikely people, doing the most unbelievable things... Tout comprendre, cest tout pardonner... But I'm only human, and very fallible. I could never comprehend murdering Mrs. Barley, and never pardon it.
She crushed out the cigarette with her heel. Well, nobody's asked me to comprehend all and pardon all. I've got a job to do. Shall I see Mrs. Fish first, or go to headquarters for my orders?
She thought a moment, and then she decided upon seeing Mr. Fernandez first. Because, after all, she thought, it's a bit upsetting for a hotel to have two murders. Bound to make extra work. She rang for the elevator, and asked Howard where Mr. Fernandez was to be found.
"Was in the kitchen, mistress. I send a boy to find him." That proved to be unnecessary, for Mr. Fernandez was in the lounge talking to Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks. Fresh as a daisy he looked, in one of his immaculate white suits, a blue handkerchief in the breast pocket, a blue shirt, blue flower in his buttonhole. He came toward Miss Peterson walking lightly and easily in his white shoes.
"If you'll step into my office, please..." he said. "We'll have to talk things over, eh?" He sat down on the edge of the desk. "Well here we are! A pretty kettle of fish. Two inquests—"
"Two?"
"Oh, yes! An inquest on Mrs. Barley's death this afternoon, after the other one. Then tomorrow morning, Mrs. Barley's funeral. Very sad. But—así es la vida... After that, we'll have to get ready for Saturday."
"You're not still thinking of that gala opening, are you?"
He smiled. "Dear lady," he said, "I need that gala opening more than ever. And I shall have it."
"When you've just had two murders in the hotel?"
"Before the day is over," he said, "I hope there'll be an end to this talk about murder. Mrs. Barley's death—very good. She was an alcoholic, poor woman, and she drank some sort of medicine, without knowing what she was doing. As for the man who was found shot, very good again. Cecily shot him in self-defense."
"Suppose—" said Miss Peterson, slowly, "suppose she denies that?"
"I hope she won't," he said. "For her own sake."
"How's that?"
"Miss Peterson," he said, with a sort of formality, "when I am attacked, I know how to defend myself. That girl made her statement of her own free will. She could have kept quiet, and not been involved. But that she wouldn't do. She talked herself into jail; and that's the best place for her just now."
"Mr. Fernandez, when I'm called as a witness at the inquest, I may be asked what Cecily first said to you and me."
"Yes?"
"Perhaps you've forgotten? She told us the dead man was lying in your room."
"You'll tell that to the coroner?"
"I think I will," she said.
He was silent for a moment, standing before her looking at the floor.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, glancing up. "I hoped you would be my ally. But you must do as you please, dear lady."
He crossed the room and held open the door for her. She rose, slowly, with a curious reluctance; as she passed him she looked at him; their eyes met.
"I'm rather sorry myself," she said, and went out, past the desk toward the elevator.
"My God!" she heard Mr. Fernandez say, and turning, she saw Cecily standing in the entrance to the lounge.
Cecily with pale-gold hair that miraculously transformed her. Her aquamarine eyes no longer looked strange, when the level brows were light. She looked younger, she looked ethereal.
"Good gracious!" said old Mrs. Green from her corner. "What in the world have you been doing? Peroxide, I suppose."
"No. This is the way I really am," said Cecily.
Mr. Fernandez beckoned to her, and she crossed the lounge to his office. Miss Peterson retraced her steps and joined them. He closed the door, and stood looking at the girl with his heavy black brows raised, and his jaw thrust out.
"So here you are, eh?" he said.
"Superintendent Losee let me go," she said. "I told him the truth."
She spoke with the same unsmiling bluntness, but the effect was wholly different now. She seemed now like a deadly serious child.
"The truth..." Mr. Fernandez repeated. His dark face was a little pale, but he smiled, showing all his fine white teeth; he shrugged his shoulders.
"I told him the man was dead when I found him," said Cecily. "I didn't say where I found him. I told you I wouldn't, and I won't."
Mr. Fernandez began to laugh.
"What's the joke?" Cecily demanded.
"I'm laughing at myself," he said, and held out his hand. "Welcome home!"
Cecily took the outstretched hand promptly.
"You didn't break your neck to help me," she said.
"My dear girl, I had to think of my hotel and myself."
"Yes," she said.
She accepted that as entirely normal and right, and she bore him no grudge. I believe she admires him for it, Miss Peterson thought. She likes him for being so beautifully and primitively selfish. She's still standing by him, still loyal.
He took the blue flower out of his buttonhole, and put it in her pale hair, fastening it deftly above one temple with a hairpin. "Charming!" he said.
"Is it?" said Cecily, doubtfully.
"Hasta luego!" said he, gaily, and went off.
"Cecily," said Miss Peterson at once, "did the superintendent just let you go? No strings?"
"No. He believed me," said Cecily.
"He must have asked you why you said you killed the man. Why you fired a shot at nothing."
"He didn't ask me that," said Cecily. "If he had, I wouldn't have told him."
"Tell me, won't you?"
"I can't!" Cecily answered. "I'm sorry. You've been awfully nice; but that's something I can't even talk about."
"Listen, Cecily! There's a lot of monkey-business going on. You're in danger."
"Of what?"
"Of being sent to prison—seriously."
"The superintendent believed me. Honestly he did."
"He wouldn't turn you loose that way, unless he had a reason."
"Well, the reason was that he believed me. He knows I didn't kill the man."
"What are you going to say at the inquest?"
"Say? Just what I told you. That the man was dead when I found him, and I picked up a gun I saw there and fired a shot at nothing."
"Was it your gun? Your automatic?"
The girl's level brows drew together.
"Of course not," she said, "I never had a gun."
"You'll have to get a lawyer," said Miss Peterson. "And you'll have to get one quick. Before that inquest."
"But why?"
"Because Losee hadn't finished with you. Things are going to happen. Bad things."
The wild gazelle was alarmed. And must be kept alarmed, and alert.
"I'll help you to find a lawyer. In the meantime, don't talk to anybody; and don't for heaven's sake, make any promises to tell things, or not to tell things. You're—"
"Still here?" said Mr. Fernandez, coming back. "I think we should drink a little toast, eh? To celebrate Cecily's return."
"Oh, thanks!" said Miss Peterson, "but I've got to go and see Miss Fish. She's been asking for me."
"Just drink a toast," said Mr. Fernandez. "To whatever you like. To the winner, eh?"
Cecily glanced sidelong at him, a little wary. And looking at the little fair thing with a blue flower over her temple, Miss Peterson felt worried. She downed her drink quickly.
"If you'll excuse me...?" she said, and left them.
She went to the elevator quickly, so that nobody in the lounge should catch her. I'd like a bit more time alone, she thought. I certainly can't say I'm overworked. In fact, I don't know what my duties are, if any. But I do have to talk such a lot, and that's something I've never cared for much. I'll never be a hostess again, that's one sure thing.
She rode up to the third floor, and knocked at Mrs. Fish's door.
"Come in," said the flat, tired voice.
She was lying on her bed, all dressed; and she looked, to the neat and orderly Miss Peterson, like a rag bag, in a thin black dress over a white slip, and clumsy white sandals, and her dark hair streaming out from the bun on the nape of her neck.
"I do wish you'd give me some more of that medicine you gave me yesterday," she said. "I feel so wretched, and my tooth aches again."
"Don't you think you'd better see a dentist?"
"I'm too nervous," said Mrs. Fish.
Miss Peterson went downstairs to her room, and prepared another dose of aspirin and bicarbonate of soda tinged with a cough drop and brought it up to Mrs. Fish.
"I do wish you'd stay and have an early lunch up here with me," said Mrs. Fish. "I do feel so nervous and miserable."
"I'd like to, Mrs. Fish, but there's so much to be done."
"Well, have a cup of tea with me while I eat, then."
Miss Peterson preferred coffee. She ordered a cup for herself when she telephoned room service for a light lunch for Mrs. Fish.
"The food's quite good here," said Mrs. Fish. "It's quite a nice hotel. I'd enjoy myself if I wasn't so worried."
"You must try not to worry, Mrs. Fish."
"Do you think you could possibly rub my head a little? Here, on the right side?"
Miss Peterson rubbed Mrs. Fish's head and neck in expert fashion, and the limp Mrs. Fish grew limper still, lying relaxed with her eyes closed until her lunch came.
"I'm better," she said. "Only I had such nightmares, all night long. Can you interpret dreams?"
"I'm afraid I can't," said Miss Peterson, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
"I dreamed that I was trying to get away from somebody, and was sinking in a quicksand. Do you think it means anything?"
"No, I don't, Mrs. Fish," said Miss Peterson.
"Every time I've had that dream before, something dreadful has happened," said Mrs. Fish.
"If you could get out in the sun and fresh air, Mrs. Fish..."
"Maybe that would help," said Mrs. Fish. "But would you mind opening that right-hand little drawer, Miss Peterson, and getting out a big, brown envelope?"
Miss Peterson looked in the drawer that was filled with a jumble of stockings, earrings, old letters, necklaces, scarves. It was marvelous that anyone could make such disorder in a few hours.
"I don't see any big envelope here, Mrs. Fish."
"Then maybe it's in the other drawer, Miss Peterson."
It was. A large manila envelope, and addressed in pencil to Miss Peterson.
"I'd like you to keep that, please," said Mrs. Fish. "In case anything happens to me."
"You mustn't think of things like that, Mrs. Fish."
"Was there anything in that medicine you gave me that could make me feel queer, Miss Peterson?"
"Nothing at all. You're tired, Mrs. Fish. You must take a little rest, and then go out in the fresh air."
"The air doesn't seem very fresh, does it?"
"I'll turn on the fan."
"Oh, no, thank you. I think I'll take a little nap, Miss Peterson. You always help me so...don't forget the envelope."
Miss Peterson rang for the elevator, and Howard had a message for her from the woman in charge of the linen room. The linen room was on the second floor; she went there, and she was overwhelmed with a torrent of questions. About the outgoing laundry, about a bale of Turkish toweling to be made up into bath towels, about curtains, about some new soap. These were matters she knew little or nothing about, but it was clear that Mrs. Barley's death had caused a minor panic, and she did the best she could.
"You girls understand these things," she said. "We'll have to work things out together."
She talked to a seamstress, to a worried maid; she talked and talked, and at last she left them calmer. Then she went along the corridor, and around the corner to her own room. She ordered lunch sent up there because she was sick and tired of talking. And because she felt curiously drowsy.
I'll rest a few minutes, she thought, because I want to be fit for that inquest in case I'm summoned. I'll rest, but I won't lie down. I'll just sit here comfortably, and smoke a cigarette. The cigarette tastes a little funny.... I'll turn on the fan. For a moment. It's very stuffy in here. I'm very sleepy; but I'm not going to go to sleep.
If you feel dizzy, bend forward with your head between your knees. If you feel drowsy—get up.
Get up and walk. Order black coffee... This is... Get up!
Sinking in a quicksand...? Get up! Get up! Move. Order black coffee... Please send me up some black coffee... But that's no good—unless you get to the telephone. Nobody hears you. You're sinking... Please...
A SQUEAK and a rattle, and down comes the sail... But there's no breeze, she thought. It's so hot... She was bathed in sweat, her hair was damp on her forehead, her eyelids were glued together. So unbearably hot...
Then there was a soft whirr, and the breeze came against her face, and she sighed.
"My dear lady... Are you better?"
"It's—you?" she said, with difficulty, because her tongue felt thick.
"I have some hot coffee here..."
Hot coffee—from morning till night, she thought. Mrs. Barley had hot coffee.... I had hot coffee in Mrs. Fish's room... I'm sick and tired of hot coffee.
The pillows were moving, relentlessly pushing up her heavy head. She got her eyes open and looked up at Mr. Fernandez in the dim light. He was holding a cup to her lips.
"No..." she said.
"Doctor Tinker said—"
"No, thank you."
The overwhelming drowsiness was lifting, and she wanted it to stay. She wanted to go to sleep again and not struggle. But something was running around in her brain. Get up... Get up... The jalousies were closed, but through them she saw a fiery glare of sun. And that wasn't right...
