Getting down from the horse-drawn carriage that had brought him from the airport, Michael Shayne was greeted by a small English lady who could have been any age between thirty and fifty. She wore a long-sleeved print dress, buttoned to the neck.
“You will be Mr. Shayne,” she said firmly. “How d’you do? I am Miss Trivers, your hostess. Welcome to Hibiscus Lodge.”
She put her small hand briefly in Shayne’s. He found her grip surprisingly strong.
“I’m delighted you decided to come to us, Mr. Shayne,” she continued, “and I do hope we can make your stay pleasant. If you will come with me I’ll show you your cottage.”
She took him through a well-kept garden, along a path that led to the pink stucco cottage Lucy had picked out from a portfolio of pictures in the Miami Beach travel agency. It was pleasantly situated on a rise overlooking a crescent of beach. There were other cottages near it, each with its own patch of lawn and its own garden screening it from the others. The sand below was very white, dotted with clumps of low-growing palms.
The Englishwoman showed him around the cottage, ending where they had begun, in the living room.
“Fine, fine,” Shayne told her. “All as advertised.”
The carriage driver had put the redhead’s battered suitcase in the bedroom. Shayne pulled out a handful of the British coins he had been given at the airport and held them out to Miss Trivers, who sorted out the proper amount for the fare. The driver was dissatisfied with the size of the tip, but Miss Trivers gave him a crisp nod and he went back down the path, grumbling.
“Now let me see,” she said. “What else should I tell you? Dinner’s at seven. After you get settled in, why don’t you come up to the Lodge and let me give you tea?”
Shayne grinned. “Tea’s never been my favorite drink. I think I’ll skip it, thanks. I may want to go out fishing in the morning. Wouldn’t your local paper have a list of charter outfits?”
“Right here, Mr. Shayne.”
The current issue of the Island Times was laid out on the coffee table, alongside fresh copies of the popular U. S. weeklies. Miss Trivers, picking it up, glanced at the front-page headline and made a clicking sound with her tongue. She turned the pages until she found the charter-boat ads.
“These are all quite reliable, I believe,” she said. “I am not a sportswoman myself.”
Shayne took the paper. “I see you people have had a murder.”
“Well,” she said grudgingly, “yes, we have. But I hope you won’t think such a thing is an everyday occurrence with us. It’s anything but.”
“That’s all right,” Shayne said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “People get murdered now and then in Miami. I’ll feel more at home.”
She shot him a sharp look and said severely, “Now Mr. Shayne. You’re pulling my leg. It isn’t a joking matter for us, I can assure you. I wish there was some way it could have been kept out of the papers, but I suppose-freedom of the press and so on. Our economic health is so dependent on tourists that something like this can have an extremely deleterious effect. There’s been a terrific falling-off in the nightclub business. People are reluctant to go into the Old Town after dark, which is just plain ridiculous, in my opinion. You’re as safe there as in your own sitting room. I know you won’t have any such hesitation, Mr. Shayne,” she said, glancing at his rangy, powerfully built frame.
“I came down for a rest,” Shayne said, “but I suppose I can always rest in the daytime. I hear you’ve got some night-spots that are well worth seeing.”
“Oh, we do!” she assured him. She touched her back hair. “Not that I frequent them myself. My dancing days are long since over. But if I took it into my head to go dancing, I’d go, murder or no murder.”
“And if your cops are anything like ours,” Shayne said, his face under control, “they’re probably thick as flies in that neighborhood, so how could anything happen?”
“My point exactly!” Miss Trivers exclaimed. “I was saying precisely the same thing to some friends this afternoon. We don’t have an elaborate police establishment, never having had much call for one, but they’ve all been taken off traffic duty and put to work patrolling the native quarter. The old story of locking the barn after the pony has been stolen. But I’m standing here gabbling, and you must be dying for a wash and a change.”
“No, I’m interested,” Shayne said. “This must have given people plenty to talk about.”