"Please!" said Mr. Fernandez, kneeling beside her and holding the cup to her lips.
"No!" she said.
Through the cracks in the blind, the sun blazed like fire, and that was wrong. But why?
"What time is it?" she asked, suddenly.
"It's—let me see—four twenty," said Mr. Fernandez.
Everything fell into place immediately. She looked straight into his face.
"I've been sleeping a long time," she said slowly.
"A very long time," he agreed. "I was worried. I called you on the telephone before I went to the inquest. No answer. I came up and knocked at the door. No answer. Doctor Tinker was here and I unlocked the door for him. And he said you had taken a little too much of your medicine."
"What medicine?"
He stood up and went to the chest of drawers: he picked up a little bottle and brought it to her. It bore the label of a chemist in Port-of-Spain, and written on it was Miss K. Peterson. Dose one teaspoonful when needed. Doctor scribble, scribble, scribble. It was paregoric.
"Tinker said you'd obviously taken a bit too much. Not serious, he said, but enough to make you sleep. And as Losee said your evidence wasn't essential..."
"Yes... I see..." said Miss Peterson, thoughtfully. "Then everything is just dandy."
"Would it annoy you if I smoke?" he asked.
"Not at all. I'd like a cigarette myself, please."
He lit one for her, and then he sat down near the window with the fiery streaks of the sun through the blinds behind his dark head, like some infernal halo. Curiously quiet, he was, no trace of his usual exuberance.
"And the inquest?" she asked.
"Nothing," he answered. "Nothing at all. My cook identified the dead man—"
"Your cook is an employee very obliging, it seems," said Miss Peterson in Spanish.
"Cómo no?" said he. "Well, the police asked for a week's delay. It was granted."
"What about Cecily?"
"About her—nothing at all."
"Her confession wasn't brought up?"
"No. She stood up there, very honest, very straightforward, and she said she had found the body in an empty room. The coroner asked her some little questions, not very many. She said she did not know which room. And that was all."
"So she's still defending you?"
"You mean by not telling Losee where she found this dead man?"
"Do you admit it?" she asked quickly.
He laughed. "You want to trap me? You are like that Portia of Shakespeare." He pronounced it 'Por-ti-a', and it was the first time she had heard him mispronounce a word in English. "I do admit it—only to you. I also admit that I took him out of there. He was a small man, and I," said Mr. Fernandez, with superb candor, "I am extremely strong. I first put on my white raincoat in case there should be any—I don't want to upset you, but in such a case there might be—bloodstains, you know."
"Oh!" she said, "then you're the one the boys saw. You were carrying a torch I suppose, and the light shone on your white rubber coat."
"Those fools!" he said with a sigh. "If they hadn't seen me and made such a row, I'd have carried the man downstairs, to the side door, and he'd have been found outside my hotel. I didn't know of course, about the telephone call to the police."
"Then you're the Devil," she said musingly.
"Dear lady," said he, "it's your privilege to say so. Personally I think what I did, or rather, what I tried to do, was simply good business. I hoped to get the man out of the hotel. I hoped to persuade that confounded girl to keep it quiet. Then the police would have found the man outside, they would have thought he was simply some sailor, killed in a brawl, and there would have been no scandal in my hotel. As I told you, I'm realistic."
Yes, she thought, it certainly doesn't show too much sentimentality, to be able to carry a dead man in your arms, with the intention of dumping him out in the rain.
"And letting Cecily go to jail..." she said, half to herself.
"Letting her?" he cried. "Dios de mi alma! What did I have to do with that?"
"You must have asked her to tell a lie for you. About finding the man in your room."
"I admit it. I did ask her. And why not? Everything she said was a lie: why not one more, eh?"
"If she did that for you, don Carlos, you might have said even one little word to save her."
"'Save' is a very big word," he said. "She was in no danger at all. A little inconvenience, no more. Losee could be trusted to see to that. If there had been any danger, I should, naturally, have thrown all other considerations to the wind." He flung out his hands, his fingers spread open, to show everything being thrown away. "I am not an animal, without humanity."
"You said you were a jaguar..."
"Dear lady," he said quietly, "I have lost your good will. That's my misfortune. Well...there's one more misfortune I have to worry about. One of my guests has disappeared."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Fish," he answered. "Losee came here to ask her some little questions. Well, she wasn't in her room. She's not anywhere in the hotel. He thinks that's very strange. I supposed that maybe she'd gone out for a walk, and he looked at me—"
He gave an excellent imitation of Losee's unwinking, steely regard. "So he asked me questions about Mrs. Fish. Ah ha! She came on the boat with you? Quite! You knew her in Trinidad? No? Quite! He'd like to accuse me of strangling Mrs. Fish, but he can't find any corpse."
"How long has she been gone?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he answered. "It can't be very long, she had lunch here. To be frank, I'm not interested. I don't see anything strange in Mrs. Fish going out and staying out even for a whole day. She may have gone for a drive—for a walk—shopping; she may be having a nice cup of tea somewhere at this moment. But Losee has been looking for some new way to get at me, and he's using this for a pretext. He sent two men to search Mrs. Fish's room. All right! They searched. They found nothing at all. But he says that if she isn't back by dinnertime, he'll question all the other guests. And that—Well! That finishes me."
Miss Peterson leaned back, staring at the wall before her.
"We have this prowler shot in the hotel," he resumed. "All right. That's an accident. We have Mrs. Barley dying. All right again. She's only an employee of the hotel, and everybody knows about her little weakness. But—only let Losee put it into their heads that there is some mysterious danger for the guests, and they'll leave. The rumor will go all over the island. It will travel to other islands. It will reach all the way to New York." He drew his forefinger across his throat.
There was a long silence. Miss Peterson was thinking intently.
"Well," he said, "I hope Mrs. Fish will come back by seven o'clock. That's the deadline. Is there anything I can do for you, dear lady?"
"No, thanks," she said, slowly.
"I suppose you wouldn't care for a cocktail with me at six o'clock?"
"May I let you know?"
"Certainly!" he said. "I'll be in my little office then."
He stood still for a moment, and they looked at each other. I don't know, thought Miss Peterson. I honestly don't know what to make of you, don Carlos... Maybe I think you're a jaguar, and I'm sorry for you. Maybe I've misjudged you....
The door closed after him, and for a time she lay quiet, still thinking intently. Then she got up and looked at herself in the mirror, with distaste. Her black linen dress and the white collar were rumpled, her hair was disheveled, she looked pale and forlorn.
She took a cold shower, and put on her pale-blue kimono, and then she took up the envelope Mrs. Fish had given her; she sat down at the window looking at it.
Mrs. Fish thought something bad was going to happen to her. Maybe if I tell the superintendent that at once, he can stop it, whatever it is. But he must be searching for her anyhow. He must have some information and some suspicion.
Queer? It's queerer than anyone knows. Paregoric. Paregoric has opium in it. Poison. Mrs. Barley was poisoned, and she died. And was I meant to die? That's a nasty thought. It sends shivers up and down your spine.
It makes you feel very lonely, to think that somebody wants to kill you. I am very lonely here. No friends except don Carlos. And what do I know about him? Nothing. He asked me to marry him. Bueno! He may be a Bluebeard for all I know, murdering women right and left.
But just the same, I can't believe he wanted to murder me. Vanity, I dare say. Taken in by his hand-kissing and his 'dear lady' and his Latin technique. I ought to know better. I ought to find the superintendent and tell him everything. All about the bullet-hole, and the passport, and the paregoric. And about Mrs. Fish. Above all about Mrs. Fish. I'm worried about her.
I have a right to be worried about her. She thought something might happen to her. Things happened to the little bald man, and to Mrs. Barley. Even to me. Losee gave don Carlos until dinnertime. Seven o'clock is the deadline. I don't like the word. Suppose it is a deadline—for Mrs. Fish?
She looked at the envelope with a frown and then she raised the little metal tab that fastened it, and opened it. There was a folded legal-looking document inside, and a smaller envelope, addressed to Miss Peterson.
Dear Miss Peterson:
I came down to Riquezas to look for Harold Cartaret who murdered my husband. I had a detective in New York looking for him, and he learned, from a sailor, that Harold Cartaret had come here to this hotel. He must be using an assumed name, so that I shall have to manage a private talk with every man here, one by one, because I don't know what he looks like, or his age, either.
I have had such nightmares lately that I felt quite nervous. So that if anything should happen to me, please take care of my will, which is enclosed. You are the only person here I feel I can trust.
Sincerely yours,
Ella Perch (registered here as Ella Fish.)
Miss Peterson went to the telephone. "Order, please?" said the blithe voice of the soi-disant Alfred Jeffrey. "Can you get Mr. Fernandez for me?" she said, and in a moment Mr. Fernandez's voice spoke. "I must see you, Mr. Fernandez," she said. "Will you be in your office in five minutes?"
"At your service, dear lady," he said.
She put on a black chiffon dinner dress, and she was knocking at the door of his office in something a little less than five minutes. He opened it with a flourish and a bow.
"Dear lady, you are exquisite in black," he said.
"Thank you!" she said. "Will you shut the door, please, Mr. Fernandez. I was sitting with Mrs. Fish while she had her lunch—"
"Wait!" he interrupted. "Did you eat with her?"
"No. I only had coffee. But that's not—"
"You drank coffee with her? In her room?"
"Yes," she said, looking at him with a faint frown.
"My God! I wish I'd known that," he said. "I found out that you didn't go to the dining room for lunch. I couldn't think where you'd had anything... Who brought the lunch, and the coffee?"
"Let's go into that later," she said. "Because this is important. Mrs. Fish gave me an envelope. She told me to open it if anything happened to her."
"And you think something has happened to her?"
"You'd better read the note," she said, and handed it to him.
She watched him read it; his head, with the thick dark hair bushed out behind the ears, moved from side to side. He looked alert. Then he looked crafty, with his jaw out-thrust, his eyes turned sideways. Then he gave a wide and brilliant smile.
"We'll have our own little court," he said. "I'll ask some questions myself."
He crossed the room and opened the door.
"Jeffrey! Just a moment, please."
Alfred Jeffrey came promptly, and at the sight of Miss Peterson, he smiled his rueful mocking smile.
"Sit down!" said Mr. Fernandez.
"Oh, thanks!" said Jeffrey. "But I'd rather stand."
"Suit yourself, my dear Harold Cartaret," said Mr. Fernandez.
He sat down then, collapsed, pallid, the collar of his white jacket standing out behind his neck as if he were a Pierrot dangling on a string.
"You don't feel well, eh?" asked Mr. Fernandez.
"Finish it," said the other. "I quit."
"YOU can't quit," said Mr. Fernandez. "No. You've got a lot to go through with before you've finished."
"All right. Get the police, and start it."
Mr. Fernandez was silent, sitting on the edge of the desk, one ankle on his knee, an intent look on his face. What's he thinking about? Miss Peterson wondered. How much does he know? And how much is just improvising? He didn't know this lad was Harold Cartaret. It was a shot in the dark, but it turned out to be a bull's-eye. And now he's going to take advantage of it in some way.
She looked at Harold Cartaret, slouched in his chair, his legs stretched out before him, and she had a sudden impulse to warn him. But Mr. Fernandez was speaking.
"Believe me," he said, "I'd have sent for the police without bothering to give you any notice, my dear Harold Cartaret, if it hadn't been for Cecily."
"She's got nothing to do with this."
"She's in it up to the neck," said Mr. Fernandez, and repeated with a sort of humming sound. "Up to the nnnnnneck."
"That's a lie!" said Harold Cartaret.
"I think we'll call her—"
"No!" said Cartaret.
Mr. Fernandez pressed the buzzer under his desk, and Cartaret stood up; his hair was ruffled up in back, his coat collar stood out from his neck, he had a dazed and a defiant look. He lit a cigarette for himself as Mr. Fernandez opened the door to a knock.
"Ask Miss Wilmot to come here," he said and closed the door.
What's he up to? Miss Peterson thought. Did he know anything about the Mrs. Perch-Harold Cartaret affair, before I showed him the note? Or is it a bluff?
There was another knock at the door, and Cecily came in; the new blond Cecily with the blue flower in her hair.
"Sit down!" said Mr. Fernandez. "Were going to have a very curious conversation." His look of abstraction had vanished; he was confident now. "Allow me to present—Mr. Harold Cartaret!" he said, with a gesture toward his clerk.
"What's this mean?" asked Cecily.
"That's his name," said Mr. Fernandez.
She glanced at Cartaret and frowned. "Is anything the matter?" she asked.
"He's headed for the gallows," said Mr. Fernandez.
"Shut up!" said Cartaret.
"What does this mean?" Cecily demanded, standing squarely before Cartaret.
"Whatever it means, it's none of your business," said Cartaret.
"Sit down! Sit down!" urged Mr. Fernandez; but she turned toward Miss Peterson.
"What's it all about?" she asked.
"I think Mr. Fernandez is going to explain," said Miss Peterson. "You'd better listen, and not talk." She looked at Cartaret when she said that; but he was slouched in the chair again, staring at nothing.
"I'm a businessman," said Mr. Fernandez. "Not sentimental. I'm thinking of my hotel; and for that reason I'm willing to make concessions. Personally, I shouldn't be too much upset to see Mr. Harold Cartaret hang—"
"Hang for what?" Cecily asked.
"There's only one thing they hang you for," said Mr. Fernandez. "Murder. Willful murder."
She stared at Cartaret, waiting for him to say something; but he was silent.
"He'll be hanged for the murder of Mr. Perch—"
"Excuse me," said Cartaret. "Captain Perch."
"Alfred," said Cecily incredulously, "is that true?"
"I don't feel like talking," said Cartaret.
"I assure you it's perfectly true," said Mr. Fernandez. Watching them both. Feeling his way. "This man I picked up on the beach in Havana—gave a job to—trusted—"
"My benefactor!" said Cartaret. "I kiss the hem of your garment." He was trying to speak with his old mocking lightness, but it was poorly done.
"A wanton murder," said Mr. Fernandez, with a quick, sidelong glance at Cartaret. "Then, in a panic, he stole a passport and escaped."
"I wasn't in a panic," said Cartaret.
"Alfred!" said Cecily. "Haven't you anything to say?"
"Nope," he said, "except that I wasn't in a panic, and that I'm not suffering from remorse for choking the late Captain Perch."
Now you've done it, you idiot, thought Miss Peterson. Now you've given yourself away completely.
"You—choked a man to death?" said Cecily, incredulously.
"That's what I did," said Cartaret. "He advertised in the newspaper for an 'amateur' sailor seeking adventure. That appealed to me. I was out of a job, and I'd had rather a row with my father; so I wrote for an interview."
He was making his explanation for, and to Cecily; they looked straight at each other with a curious air of defiance.
"Perch said it was going to be just a sort of leisurely pleasure cruise. He got me to sign articles, just as a matter of form, he said. But it turned out to be a trading voyage, and I turned out to be his personal steward. And he turned out to be—the damnedest swine... He knocked me around once too often. He kicked me, that last time, and it—irritated me."
"Oh, you mean it was just a fight?" said Cecily with a sigh of relief. "That's not murder."
"Well," said Mr. Fernandez, "the police will call it murder. You choke a man and leave him dead. You steal a passport and run away. That's quite good enough for the police."
"He can tell the truth," said Cecily. "He can tell them how Captain Perch treated him."
"No..." said Mr. Fernandez. "No. No good. You're in a spot, Cartaret. You know that, I guess?"
"I do," said Cartaret, with a stiff grin.
"You haven't a chance," said Mr. Fernandez. "You stole a passport from Alfred Jeffrey, and the man who was killed here in my hotel was Alfred Jeffrey. All right! You couldn't ask for a better motive. We'll suppose that I send for Losee. I tell him I've found the dead man's passport—somewhere. He looks at the passport. What!" He put on a look of stern amazement; he was now being Superintendent Losee. "The dead man was Alfred Jeffrey? Very well then, who is this other man? And then of course the cat is out of the bag. You'll certainly be charged with this second murder, too. Fine motive. Perfect opportunity. You have a passkey. You can get in and out of any room. And that's the end of you."
"Possibly," said Cartaret, with great nonchalance.
"Unless..." said Mr. Fernandez, slowly, "unless I save you."
"Oh, you want to bargain?" asked Cartaret.
"I don't need to bargain," said Mr. Fernandez. "I'll state my terms. This murder of Captain Perch doesn't interest me at all. I'm thinking of my hotel; and I want the shooting that happened here to be cleared up in a way that won't disturb my guests. All this investigating is annoying to them. Bad for my business. Bueno! Of course, Cecily, I understood at once why you made that confession."
"You couldn't," she said.
"You did it," he said, "to shield Mr. Harold Cartaret."
"Shield him from what?" she demanded with a sort of scornful indignation.
"My dear young lady," he said, "I assure you I know very well what goes on in my hotel. I know about those little midnight strolls you took with our friend Mr. Harold Cartaret. Very good! I suggest that during those little strolls, Mr. Harold Cartaret told you something about his difficulties—"
"Well, he didn't!" said Cecily.
"Then you discovered it. By intuition. You knew he was in trouble, didn't you?"
"In a way," she admitted.
"Bueno! Then when this shooting occurred in the hotel, you thought at once that he was involved. Confess now, didn't you?"
"No," she said with her startling bluntness. "When I first saw the man in your room, I thought you'd shot him."
"Ha...!" said Mr. Fernandez, taken aback. "Then your confession was not made for love?"
"Love?" said Cecily, as if the word astounded her. "I don't love anybody. You needn't smile like that. It's true!"
"Then why were you so anxious to stay in my hotel, even in the powder room?" Mr. Fernandez asked, still smiling like that.
"Very well, I'll tell you," said Cecily. There was a hot color in her cheeks now: she was angrier, more upset by being accused of love than by the charge of homicide. "I'm trying to build up a career for myself. My people wouldn't help me a bit. My father didn't want me to be successful. He wanted me to stay home and play for the family. My teacher was all ready to arrange a recital for me in New York. My father absolutely refused to put up the money for it. So I left. I went to a travel agency, and I got a ticket for the first ship that was leaving."
"Do your parents know where you are?" asked Miss Peterson.
"No," said Cecily. "But I gave one of the cruise passengers a letter to post for me in New York, to tell them I was all right. Because as soon as I got here, I knew this was the right place for me. I knew an exotic background would do a lot for me, and it's been good for me to get away from home. I made up my mind I wouldn't go home until I'd got into the newspapers. And when I saw that man lying there—Well, it seemed like a wonderful opportunity."
"And that's how a dead body impresses you?" said Cartaret, thoughtfully. "As a wonderful opportunity.... I see!"
The fine color drained away, and she was pale again. But still defiant.
"Yes," she said. "That's how I feel. I thought it was a chance to get into the newspapers. I wanted to get the most sensational publicity I possibly could. So I picked up the gun and fired it at the wall. That's why I told the police the story. Not for love."
In contrast to her passionate energy, the two men seemed sadly deflated. Cartaret turned away from her and picked up the baby alligator constable; Mr. Fernandez stared at the floor. They were dismayed, even shocked at this denial of love by anyone so young and so pretty.
Mr. Fernandez recovered himself. "Bueno!" he said. "Now you have a chance to get more publicity. Tell Losee you made that confession to shield Cartaret."
"I won't!" she said. "I'm not going to do anything to injure him. I sort of like him."
"It won't hurt him," said Mr. Fernandez. "Here are my terms. Cartaret will write a confession that he shot Alfred Jeffrey. Wait! When you've done this, Cartaret, I'll get you out of the island to Venezuela. I have friends there. If you're not a fool, you can keep away from the police until the whole thing's forgotten. Cecily can tell the police she confessed to protect you—"
"Very neat!" said Cartaret, with a kind of gaiety. "You ferreted out this Captain Perch affair, I don't know how, and you've used it now to—" He paused, and moistened his lips. "You needn't have told Cecily," he said, a little unsteadily.
"I told her because I thought she'd be glad to help you."
"Well, I am," said Cecily.
Cartaret shook his head. "No need," he said. "I'm not writing any confessions. If they get me for this Captain Perch affair, very well." He looked at Mr. Fernandez. "They'll get you for the other killing," he said. "I know how you bribed the cook to identify that fellow. Complete lie that was, from beginning to end. Robert had never set eyes on him before."
They looked at each other, those two men, with undisguised hostility.
"Very well!" said Mr. Fernandez. "Then go to hell—your own way."
He opened the door and went out, and Cecily began to cry.
"Why are you crying?" asked Cartaret, coldly.
"I'm not—a monster!" she said with a sob. "I don't want you to be hanged."
"I think you're a monster," he said. "I've thought so for a long time. All this ought to be just dandy for your career. I hope you've kept those two notes I put under your door at different times. They'll be valuable later on. You can get them printed in any newspaper, easily. Love Letters of Condemned—"
"Shut up!" said Cecily.
"I won't," said Cartaret.
Miss Peterson went out, closing the door behind her.
SHE almost ran into Losee, who was standing facing the door of the office, stiff and immobile.
"Do you happen to know where Mr. Fernandez is?" he asked.
"He was here a moment ago—"
"Quite!" he said. "But I'd like very much to know where he is at the present moment."
His tone was ominous, and, very unreasonably, she resented that. She felt an impulse to make light of Mr. Fernandez's absence.
"He can't have gone very far," she observed.
"Possibly not," said Losee. "The point is, however, that I'd like to see him."
Miss Peterson was silent for a moment.
"Has Mrs. Fish come back, Superintendent?" she asked.
"She has not," he said.
"Then," said Miss Peterson, "I have something to tell you."
It was going to be like an avalanche; the first word she spoke would start it. She would have to tell him about Mrs. Fish-Perch's letter, and then, down would come the great, roaring landslide of justice, retribution and death. Death for Harold Cartaret, and Heaven knew what for Mr. Fernandez.
"Yes?" said the superintendent.
Mr. Fredericks was approaching them.
"We'd better go somewhere else," she said. "It's rather long."
"Quite," said he. "Suppose we—"
"Superintendent," said Mr. Fredericks, "may I have a word with you?"
"Presently, sir," said Losee.
"The matter brooks no delay, Superintendent," said Mr. Fredericks. "I understand that Mrs. Fish is missing; and I have some very important information to give you about her."
"I'll be at your service in a few moments, sir," said Losee. "But—"
"I'll be glad to wait, Superintendent," said Miss Peterson, courteously, "if Mr. Fredericks has important information."
"That's very kind of you, Miss Peterson," said Mr. Fredericks. "I'll try not to be long-winded."
Losee compressed his already very thin mouth into a wide straight line, and unexpectedly, two dimples appeared in his leathery cheeks. He was deliberating. "Very good, sir!" he said. "If Miss Peterson's willing to wait..."
She went off on a little private hunt for Mr. Fernandez. It's getting late, she thought. The sun's going down. Getting near the deadline. She went up to his suite, and knocked, in vain. She went downstairs again and sent for Howard.
"Do you know where Mr. Fernandez went, Howard?" she asked.
"Mistress, I do not know," he answered. "I seek him everywhere. It must be he went out, mistress, but he did not say any word."
"Let me know as soon as he comes in, please," she said.
This worried her. This was no time for Mr. Fernandez to be absent. She went into the lounge and chatted with old Mrs. Boucher for an interminable time; then she went into the sun-deck and rang the bell and Moses, the head boy came.
"Has Mr. Fernandez come back yet?" she asked.
"Mistress, he has not," said Moses. "Policeman came to see he; and we seek him. But he is not here."
"I suppose he just stepped out..." said Miss Peterson.
"Mistress, he never do so," said Moses. "When he go out, he tell me every time, when he coming back. Every time, mistress."
"Let me know when he comes in, Moses, will you?" she said.