“They can’t talk about anything else! It’s so unusual, you see. I think we must be one of the most peaceful spots on the face of the entire globe. Oh, I don’t say there isn’t a spot of trouble sometimes on Saturday nights, when our young people take on a bit too much rum and get to dancing those rather uninhibited native dances. But that’s a matter of sheer animal spirits, and I, for one, am all against bottling them up so they explode in other ways. Those who are complaining the most now never stop to think that the island would be a pretty tame place without our black people. I’ve heard some pretty drastic proposals in the past week, including a nine o’clock curfew, if you please. Well, do tourists come down here solely to enjoy our sun and our scenery? I beg leave to doubt it! They would leave us in droves.”
“You think he was killed by the natives?”
“There’s not much doubt about that, I’m afraid. But here is the question, if you really are interested-”
Shayne assured her that he was, and she went on, “Some of the Britishers are saying that we must look on this senseless murder as the first outbreak of nationalist feeling, because why on earth would any native in his senses murder poor Albert Watts except inasmuch as he was a symbol of the ruling race? And if you knew Albert, incidentally, you’d realize that they picked themselves a pretty poor symbol.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes indeed. The Wattses live almost across the way, and we British tend to be somewhat clannish on foreign soil, I’m afraid. Daphne Watts, with all her faults, is a great friend of mine. Well, there’s talk in certain quarters that we ought to organize a citizens’ militia, and strap pistols around our waists, a la Kenya, when the Mau-Maus were on the rampage, otherwise we’ll all have our throats cut while we sleep. I say nonsense. Let’s keep our heads. Leave the matter to the police, and first and foremost, the native police. I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that the truth about people will sometimes surprise you. It’s true that Albert Watts seemed the most ordinary man alive, but I say that somebody, I don’t know who and I don’t know why, had a good reason for wanting him dead.”
“I see you’ve given it considerable thought,” Shayne said.
“Indeed I have. Unless you develop a personal theory about this murder, you might as well withdraw entirely from social intercourse. I’m a great reader of mystery stories, actually. It’s more or less my vice. If you run out of reading matter while you’re here, I have quite an extensive collection at the Lodge. Of course my taste inclines to the Agatha Christie school, and I know you Americans are likely to want a little more raw meat in your diet.”
Shayne grinned down at her, which flustered her a little.
“Well, don’t you?” she said. “Did I say something wrong?” She looked at her wristwatch. “Good grief, as late as that? I have a thousand things to do before dinner. Now if you want for anything, don’t hesitate to ask. We want to make your stay comfortable.”
Shayne saw her to the door, then set about making his stay as comfortable as he could by himself. He threw his coat at one chair, his tie at another. He took off his shoes and socks, and sent them in four different directions. By this time the room had begun to look as though someone was living in it. Padding into the bedroom, he opened his suitcase and looked dubiously at the colorful sportswear which Lucy Hamilton had considered suitable for a tropical vacation. Most men Shayne had seen so far on the island had been wearing shorts, but he decided to put that off as long as possible. He pulled out the bottle of cognac he had bought at the airport (the low price in dollars had been a pleasant surprise), and took it to the kitchenette. He slid an ice-tray out of the little refrigerator unit, found two glasses and filled one with ice water.
He took the bottle and the glasses to the terrace on the ocean side of the cottage, picking up the Island Times on the way. He sank into one of the long outdoor chairs and poured himself a drink. He tasted the cognac, sipped at the ice water and looked out at the palms, the white sand and the sparkling blue water. A sailboat tacked across the entrance to the bay. A half dozen fishing boats were coming in. An American family, two grown-ups and two children, had a little encampment at the end of the beach belonging to the cottage colony. The children were digging madly. There was activity beyond, in the sand in front of a resort hotel. Brilliant flowers grew amid the palms.
The chair was comfortable, and Shayne felt himself beginning to relax. He sat up straight with an effort, drank some cognac and reached for the Island Times.
For a moment his eye lingered on the fishing ads. These were illustrated with eloquent photographs of unimpressive-looking fishermen holding up some really impressive fish. Because of the state of his ribs, the game-fish had nothing to fear from Shayne on this trip, but he promised himself that he would get in some light-line bone-fishing if it killed him. He would have a full day before the Wanted fliers arrived.