She was more than worried now. She went up again to his suite; she knocked again without the least hope of an answer. He was gone; and Mrs. Fish was gone.
At seven o'clock she went into the dining room; she smiled as she passed old Mrs. Boucher, and old Mrs. Green and the Major; she sat down at her own little table. It will be in the newspapers tomorrow, she thought. That'll be the end of the hotel, and the end of all don Carlos' princeliness. He said there were plenty of people wanting to pull him down. Peccaries. Well, I'm afraid they've got the jaguar treed now.
I'm sorry. I'm sorrier than I'd have expected. I wish I didn't have to run with the peccaries. I'm not going to say any more than I must. I'll tell Losee about the letter from Mrs. Fish-Perch, and that's all.
And not tell him about Cartaret and the passport? Just tell him Mrs. Perch is looking for her husband's murderer; and not tell him the murderer's here? No. It can't be like that. I've got to tell the whole thing. And I'll be the one to hang Cartaret, and bring the whole avalanche down on don Carlos.
I've protected don Carlos before. Did he think I'd do it again this time? Did he count on that? After I heard him with my own ears blackmailing Cartaret? Yet here I sit; feeling sorry for him.
Ah, well! she said to herself. I've never pretended to be reasonable. Who'd really try to be in a world with such unreasonable things as hurricanes and earthquakes and wars? I like cats, and I hate mice. I like blue, and I don't like green. Así es la vida.
It's dark night now, and where is don Carlos? There's one thing certain. If he's trying to get away, he has some plan. He's a smart guy, and maybe he will get away...
She sat alone at her little table and tried to enjoy her dinner. But the absence of Mr. Fernandez was almost a palpable thing; without his exuberant, alert presence, the hotel seemed horribly empty. There was no one in charge. I'd even be glad to see Losee, she thought.
She never hurried over eating, or over anything else if it was not necessary; she enjoyed a dessert of boiled custard with a meringue of egg-whites and guava jelly, well chilled, she drank her coffee, and then she went out into the lounge.
The Major was walking on the terrace; she saw his pompous form pass back and forth before the lighted windows. The other guests sat in the lounge; and how tranquil, how innocent they looked! With a murderer behind the desk, a few feet away from them...
She went past the elevators and looked into the powder room. Very elegant it was; gray and rose, and on a little Empire sofa sat Cecily in her black and white uniform.
"I really don't think you need to stay here, Cecily," said Miss Peterson.
"I want to," said Cecily. "This is what I'm getting paid for."
Miss Peterson, tall and nonchalant, leaned against the doorway for a while. But there was nothing to say and presently she moved away.
I suppose I'd better go and do some more reassuring until Losee's ready for me, she thought, making her way toward the lounge. But she was stopped by Mr. Fredericks.
"Would you care to take a little stroll?" he asked.
He was upset. His voice was perfectly steady, his appearance in no way changed, yet somehow his agitation was plain.
"I'd like to," she answered, "but I have to see Superintendent Losee—"
"He's gone," said Mr. Fredericks. "Called away. He'll be back presently, of course. But—we'd have time for a little stroll, if it suits you."
It did suit her, and they went out on the terrace, where the Major still patrolled alone; they went down the steps along the drive toward the beach.
"I'm sorry to say this," Mr. Fredericks began, "but Losee is not the man for this job. He's—impervious. Typical official mind. I have a good many friends throughout the islands in positions of authority, and I shall feel obliged to let them know that my suggestions have been ignored."
"Oh, have they?" said Miss Peterson with an air of sympathy.
"Completely ignored," he said. "I've done a great deal of work on this case, and I've come to certain conclusions—based on my experience and my knowledge. I've presented these conclusions to Losee—and he brushes them aside as negligible."
"I see!" she said.
"I want my conclusions on record," he went on. "It's not that I'm interested in receiving any credit. It's more a matter of exposing the incompetence of the police under the direction of Losee. And you, of course, are the obvious person to address in the matter."
"Obvious?" she repeated.
"Who else is there?" he asked. "I've told my wife, naturally, but she might be considered biased. There's no one else in the hotel one would consider confiding in for a moment. But I can count on you to confirm my statement, later."
I'm tired of being counted on, she thought. I'm worried and—rather unhappy, and not sure about anything. It's a mistake to count on me. I might do anything...
"I attended the inquest on the man found dead in the hotel," Mr. Fredericks continued. "And it was obvious then, that someone was being shielded. The girl Cecily was permitted to withdraw her confession without any adequate examination. I sent the coroner a note, respectfully suggesting that the girl had had a rendezvous with the dead man. My note was ignored. The whole inquest was a farce. And tomorrow's inquest on the unfortunate Mrs. Barley is likely to be just as futile. I managed to elicit from Tinker that she was poisoned—"
"Doctor Tinker told you?" she asked surprised.
"Well... We'll say I elicited the information. I have an introduction to Tinker, you know, from a person of considerable influence asking him to give me any assistance he can. Very well. To make a long story short, I laid all my information, and the logical deduction I had made from it, before Losee. And he brushed it aside. I want my conclusions on record, Miss Peterson."
"I see!" said Miss Peterson, again.
"You'll remember that I mentioned before the possibility that the girl Cecily had had a rendezvous with the dead man. I had—even at that time—a fairly shrewd idea of the object of such a meeting; and now I have no further doubts. The man was a purveyor of drugs."
They had come to the hard, damp sand at the edge of the sea; they walked slowly, side by side under the sky powdered with stars, with a mild and steady wind blowing across the water.
"This hotel," said Mr. Fredericks, "is the headquarters of a drug ring."
Miss Peterson turned her head but she could not see his face in the dark.
"Have you—managed to get any evidence?" she asked.
"Not yet," he said. "My conclusions are deductions, so far. It's for Losee to produce the evidence. Mrs. Barley was undoubtedly a drug addict—"
"I don't think so, Mr. Fredericks."
"I'm afraid it's true, Miss Peterson. And there is another addict here. Someone who came here for the sole purpose of procuring a supply of some drug—probably opium."
"Who's that?" she asked.
There was a row-boat pulled up on the beach, a little ahead of them; she looked forward to reaching that and sitting down.
"You haven't noticed?" he said. "It's this Mrs. Fish. Undoubtedly a drug addict."
No, thought Miss Peterson, but she said nothing aloud. Let him go on.
"She came here in order to procure this drug," he went on. "And the girl Cecily is the intermediary between the purveyors and the head of the ring, who, naturally, tried to remain incognito. This arrangement has probably been working smoothly for some time. And then—something went wrong. I believe I know what it was. Shortly before the storm the other day, a schooner put in here—a schooner called the Hesiod. She anchored out in the roadstead, and some time previous to, or during the storm, she disappeared. It seems to me certain that the dead man was from the Hesiod."
"Let's sit down," said Miss Peterson, and she did sit down on the gunwale of the boat, while Mr. Fredericks stood before her.
"This is my reconstruction," he said. "This man learned in some way that the schooner had gone and left him here. He became panic-stricken—possibly he has a police record as a drug purveyor. He desired protection from the head of the drug ring. He demanded that he be concealed in the hotel. The head of the ring—whom we can call X, for convenience, was unwilling to take such a risk and shot him. Mrs. Barley, no doubt, knew the dead man. She may have secured drugs from him in the past. She would have been able to identify him—and she was also put out of the way."
"Have you a cigarette, Mr. Fredericks?" asked Miss Peterson.
He gave her one and lit it for her.
"X by this time has gone too far to withdraw. It's absolutely necessary for him to commit another murder. He has got to get rid of the other addict who might betray him. He has got to silence Mrs. Fish. And Mrs. Fish has disappeared."
He waited a moment. "You follow me, Miss Peterson?"
"Yes..." she said, overwhelmed by this extraordinary recital.
"Very well," he said. "X has murdered Mrs. Fish. Do you know now, Miss Peterson, who X is?"
"No," she said.
"Mr. Fernandez," said he.
That was the name she had expected.
"I've put the case before Losee," he said. "I told him that Fernandez had either killed or would kill Mrs. Fish, and would then make his escape by way of some schooner, or even some launch previously concealed in one of the rocky inlets on the South shore. I proposed offering a reward for Fernandez. But he brushed aside the whole thing."
"Mr. Fredericks," she said, "are you—connected with the police?"
"I have connections with the police, yes," he answered. "It may surprise you to know that my name is T. Myron Fredericks."
"Is that..."
"My fourteenth book has just been published," he said. "Perhaps you've seen the reviews? Death Under Glass. I've written stories with very varied backgrounds; in India, China, Mexico, and so on. I've always had good introductions, and I've always—until now—met with courtesy and co-operation from the police."
"Have you solved other cases?"
"Well, no," he answered, reluctantly. "But I've never happened to come into actual contact with a murder case before. However, I've made a study of criminology, and of police methods. My mind is trained along those lines."
He struck a match and held it cupped in his hands against the steady breeze. He held it and held it, and let it drop on the sand.
"Oh—God!" he said in a low voice.
"What's the matter, Mr. Fredericks?"
"She's here..." he said.
"Who? Who's where?"
"Mrs. Fish," he said. "In the row-boat."
Miss Peterson sprang to her feet. He struck another match, but he dropped it. He struck another and held out his jacket to protect it. Miss Peterson looked down.
Mrs. Fish was lying huddled in the bottom of the boat, with her long black hair loose, and her eyes wide open.
"DON'T touch her!" cried Mr. Fredericks. "Wait until the police—"
"I've got to see..." said Miss Peterson. She knelt on the sand and groped in the dark; she found a wrist, very thin and very cold. She could feel no pulse.
"Dead?" asked Mr. Fredericks, very low.
"I think so," Miss Peterson answered, rising.
"Then," he said, "my case is proved."
She heard him, but without understanding. It was as if the shock of this discovery had broken her mind up into the tiny bright prisms of a kaleidoscope; thoughts were twinkling in her head, but they made no sense. The sea, she thought, was coming closer, with a strange quiet rushing sound; she was suddenly afraid it would lay up the row-boat and take it away. She turned toward the hotel.
"My case is proved now," Mr. Fredericks said again.
"Oh, no it isn't!" she said.
"You think not?" he said, keeping at her side. "After all I've told you? After I told you Mrs. Fish would inevitably be murdered?"
"No," she said, going faster and faster, with her long-limbed effortless step. "I don't believe Mr. Fernandez is a murderer. Or a drug peddler. Or a swindler, or a thief."
"Why don't you believe it?" he cried.
Why? she asked herself. I just don't, that's all. The more things he's accused of, the more faith I have in him.
"If he's innocent," said Mr. Fredericks, his voice unsteady with emotion, and with the rapid pace, "then why has he run away?"
"He hasn't," she said.
"Then, where is he?"
"I don't know," she said. He's certainly gone, but you don't have to be guilty of a crime to go away for a while. Maybe Mrs. Fish wasn't murdered at all. Maybe it was just an accident. Maybe she isn't even dead. I must hurry and get help. I must hurry...
"You'll bear witness to what I said," Mr. Fredericks insisted. "You'll remember that I foretold this murder."
"Yes, I will," she said, to keep him quiet. It was such an immense distance to the hotel that stood there like an enchanted castle with lighted windows...
Somebody was coming toward them. "Miss Peterson?" called a man's voice.
"Oh, Superintendent Losee!" she answered, stopping short with a long sigh of relief. "I wanted you."
"Quite," he said.
"Mrs. Fish..." she said. "She's in that rowboat, and I'm afraid she's dead."
He spoke over his shoulder to one of the two dark figures that followed him. "Get Doctor Tinker," he said, and advanced toward Miss Peterson. "Ha, Mr. Fredericks," he said. "I see...! I'd like an account, if you please, of this discovery."
"I'd just been telling Miss Peterson my solution," said Mr. Fredericks. "I've just told her that Mrs. Fish would inevitably be murdered. Then, as I struck a match to light a cigarette, I saw the body lying in the bottom of the boat."
"Did you touch the body, or in any way disturb it?"
"I felt her pulse," Miss Peterson said.
"That's justifiable," said Losee.
He reached the boat and turned the bright beam of a flashlight into it. He sat down on the gunwale and stared down intently. "Sergeant!" he said, and one of his shadows came to his side. "Make a note of the position," he said. "Make a sketch."
"Yes, sir!" said a deep, gentle voice.
Then there was a silence, with only the steady murmur of the sea.
"No oars," Losee observed. "High tide was at six-forty."
"But it's coming in now," said Miss Peterson.
"Going out," said Losee. "What was the reason for your coming here?"
"We were merely taking a stroll," Mr. Fredericks answered.
"Who suggested a stroll?"
"I did. I wanted to tell Miss Peterson—"
"Quite. Who suggested strolling in this particular direction?"
"Nobody. I don't think we mentioned it. We just happened to come this way."
"Finished, Sergeant? Good! Now we'll lift the body out. You needn't stay, Miss Peterson."
But she couldn't make up her mind to turn her back on Mrs. Fish—Perch. She couldn't go away and leave her alone with the two policemen. Mr. Fredericks lingered, too. It was easy to lift Mrs. Fish; she was very light. They laid her on the sand, and two flashlights focused upon her now. This is death, Miss Peterson thought. Not a hard death.
They turned her over on her face, and the back of her sheer black dress was wet between the shoulders.
"Miss Peterson," said Losee, "d'you feel able to assist? Get this dress off?"
He held Mrs. Fish up, and Miss Peterson got her arms out of the sleeves, and stripped the dress off her shoulders.
"Yes..." said Losee.
The clear ray of light was fixed upon the deep puncture in the back on the left side. "Knife wound," he said meditating. "Yes..."
He laid Mrs. Fish back gently; he pulled up the dress, he took out a handkerchief and covered her staring, astonished face. "We'll wait here for the doctor—" he began.
"Have you found Fernandez yet?" asked Mr. Fredericks.
"No. No, we haven't," said Losee. He seemed in a curiously mild mood now, standing straight and quiet, with Mrs. Fish lying at his feet. "I followed your suggestion, sir. Your suggestion that the dead man had come from the schooner Hesiod. She returned here late this afternoon, and I've just been on board. Everything in order. Nobody missing."
"Did you search the schooner?"
"Why, no sir, I didn't," said Losee. "American registry—and I had no authority."
"Then you don't know whether or not there were drugs on board?"
"That's a fact, sir. I don't," said Losee.
"And you refuse to take any steps?"
"I'm taking steps, Mr. Fredericks," said Losee.
"Your steps are too slow," said Mr. Fredericks. "If you'd listened to me, sir, this innocent woman would not be lying dead at your feet."
"She'd have been in jail," said Losee.
"What do you mean?"
"A warrant has been issued," said Losee, again in that meditative tone.
"For what?"
"Charging Mrs. Fish—"
"Charging her with what?"
"Accessory before and after the fact. In the case of the man found shot in the hotel. Also in the death by poison of Mrs. Barley."
"This woman? You denounce this woman?"
"You ought to be able to write a very nice story about this, Mr. Fredericks," said Losee. "And you'd have a great advantage over me. You'd be able to put in a motive; and that's what I can't do. I've got a fairly good idea of what; only I don't see any why. And a jury always wants a motive. Curious thing, that. You can present a watertight case—and if there isn't a good strong motive, the jury won't convict."
He seemed to be talking to himself in the dark, and neither Mr. Fredericks nor Miss Peterson interrupted him.
"A jury is always instructed to bring in a verdict based upon the facts," he went on. "But they don't. They want the motive. Even in a suicide case. And the trouble is, that the motive for suicide, and sometimes for murder, is often—inadequate... Queer reasons people have, sometimes, for killing. Very queer."
"I'd be interested to hear the case you've built up against this unfortunate woman," said Mr. Fredericks. "I'd like to hear how you deduce her guilt."
"Well, I don't do much deducing," said the superintendent. "I collect all the facts I can; and sometimes if I'm lucky, they mean something. In this case... In the course of interrogating the servants, I came across a very significant fact." He paused. "I found out that Mrs. Fish, within an hour of her arrival at the hotel, had sent for Mrs. Barley and had talked to her for some time." He paused again. "Mrs. Barley's passkey has not been found," he said. "There are several possible explanations for that. One: she lost or mislaid the key. Two: the key was stolen from her. Three: she lent the key to someone. Very well. My interest now being directed toward Mrs. Fish, I questioned the chambermaid who looked after her room, and I learned that she had a case or bag entirely filled with bottles."
"Drugs!" said Mr. Fredericks.
"Purveyors of drugs don't carry their wares in bottles, sir. I managed to get a look at this case, and I found in it several bromides, and a good number of standard remedies for indigestion and so on. And a preparation containing a certain narcotic poison. After Doctor Tinker had given it as his opinion that Mrs. Barley was suffering from the effects of a poison of this kind, I wanted to see Mrs. Fish."
"Well..." said Mr. Fredericks, in a sulky, disappointed tone.
"If Mrs. Fish was in the possession of a passkey," said Losee, "and if she also had this narcotic in a considerable quantity, she had the means and the opportunity to commit this murder. When I later found among her papers an American permit to carry a gun, I felt we were making progress. We proceeded along those fines. We found an excellent set of Mrs. Fish's fingerprints on the bottle of gin in Mrs. Bailey's room. As well as a set of yours, Miss Peterson. But you admitted being in the room, and Mrs. Fish did not."
He waited, but nobody spoke. "A most peculiar piece of information came from two of the maids. Mrs. Fish had spoken to these girls separately, but their accounts corroborated each other. They remembered what she had said, because she had alarmed them both. She asked these girls if there were any zombies on the island. This is a superstition confined chiefly, I believe, to Haiti. Anyhow it doesn't obtain here. She explained to them that a zombie was a person who had died—generally by murder—and was forced to work as a slave after death. She told them that she had seen zombies, and knew them to exist. And she said to both of them, that nothing done by a zombie could be called a crime."
"It may have been a joke," said Miss Peterson, uncertainly.
"I differ from you," said Mr. Fredericks. "I should call it a very subtle line of defense, prepared in advance." He stopped and looked along the beach, to a group of figures advancing with flashlights. "But the question before us now is: who killed Mrs. Fish?"
"Quite," said Losee.
"And I believe I can give you the answer. I can't see that my theory has been at all invalidated by yours. I still maintain that what we have here is a drug ring—a murder ring if you like, and as head and chief of it is Fernandez.
There was a silence.
"Very well!" he said. "I predicted the death of this unfortunate woman. I'll tell you, here and now, who the next victim will inevitably be. It will be this young lady standing here. Miss Peterson."
"You think Mr. Fernandez would—" she began.
"Yes!" he almost shouted. "And when it's too late, the authorities will realize—"
"Hello! Hello! Hello!" said Doctor Tinker's merry voice. "More work for me, eh? Well, let's see..."
"There's no need to wait," said the superintendent, with significance, and Miss Peterson moved away. Mr. Fredericks went along with her.
"You too," he said. "I suppose you also will hold to the official point of view—the 'ostrich' point of view. Three deaths, three murders aren't enough to disturb the official complacency."
"Why do you think that Mr. Fernandez should want to kill me?" she asked, plaintively.
She heard him sigh in the dark.
"Let's suppose that Losee's right," he said. "I think it's very far from likely, but let's assume that Mrs. Fish shot the man, and poisoned Mrs. Barley. Then let's consider what Mrs. Fish said on two occasions to two maids. I refer to the zombie statement. A zombie is a slave without volition. We can assume she was trying to justify her acts, trying to protect herself by hinting that she acted under orders from somebody else. That somebody else was the head of the drug ring—Fernandez. She committed these murders—if she did commit them—at his command and for his benefit. He then found it convenient to destroy his tool."
"But I'm not a tool."
"Possibly not," he said. "But I overheard a strange remark, Miss Peterson. I was passing through the lounge this evening, when the door of Mr. Fernandez's private office opened a little, and I heard that young Jeffrey say to someone inside: 'Well, Karen of the Golden Hair will finish don Carlos, all right.' I didn't need that observation to complete my knowledge, Miss Peterson. I know who you are."
"Well, who am I?" she asked anxiously. "I mean, who do you think I am?"
"I knew, directly you arrived, calling yourself a 'hostess.' My wife and I both saw that you had no knowledge of a hostess's duties, and you were, obviously, not the type at all. No. You came here at the instigation of the British Government, to make inquiries."
"Oh!" she said, and let it go.
"I don't expect you to admit it," said Mr. Fredericks.
So I'm the golden-haired spy, she thought. All right. I just can't cope with this. I'm tired. I'm going to bed. And I hope I won't think about Mrs. Fish. Jeffrey—or Cartaret killed her. And if Losee doesn't find that out for himself very soon, I'll have to tell him. I hope he finds it out for himself. I like justice and fair play and all those nice things. I haven't much use for Cartaret. Yet I hope I don't have to be the one who sends him to the gallows.
They were approaching the terrace now.
"You can count on me and my wife for the fullest cooperation, Miss Peterson," said Mr. Fredericks. "I only urge you to be careful."
"Yes, thank you, I will be," she answered, glad to get away from him, longing for the quiet of her room. But on the way to the elevator, Moses stopped her.
"Boy here, mistress. Got a letter for you. Wouldn't give that letter up 'cepting into your hands, mistress."
"All right, bring him along!"
"Could not do so, mistress. He a small boy from the bush, mistress. Look like a scarecrow."
"Where is he?"
"In the kitchen, mistress. I send he up the back stairs to your room."
"Yes," she said, and got into the elevator.
It's going to be a note from don Carlos, she thought. She propped open the door and sat down in a chair facing it, to wait. The whistling frogs were loud tonight, and the sea was loud. And there's Mrs. Fish lying out there, dead...
The little black boy came, noiseless on his bare feet; he wore a tattered pink and white striped pajama jacket over a pair of filthy white duck shorts.
"For you, mistress," he said, holding out an envelope covered with dirty finger marks.
"Who gave it to you?" she asked.
"Sailor man, mistress, on the wharf."
"What was his name?"
"Never see him before, mistress. He say, give this letter Mistress Peterson in the new hotel in she own hands."
She took a sixpence from her purse, and he thanked her and ran padding away. She closed the door, and sat down again, and with reluctance tore open the envelope. For she had a feeling that nothing good could happen; that this letter could bring only bad news.
Dear Miss Peterson:
Please treat this in the strictest confidence. By a very strange chance I have run across an old friend who is ready to buy my hotel, lock, stock, and barrel. Because of circumstances which you know, I shall be glad to sell.
My friend has also agreed to give Alfred Jeffrey a very decent job in his large hotel in Montevideo. This is an excellent opportunity for Jeffrey, and I, as you know, will be glad to see him leave Riquezas. Will you please see Jeffrey at once and give him his instructions. Tell him to get the private ledger from the safe, and also the analysis charts I had made in New York. Tell him to bring them to Bowfin Cove at eleven tonight, where a launch will pick him up. He has so little sense that perhaps you had better point out to him that he must be careful to get away unobserved by the police. If he is discovered I shall certainly not lift a finger to help him. As soon as this deal is concluded, I shall be with you again.
Then it's true, she thought. Don Carlos is making a getaway. I'm sorry... He's selling out. I suppose he had to, but I'm sorry. She lit a cigarette, and read the letter again. And this time she noticed the signature.
Carlos Embustero Fernandez y Carter.
Embustero...! she cried, half aloud. He had signed himself "embustero"—"liar," to warn her. That meant he had written under duress. That meant that he was in danger.
WHAT about telling Losee? she asked herself, and answered, no. Mr. Fernandez might be in danger somewhere, but Losee was very clearly another danger. I'll have to tell about Cartaret in the course of time, she thought. But it can wait. It doesn't matter very much when he's caught and tried and hanged. The first thing is to find don Carlos.
She lay on her bed and smoked a cigarette, her long slender body relaxed, her mind working lucidly. She rose and telephoned to the desk, and asked Cartaret to send Moses up to her. He came promptly, very smart in his uniform, very eager.
"Come in and close the door," she said. "Mr. Fernandez trusts you, doesn't he, Moses?"
"Cert'ny does, mistress. Cert'ny does."
"Where's Bowfin Cove, Moses?"
"It's not too far, mistress."
"Could you get there in a row-boat?"
"Oh yes, mistress."
"How long would it take to row there?"
"Half an hour, mistress."
"Can you borrow a row-boat, Moses?"
"I can, mistress."
"Nobody must know about this," she said. "You understand that? Nobody at all!"
"I understand, mistress."
"I want you to go close to Bowfin Cove, and wait in some place where you won't be seen until a launch comes. When the launch leaves, I want you to find out where it goes."
"Rowboat slower than launch, mistress."
"I know. But if you use a motor it would be heard."
"I will use a sail, mistress."
"All right, as long as you can do it alone."
"Take my brother, mistress. He secret and faithful as me."
"All right," she said. "Ten shillings. And ten more if you can follow the launch. And let me know as soon as you get back—unless there's someone with me."
There probably will be someone with me, she thought, and sighed. Losee will go on, and on and on. That's his job, of course. And in the end, he'll find out who killed Mrs. Fish. He'd know now, if he knew about the Alfred Jeffrey passport and Mrs. Fish-Perch's will. It's funny how much everybody has to depend upon being told things. Losee's no fool. But he isn't interested in Cartaret because nobody's told him anything.
Losee, who knew nothing about the Perch aspect, had been steadily on the trail of Mrs. Fish. With everyone concerned either lying to him, or withholding vitally important information, he had still gone ahead in the right direction. And he would, no doubt, continue.
Mr. Fredericks was wrong about everything, she thought. Well, suppose I'm wrong, too. I believe that Cartaret killed Mrs. Fish-Perch. Suppose he didn't? She stubbed out her cigarette, and stretched out limp and flat. I think I'll go to sleep until somebody comes, she thought, and turned out the bedside lamp.
Mrs. Fish's white face and wide eyes and long black hair came before her closed eyes. But she contemplated it quietly until it vanished. Then the little bald man swam up from the depths and dissolved. And then Mrs. Barley.
Mrs. Barley's image stayed longest, because her death was most disturbing to Miss Peterson. But after a time, she too had gone. And last of these images was the Devil. Mrs. Fish-Perch's devilish husband. The Devil shining with fire...Mrs. Fish believed in zombies... You could see them in Haiti, people said: a blank-eyed, silent gang risen from their graves, going along the road in a cloud of dust under the burning sun.
"I don't believe—in it," she said with an effort. A judge in a white wig was looking at her sternly, and when she looked straight at him, she saw that he was an alligator. That frightened her, but she was not going to let him know it. "I don't believe in zombies," she said, quietly. "It's just a trick. It's—theatrical... They just want publicity."
"They're knocking," said the judge; and she heard them knock. "You can't keep them out!" he said with a crescent smile, from one ear to the other.
She was very much afraid of that gang of zombies knocking at the door... Some door... What door...? She opened her eyes and turned on the lamp—and somebody was knocking at her door. She got up and opened it, and Moses stood there.
"Launch from the schooner, mistress," he said, very low. "Know she, soon as I see she. But we go after, mistress, till she go alongside the schooner."
"What schooner?"
"Schooner Hesiod, mistress."
She glanced at her watch. Nearly one.
"What's going on in the hotel, Moses?"
"Isn't nothing going on, mistress. Policeman, he sitting in the lounge, another policeman, he sit in the kitchen, and he drink coffee like he victim of the famine of Egypt."
"Superintendent Losee is there?"
"No, mistress. Everybody gone to bed, except those 'fore-said policemen."
"Has anyone...? Did the police take anyone away?"
"No, mistress. It cannot be so. How they think to catch Mr. Devil?"
"Do you think the Devil did all of this, Moses?"
"Must be so, mistress," he said earnestly. "He raise up a great storm and darkness for his evil work."
"Why should he pick out this hotel?" she asked, reasonably.
"Must be that there is someone bad here, Mistress."
"Who would that be, I wonder?" she said.
But Moses had no more to say. He took the pound note with earnest thanks, and went away; and Miss Peterson undressed and got into bed. So don Carlos is on board the Hesiod, she thought. Against his will? Losee said that he'd been on board, but he said, too, that he hadn't searched the vessel. Mr. Fernandez might have been there all the time. Of course, he may be hiding on board, keeping away from that warrant, arranging a getaway. But there's that note...
He signed it 'embustero,' to warn me. That means—that has to mean, he couldn't write what he wanted. He said he wanted Alfred Jeffrey to go out there—but he sent the note to me. All right! I know why. It's because he's counting on me again. He keeps on and on, counting on me, and trusting me. Telling me secrets. I don't want to be counted on. I want to tell Losee the whole thing now—before I get into serious trouble for not telling it. I want to be done with all this.
She felt so angry that she flounced in the bed. I'm concealing important information from the police, she thought. If I have the sense that God gave geese, I'll go to Losee first thing in the morning and tell him everything. If he arrests Fernandez, very well. He'll be set free if he's innocent; and if he's guilty of anything he deserves to be in jail. The whole thing is perfectly simple and straightforward. Once Losee knows the facts he'll question Cartaret, and this last murder will be cleared up. It's my duty under the law. It's my duty to society. To myself.
If I do go out to that schooner, she thought, I'll take plenty of precautions. I'll go in broad daylight, and I'll take my gun. If I go. Moses can take me, she thought. I'll think up a story for Losee. I'll say I think there's a cousin of mine on board. He ran away from home, and he's working under an assumed name. I'll recognize him, of course. His poor mother in Minnesota is in such a state...
It won't be hard, and it won't be dangerous. Not in broad daylight with Moses along. But it's the last thing I'll do for Mr. Fernandez. I'm going to tell him straight that he's got to stop counting on me. I have too much common sense to do things like this.
Like Napoleon, she told herself at what hour to wake. Six o'clock, she said to her subconscious mind, and went to sleep. Only she waked at five.
She took as long as she could about bathing and dressing, and when she went downstairs one of the cooks was in the kitchen, and there was fresh coffee made.
"Is Moses anywhere around?" she asked.
"He here, mistress," said the cook. "I send him with your coffee on the terrace."
"You don't seem to get much time off," said Miss Peterson when Moses brought the tray.
"I'm the head boy, mistress," he said. "And now Mr. Fernandez gone, Mis' Barley gone, they's plenty to do."
"Can you get a boat again?" she asked. "A motor boat, this time."
"I can, mistress."
"Can you run an engine?"
"I can, mistress."
"I'd like to start as soon as possible," she said. "And—is there any quiet place, we could start from?"
"Unobsahved, mistress? Can leave from the marsh. Boat there now, mistress. We can go when you wish."
"I'll just eat my breakfast," she said, and this time she hurried over it. Because she very much preferred going without seeing Superintendent Losee. There was a policeman in the lounge, but he had only said good morning. There might be other policemen around, and they might stop her. But she hoped not.
She went upstairs for a hat, and returned to Moses, who now wore a khaki helmet.
"We be more unobsahved this way, mistress," he said, and led the way round the building to a path that went to the garage. Behind the garage was a clump of bamboo, delicate against the pure blue sky; they went by that and skirted a wall, and came out upon a road.
A group of laborers came along, barefoot in the dust, wearing tattered straw hats and carrying machetes. "Morning to you, mistress," they all said; and she returned the greeting. They turned the corner, and before them was a mangrove swamp, evil-smelling and gloomy. Moses knew the way; she followed in his footsteps until they reached a tidal inlet where a small launch was tied to a mangrove root. It was very, very quiet here; the noise of the engine sounded outrageous, banging and spitting like a machine gun. Moses wiped off the seat carefully, and she got in, and off they went through the inlet to the open sea.
"I want to go to the Hesiod," she said.
"Yes, mistress," said Moses.
The launch ducked up and down merrily through the quiet sea; the freshness of the early morning was still in the breeze; they headed away from the town, and there was nothing before them but sky and water.
"Is she moored far out, Moses?"
"I do not know if she shift her mooring in the night, mistress. Last night she was lying off the South Shore."
"Have you heard anything about the Hesiod, Moses?"
"From America, mistress."
"Coming here to trade?"
"I do not know that, mistress."
"Do you know anyone who's talked to any of the crew? Anyone who's been on board?"
"No, mistress."
The little boat went dancing across the water that was blue as sapphire; it was a beautiful morning. Only it was lonely. Where are the gulls? Miss Peterson thought. There were not even any clouds in the blue sky; it was empty. She turned her head to look back at Riquezas, and the vista was suddenly unfamiliar: a black rock covered with verdure; no houses, no roads.
It's broad daylight, she thought. I've got Moses with me, and I've got my gun in my bag. We're in full view of the shore, and there are sure to be other boats around. I didn't leave word where I was going, because I didn't want anyone coming after me. And because it wasn't necessary. When I go on board Moses will be waiting for me.
And who told me to trust Moses?
She looked at him, and his thin face was ineffably melancholy beneath the helmet. Why did he have that look of bitter grief? Did he know something? Something that had happened—or something that was going to happen? A premonition...?
Don't be such an idiot! she told herself. And then she thought she had already committed a prodigious folly, to come here out in the middle of the sea with Moses. Perhaps he wasn't going to the Hesiod at all. Perhaps there was no Hesiod. Perhaps she and Moses and the boat would disappear; never be heard of again.
This young lady is inevitably the next victim. That was what Mr. Fredericks had said. Mr. Fredericks had been wrong about everything—or hadn't he? What if he had been right, and Mr. Fernandez was all he said? Chief of a drug ring? Chief of a murder ring? What if that note had been cunningly and subtly designed for just this purpose? To entice her into—what?
"Moses," she said. "I've changed my mind. We'll go back."
"Yes, mistress," he said in his soft voice, and immediately swung the boat round in a wide arc.
"No, I haven't, after all," she said, ashamed of herself. "The Hesiod can't be much farther off."
He swung the boat back again.
"I wonder why there aren't any gulls," she said, with a great desire for conversation.
"They do congregate sometimes, mistress. Got their own island where they go."
"Have you been to their island?"
"Oh, I could not go there, mistress. Some gulls live there, big as buzzards. Man set he foot on their island, they pick he eyes out, pick he bones clean."
"Quite," said Miss Peterson. Dear Superintendent Losee! I hope you're smart enough to figure out where I've gone...
"Hesiod there, mistress."
They had rounded a rocky point, and now she saw a schooner at anchor; a weather-beaten wooden hull with bare masts, and flying over it was a flock of gulls, screaming and swooping.
"Moses," she said, "if I go on board, you must wait for me."
"Yes, mistress."
I'm trusting completely in you—and I don't know anything about you. I thought I was being sensible and practical, going in broad daylight with a gun. And it was—a crazy thing to do...
Nobody on deck. Nobody in the whole sunny world but Moses and herself.
"You might give them a hail, Moses."
"Hesiod ahoooy...!" cried Moses, in a wail like a lost soul.
"Ahoy 'ere!" shouted a hearty voice, and a man came to the rail, a big, blond young fellow, dressed only in blue trousers rolled up to his knees.
"I have a message for Mr. Fernandez," Miss Peterson called back.
He shook his blond head.
"Ay call de skipper," he said, and vanished below. Moses brought the boat closely alongside the schooner, just below the rope ladder. "You'll wait for me, Moses?" she said again.
"Oh yes, mistress!" he said.
The big, blond young fellow came back and leaned over the rail.
"De skipper ask your name," he said.
"Miss Peterson," she answered, and on impulse, repeated it with a Swedish pronunciation. He grinned from ear to ear and went away again, and when he returned, he spoke to her in Swedish.
"If the young lady will come on board...?"
He started to go down the rope ladder, but Miss Peterson needed no assistance. She caught the ladder at the right moment, and began to mount nimbly. He retired before her and gave her a hand as she reached the rail.
"If the young lady will go forward...?" he said, looking at her with a bold and artless admiration.
She smiled at him, her slow and gentle smile that showed her teeth as white as milk, and he slapped his hand against his forehead as if overcome. Then he went along the narrow deck and she followed him. He stood aside to let her pass, and then left her before a closed door in the deck house.
She knocked. "Come in!" cried a sharp voice. She opened the door. And there was the Devil. There was the murdered Captain Perch with his black beard and his glittering eyes.
ONLY she had not known he was so big. Enormous. And he wore a black silk kimono, neatly belted around his waist, and reaching to the calves of his bare legs.
"How do you do, Miss Peterson?" he said in a cultured voice.
"How do you do?" said she.
This couldn't be true, and the sooner she stopped believing it, the better.
"Sit down, Miss Peterson," he said.
He had a very cozy little cabin; she saw white ruffled curtains at the ports, and there was a pink and blue rug on the deck, and a patchwork quilt on the bunk.
"Won't you sit down?" he said, giving a slight push to the only chair, a wicker one with a chintz cushion.
She realized that she must immediately stop believing in this.
"I'm afraid I don't know your name, Captain," she said, politely.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said. "Norman Perch, at your service, mademoiselle."
She sat down then. Very well! she said to herself. It's perfectly simple. Mrs. Perch thought he was dead, and he isn't. She said he'd been murdered; but she was mistaken. That's all.
"Will you have something to drink, Miss Peterson?"
"No thanks, Captain."
"Coffee?"
"No, thanks."
"Will you smoke, Miss Peterson?"
"Thank you. Yes."
On a table he had a red lacquer box with a scene painted on it in gold; the lid slid back in grooves, and he held it out to her; she took a cigarette, and he held a match for her, bending forward from his great height. She drew deeply on the cigarette... And stubbed it out on the ash-tray.
"You don't care for that brand, Miss Peterson?"
"I'm afraid not, Captain."
"I'm very sorry," he said. "They were given to me. I don't smoke, myself, so I'm not a judge."
Once before, Miss Peterson had been given a 'reefer;' and that time had thrown it into a river as if it were a snake. Marijuana... That's bad medicine. A drug ring?
"Do I understand that you have a message for Mr. Fernandez?" Captain Perch asked, courteously.
"If you please," she said. "A rich American has offered to buy the hotel, and he wants an answer at once, by, cable."
"That's very interesting, isn't it?" said he.
"Well, interesting to Mr. Fernandez," she said, pleasantly. "May I see him, please?"
"Oh, did you think he was here, on board?" asked Captain Perch, smiling, his lips very red above the black beard. "That's too bad. But I expect to be in communication with him later on, and I'll give him any message you like."
"If you would tell me where I can find Mr. Fernandez?"
"Well..." said Captain Perch, "I happen to know that he's waiting for his clerk—the one they call Alfred Jeffrey. I happen to know he's waiting very anxiously for Jeffrey to come on board."
"I'm here, instead," she said.
"It's an honor and a pleasure to have such a charming lady on board," said he. "But I'm afraid we must have Jeffrey."
She was silent for a moment, thinking. Harold Cartaret choked you to death, she thought. And Mrs. Perch said you were dead. So that you really can't be here. Only, there's certainly somebody here, sitting on the bunk, somebody very big with a black beard and red lips and bright eyes... If he's the one Cartaret choked, he can't like Cartaret very much.
No... That's what it all means. He wants to get Cartaret here, for some devil's reason.
"I hope you'll urge Jeffrey to come," said Captain Perch.
"Why?" she asked bluntly.
"Why? Because Mr. Fernandez is so very anxious to see him," Captain Perch answered.
It was pretty clear now that don Carlos was being held as a hostage, until Cartaret came, and of course Cartaret wasn't coming.
"I'm expecting Superintendent Losee—" she said; and Captain Perch laughed.
"Oh, no!" he said. "I had a visit from him yesterday, and he found everything in order. He's not coming back, Miss Peterson."
"He'll come again if I'm not on shore in half an hour."
Captain Perch smiled.
"He's not coming back, Miss Peterson. I'm an American citizen. My papers are all in order. I'm ready to sail. There's nothing to bring the British police here." He looked at his watch. "I'll wait an hour for Jeffrey," he said, "and then I think I'll sail."
"But—do you think Jeffrey's coming?"
"Yes," he said.
"You've sent him another message?"
"No," he said. "I think you're going to send your boatman back to fetch him."
"I'm afraid not, Captain Perch."
"Well, it's up to you," he said with another smile. "We can sit here and chat a while, and then as soon as you've gone, we'll sail. I wanted to see Jeffrey; but if I can't, I can't."
"Is Mr. Fernandez on board?" she asked, trying that quick, direct attack again.
"I don't know," said Captain Perch.
"Don't know?"
"I shouldn't be surprised to hear that he's jumped overboard," said Captain Perch. "The last time I saw him he was so thirsty." He looked at his watch again. "As the day gets hotter and hotter, he'll get more and more thirsty. That is, if he's still there."
"May I see him?" she asked.
"What's the point?" he asked. "It wouldn't be pleasant for you. Especially as you're responsible."
He signed it 'embustero' she thought. That meant not to believe him. So he can't be—so very thirsty. He can't be so very bad. He certainly wouldn't suffer very much for the sake of Harold Cartaret. Or for anybody else. He's—realistic.
But she wanted to be sure.
"Before I send for Cartaret," she said, "I'd like to see Mr. Fernandez."
"I really advise against it," he said, "but if you insist... This way please."
He kicked off his rope sandals and walked barefoot before her out of the cabin, and down the companion that led to the little saloon. It was bright and airy, gay with chintz, and Mr. Fernandez was sitting there in an armchair facing the door. His hands were tied behind his back, and there was a strip of adhesive tape across his mouth. On a small table before him was a carafe of water and a glass.
He looked up as she entered, and his black eyes were strangely liquid and soft, the black lashes like rags. Sweat was pouring down his face, his black hair was plastered across his forehead, his linen coat was buttoned and the collar turned up. He sat there, looking up at her with those extraordinary, beautiful, terrible eyes.
His anguish seemed to vibrate in the cabin like the echo of a scream. It shook her so that she could hardly stand; she leaned against the bulkhead.
"Don Carlos...!" she said.
He tried to rise, twisting his shoulders, and at last he got on his feet, still looking and looking at her.
"He can have a nice tall glass of water—with ice in it," said Captain Perch. "As soon as Cartaret comes on board."
"Captain Perch!" she cried. "Let him go!"
"I want Cartaret here," he said. "If I can't have him, Fernandez will have to be his substitute."
"Mr. Fernandez has nothing to do with that. Let him go."
"Your Mr. Fernandez had Cartaret and my wife both under his roof. Those two people. That damned witch thought I was dead, and I wanted her to think so. I had the news spread all over Cuba that Cartaret had finished me off. I didn't want her to bother me any more. The last cruise she took with me, she lost her precious jewelry, and some other little things. She was a damned, vindictive woman and I wanted to keep an eye on her. A friend of mine in New York told me she was coming down here, so I came along to see what she was up to."
He paused. "Damn vindictive," he said, with a sort of sadness. "I sent poor Jeffrey ashore to check up. He knew her, of course. He'd been on that last cruise as steward. Well, he never came back. I sent Nils ashore to find out, and she told him to row her out here. She came. She had the effrontery to come here, on my schooner, and she told me she'd shot poor Jeffrey. Unbelievable! She told me she had come here looking for Cartaret, whom she'd never seen. And do you know why? Out of gratitude! She said she was willing to spend any amount of money to find the man who'd murdered me."
Miss Peterson moved a little, and put her hands behind her back. She was opening her raffia purse.
"Drop it!" said Captain Perch, sharply.
But she got the clasp open, and the automatic in her hand. Before she could bring her hand out, Perch had reached out one long leg, and hooked her ankles; he took her off her guard and she fell full length on the deck with a crash that stunned her.
She got up slowly on her hands and knees, still dizzy, and he had the gun, tossing it up idly, and catching it.
"You—you can't get away with this," she said, helping herself to her feet with the aid of a chair.
"Why not?" he said. "I'll just sail away. I'll leave the schooner somewhere, and buy another. Who's going to run all over the Seven Seas looking for me? Or for Fernandez? He came on board of his own accord. Curiosity—that was his undoing."
"Your wife's body has been found," Miss Peterson said. And she felt, she knew, that everything she said was wrong, stupid, utterly useless.
"Who cares?" said Perch, with indifference. "She told me she shot Jeffrey, and then she poisoned some poor old woman who'd found her gun where she'd hidden it in her own room. Fantastic, isn't it? Poisoning the poor old woman simply to get her gun back. And then—she told me to my face that I was responsible. She told me that I'd made a zombie out of her, and that she wasn't to blame for anything."
"And you—killed her?"
"Naturally I'm not going to admit that," he said, indignantly. "I simply say it doesn't matter what happened to that woman. She hated me. You never saw anyone as eaten up with hatred. That's a thing I can't understand. I've never hated anyone in my life."
With a dreadful effort, Miss Peterson turned her head toward Mr. Fernandez. He stood there with his bound hands, and his taped mouth, his broad chest rising and falling, the sweat running down his face, trying to tell her something with his eyes.
"If you don't—hate anybody..." she said, "then—don't bother about Cartaret. Just—let Mr. Fernandez go. Just sail away. We'll go ashore. You'll never see us again."
"I don't want Cartaret here because I hate him," Captain Perch explained, tossing the automatic up again. "It's simply because my wife told me she'd made a will leaving most of her money to him; and if he isn't around, I'm her legal heir, d'you see? I've been very hard up lately. I'm what you might call a gentleman adventurer, and I have ups and downs... I need that money. Are you going to send for him?"
"Will you let Mr. Fernandez speak to me?"
"No," he answered. "Your time's getting very short. I can't hang around here forever..."
My God! she cried to herself. I can't do that... Tell Cartaret to come here—to be killed... I can't do it... She looked again at Mr. Fernandez. How long had he been without water? How long must his torment last?
"You can go when you like," said Perch.
It was not a problem at all. It had nothing to do with right and wrong. It was impossible, that was all. She couldn't leave him here like this. If she could save Cartaret, she would. If not, he would have to die.
"But how do I know that you'll keep your word?" she said. "Suppose I do get Cartaret here; and then—?"
Mr. Fernandez lurched heavily against her. She thought that he was dizzy, ill, dying perhaps. She put her arm around his shoulders to steady him, but he pushed her away, shaking his head, looking and looking at her.
"Oh, please let him speak!" she cried.
"No," said Captain Perch. "And you don't have to worry about my keeping my word. Why shouldn't I? I don't go around killing people for no reason whatever. I don't care what happens to Fernandez once I get Cartaret on board. I don't care in the least what tale you tell the police on shore, either. I can get away easily. And I can come back to claim my dear wife's money with a perfect alibi. I'm not a fool. I don't kill people for fun. But if Cartaret doesn't come I'll close the door on Fernandez, and leave him here."
If I could find that Swede, thought Miss Peterson. Suppose I run out and call? Moses would hear me, too.
And Captain Perch would probably shoot her. Or the Swede wouldn't come... There must be other people on board, she thought. They couldn't let don Carlos die like this.
But he was here like this; and no one had come to his aid. She looked at him, and his black brows twitched; a horrible sound came from his lips.
"All right!" she said. "I'll—"
He came lurching against her again, so heavily that she stumbled.
"Will you let him write, then?" she said. "Just let one hand free—just for a moment?"
"Oh, all right, if you'll be quick about it," said Captain Perch. "Nils!" he shouted, and the blond young Swede came to the door.
"Untie his hands," said Perch. "Hold his left hand behind his back."
"For the love of God—" Miss Peterson began in Swedish.
"None of that, now!" said Captain Perch; and Nils gave her a good-humored apologetic smile, and did as he was bid.
She felt herself in a world where nobody was human. Not Captain Perch, not Nils, not Mr. Fernandez. There was no use speaking in human language. Nobody would answer.
Captain Perch laid a pencil and a piece of paper on the table. But Mr. Fernandez's arm hung limp at his side.
"Go on and write! Write!" said Perch. "I'm not going to wait forever."
He raised his arm a little, but it fell. He must have been tied up a long time... A long time... He bent his arm, and stretched it out; he took up the pencil in his cramped fingers, and wrote in a big scrawl.
"No. I will not."
"Will not what?" she cried.
He dropped the pencil, and she picked it up for him. "Not—to live," he wrote slowly. "This expense. Que no venga él. No."
"Tie him up again," said Captain Perch. "Well, Miss Peterson?"
The tears stopped. The sense of urgency and fear and horror left her. She looked at Mr. Fernandez. Don't let him come, he had written. I don't want to live at the cost of another man's life.
"Sí, sí, don Carlos," she said gently and steadily.
Mr. Fernandez raised his black brows, and leaned back in the chair as well as his bound hands allowed him.
"All right!" said Captain Perch; and when she did not move, he took Miss Peterson by the arm. She looked back over her shoulder.
"You are a man, don Carlos," she said, in his own tongue. "I shall never forget you."
"MOSES," she said, "get back to town as fast as you can. It's urgent."
But she knew they could not be fast enough. She was going away, leaving don Carlos to his fate.
She thought his choice had been right. She thought it was practical. She thought it was foolish to keep your life at the price of your self-respects It was of no value to you. Only when she thought of him sitting in that cabin...
"Mistress, you weep?"
"I think so, Moses."
"Launch coming, mistress."
The police? she thought. Oh, if it only would be Losee. If only he's followed me! But it was only a little boat with an outboard motor, and only one figure in it. The two boats were approaching each other; in the glare of the sun she could see a man in a white suit, and a gray felt hat.
"Mister Jeffrey, mistress."
"Stop!" cried Miss Peterson in her strong, steady voice. "Stop!"
The tiny boat swerved and came rushing toward them, and Moses slowed down and waited, with a look of melancholy calm.
"Whither away?" called Cartaret, gaily.
"Captain Perch is on the Hesiod," said Miss Peterson.
"He's dead," said Cartaret, staring at her.
"No, he's not!" she said. "He's there, on board."
The two boats were rocking side by side; Cartaret stared and stared at her.
"He's got don Carlos there. He's killing him."
"Too bad," said Cartaret. "I found his note in your room. I apologize for snooping, but I was looking for my passport—the bogus one, you know. I thought it might be in your keeping. When I found the note, I felt I was being done out of a good job, so I came along. But if Captain Perch is there, it's no place for me."
"It's not," she agreed. "The idea was to get you on board and kill you. And you'd be dead by this time, if don Carlos hadn't saved you."
"Sorry," he said, "but I can't see don Carlos saving me at any trouble to himself."
"He signed that note to me so that I'd know not to send you," she said, looking squarely at him. "He's dying now, because he wouldn't send another note to get you on board."
"Oh, my dear, good Miss Peterson!" Cartaret protested. "You're not trying to make me believe that our Mr. Fernandez is laying down his life for me?"
"That's it," she said. "Not for love of you, but for something I don't think you'd understand. He won't buy his life at the cost of somebody else's. Anybody else's..."
The brim of Cartaret's hat was turned down, and in its shadow, his thin young face looked hard and fierce.
"You're mistaken," he said. "Fernandez isn't like that."
"He's dying for you," said Miss Peterson. "And you're not worth it. Moses, let's get on."
The launch shivered and leaped forward. And Cartaret's tiny boat headed out again, toward the Hesiod.
"Don't!" Miss Peterson shouted after him. "Oh, you fool!"
For a moment, she who was so definite, was completely without decision. If he goes, she thought, don Carlos can get away. But her mind rejected that hope. The Devil wouldn't let don Carlos go now. Not alive. If Cartaret went on board he too would be killed; and for nothing.
"Moses," she said, "we'll have to follow him."
Without a sound, Moses turned the launch in a wide circle. The Hesiod was under way, moving very slowly, and the tiny boat was rushing toward it through the sapphire sea, leaving a creamy wake that glittered in the sun.
"Come back!" Miss Peterson called with all her strength.
But on the tiny boat sped. The launch could make much better speed, but before they could overtake it, he had hailed the Hesiod.
"Hesiod ahoy!"
Nils leaned over the rail, his blond eyebrows raised, his lips pursed as if to whistle.
"Tell the captain I'm here," said Cartaret. "Throw a line, Nils."
He caught the rope and the schooner towed him along. Then her engine stopped, and he caught hold of the rope ladder.
"Don't!" cried Miss Peterson.
"It's fate," said another voice, and there was the Devil looking down at her, smiling. "It's obviously Cartaret's destiny to come back here—to me."
Cartaret's boat was adrift now, and he stood on the rope ladder looking up, his head thrown back.
"Come on! Come on!" said Captain Perch, and bringing up his hand he posed a heavy revolver negligently on the rail. "I'm waiting."
Cartaret laughed. Cartaret, hanging to a rope ladder with the sea behind him, and the Devil facing him, laughed. It was pure bravado, but it was superb.
"Look here, Captain Perch," said Miss Peterson. "You can't get away with this. I'll go to the police."
"Go right ahead!" said he. "You've no idea what I've got away with in my time."
Cartaret climbed over the rail and stood on the deck. Facing that tremendous man, he looked so very slight, so young, so horribly defenseless.
"Let Fernandez go ashore with Miss Peterson," he said, "and you and I can talk things over."
"Nils," said the Captain, "tell Hook to start the engine."
"No!" cried Miss Peterson. "No!"
But Nils had gone off to give the order.
"Good-bye, Miss Peterson!" called Captain Perch, looking down at her.
That was his mistake. The instant he turned his head, Cartaret sprang at him like a cat, and caught him round the neck. But the Captain's arms were free, he reached the revolver behind him. Cartaret caught his wrist; they were engaged in a strange struggle in which they did not seem to move.
"Moses! Go alongside!" said Miss Peterson.
"No, mistress."
"You must! We've got to go—"
"No, mistress."
Cartaret fell with a crash, and Perch on top of him; the revolver went off with a sharp crack. Miss Peterson in the launch below could see nothing.
"Harold!" she called. "Harold!"
Then they were up again, facing each other. Captain Perch began to walk backward, leisurely, with the revolver aimed steadily at Cartaret. Aimed low, Miss Peterson noticed, to cause the ghastly death of an abdominal wound.
And Mr. Fernandez was coming along the deck behind him, hands tied behind his back, his mouth taped. He walked slowly and noiselessly, lurching from side to side like a stricken animal. He came on, walked straight into Perch with an impact that almost overbalanced him.
As Perch turned his head, Cartaret sprang at him again and seized his wrist in both hands, forced that mighty arm that held the gun aloft. Captain Perch smiled down at his slender, young adversary, and began slowly to lower his arm. The gun came level with Cartaret's head.
Then Mr. Fernandez tripped the Devil up; Perch stumbled forward, as Cartaret let go, his elbow struck the rail, the gun jerked upward and went off, and the bullet went through his throat. He fell with a crash.
Everything was very quiet now. Miss Peterson sat in the launch which seemed to swoop up and up to the sky, and drop and drop... She was trying to stop falling, when Cartaret climbed over the rail on to the ladder, and after him came Mr. Fernandez, his hands free now, but his mouth still taped. Cartaret helped him down and without any order, Moses took the launch alongside.
Nils was leaning over the rail again, innocent and gay. "You send de cops?" he said. "I tell dem, hey? Dey pay us, hey?"
Nobody answered him. The two men got into the launch and sat down, and Moses steered toward the shore. Mr. Fernandez was pulling with a dogged savagery at the adhesive tape; he got the end loose, and he ripped it off, leaving his lips bleeding. He took out of his pocket a handkerchief of dark purple silk, and pressed it against his mouth for a moment.
"A perfectly clear case," he said thickly through his swollen lips. "Three witnesses, Cartaret. Perch shot himself. No difficulty."
"He called it fate," said Cartaret, with a poor attempt at a smile. "It must have been my fate—not to kill Captain Perch. It's just as well. I don't really like killing."
"Miss Peterson, I think we needn't bring up that note Mrs. Perch wrote you?" said Mr. Fernandez.
"No," she said, and was silent for a time. She knew it was difficult and painful for him to talk. But she couldn't help asking him a question.
"Why did you go out to that schooner?"
"To look for Mrs. Perch," he answered, with an effort. "As soon as I saw that name on her note, I remembered the butcher had spoken to me of a Captain Perch, who had ordered chickens sent out to his schooner. I wanted to find that woman. I was afraid that Losee would make trouble for me if she disappeared. So I went out there by myself in one of my launches. Captain Perch had it scuttled..." He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth again. "Has she come back?" he asked.
Miss Peterson told him, and he listened in silence.
"It's an ill wind...," he said presently. "I took a little glance at that will she left with you, dear lady. She leaves sixty thousand dollars to Harold Cartaret. 'For his kindness to me,' she said."
"Sixty...sixty thousand...?" said Cartaret.
He collapsed quietly on to the bottom of the launch, and they left him so. His head was in the shadow of the seat, and Miss Peterson took his hat and gave it to Mr. Fernandez.
"Thank you, dear lady," he said, putting it on. He looked down at Cartaret. "Love..." he remarked gravely. "He's been in love from the very first day with that little wild-cat. But I suppose when he believed he had a murder charge hanging over him, he didn't want to say anything. Well, I wish him luck. He disliked me very much—but that's understandable, no? I had the upper hand, knowing he had a false passport. He didn't like that! Also I think he was somewhat jealous. Without any reason, of course."
"Don Carlos," she said. "You are magnificent."
"I?" he said, casting down his eyes, with an outrageously false modesty. "Oh, no... Very ordinary."
"Magnificent!" she repeated.
"If you think so," he said, "then it was worth enduring that little unpleasantness, dear lady. Now this is the..." He glanced at Moses who was looking straight before him. "Dear lady," he said, lowering his voice, "in a moment like this, everything is revealed. You know, without any doubt, how you feel. You know your own heart. Dear lady, do you know now...?"
She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
"Don Carlos, you honor me," she said in Spanish. "I feel the highest respect and esteem for you, but—"
"Dear lady," he said, his bruised mouth making a wry little smile, "if you please... That's sufficient. I understand all about 'respect' and 'esteem.' Well, better than nothing, eh?" How much she liked his responsiveness, his quick practical acceptance of a situation! How immeasurably happy she was to see him here alive and well! And how impossible to consider becoming Mrs. Fernandez...
He lit a cigarette for her and one for himself; he inhaled deeply.
"You'll forgive me for breaking our agreement?" he asked. "It won't happen again. You'll stay?"
"I'll be glad to stay."
"We'll have plenty to do," he said, "for the gala opening on Saturday."
"What!" she cried.
Cartaret stirred and opened his eyes, and they helped him up on the seat; Mr. Fernandez put his hat back on his head.
"I was just speaking," Mr. Fernandez said, "of the gala opening on Saturday."
Cartaret stared at him with dazed, unfocused eyes.
"I'm going to let Cecily play at the gala," said Mr. Fernandez. "She shall give a little recital—a little concert."
They were in sight of the town now, making for the jetty. "But—" said Miss Peterson. "Mrs. Barley...?"
"Regrettable," said Mr. Fernandez.
"And Jeffrey," she said. "And Mrs. Perch. I don't see how you can have your gala, don Carlos."
"It's more necessary than ever," he said. "I have three people—important people—coming from Trinidad by plane. The northbound Marquis boat will be in, and I've sent a radio inviting the officers and passengers. I've already invited the chief people here on the island..."
"But Losee? But the police?"
"They'll have to ask us some questions. Very well. We'll answer them. We're all entirely blameless."
"But won't it seem a little—?"
"Dear lady," he said, "the hotel business is like the theater. No matter what happens—" He paused. "The show must go on!" he said with energy.
"It will," said Miss Peterson.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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