He reluctantly turned back to the first page, to the account of the murder. In an instant he was completely absorbed.
Fifteen minutes later he laid the paper aside and poured himself more cognac. He sampled it thoughtfully, his red brows close together. He looked in the paper again to check an address. Then he took another look around at the pleasant scene, tossed off his drink and swung his feet down from the long chair. It cost him a considerable effort. Turning his back on the beach, he went into the cottage and gathered up his shoes and socks. He put them on. He changed into the least colorful of the sports shirts; perhaps, he thought, it was just barely flamboyant enough so he wouldn’t be conspicuous.
He walked out past the Lodge to Bayview Road. He was looking for 1306? and after the second house he saw that he had started in the wrong direction. He strolled on a little farther, looked idly at the view, turned and came back. Passing the Lodge again, he walked past a succession of small suburban villas set in neat gardens. Soon he came to a sign on a picket fence that said: “Journey’s End,” and beneath that, A. Watts.”
A. Watts had indeed reached his journey’s end on St. Albans, Shayne reflected. He opened the gate, and was immediately attacked by a small, furious dog, which circled him, yapping wildly and making quick darts at his ankles, until a very fat woman appeared on the front porch and called sternly, “Georgette! Mind your manners!”
She must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, which she balanced on small feet in very high heels. Her features seemed almost dainty amid the rolls of fat. Her hair was up in metal curlers.
Shayne advanced up the flagstone path between neatly arranged flower beds. He raised his voice to be heard above the dog’s yapping. “Mrs. Watts? My name is Shayne. I’m-”
She looked at him petulantly out of her blue dolls’ eyes. “I can’t hear you.”
“I’d like to talk to you privately, if you don’t mind.”
“Georgette!” she said with pretended fierceness, putting her hands on her hips. “Will you hush? Get inside and be quiet.”
She shooed the dog into the house. “Now start all over,” she said to Shayne. “I didn’t hear one word you said. People have been trooping in and out all week, and that animal is a bundle of nerves. The doctor says she’ll calm down with the passing of time.”
The redhead began again. “My name is Michael Shayne. I’m from the International Police Association, and I’ve been sent down to look into your husband’s death. There are some rather odd angles, it seems to us, and frankly we aren’t at all satisfied with the way the local police are conducting the investigation.”
“Nor am I,” she snapped. “It’s obvious that-” A man passed on a bicycle, and she lowered her voice. “Come inside, Mr. Shayne. This neighborhood is full of snoops.”
She waddled into the house. The dog followed silently.
“I’m glad to see you’ve decided to behave, Georgette,” Mrs. Watts said. “That’s my darling. I was just taking a solitary cup of tea, Mr. Shayne. I hope you’ll join me?”
“I’ve already had tea, thanks,” Shayne lied.
“One more cup of good tea never hurt anybody.”
The furniture in the little living room was covered with flowered chintz, and little knickknacks of china and shell stood on every available inch of surface. Shayne moved carefully, to avoid knocking anything over. Mrs. Watts went to a shelf for another cup. The tea things were spread out on a low table in front of the sofa, the pot hidden beneath a quilted tea-cozy.
Mrs. Watts lowered herself to the sofa. This seemed to be her usual resting-place, for that end of the sofa was badly sprung. Shayne pulled up a straight chair. He refused sugar and cream, and watched his hostess take both.
“Is that the way you like it?” she inquired. “A little more water?”
Shayne took a sip, managing not to make a face. “This is just right. Mrs. Watts-”
“Try one of my little cakes,” she urged him. “I know I ought to be watching my calories, but now that Albert is gone, I’ve decided to stop torturing myself. Because what’s the use? I was sitting here feeling perfectly miserable, and all of a sudden I said to myself, ‘Daphne, old girl, fling caution to the winds. Pull up your socks and get out the cookbook.’ I feel almost sinful, and I find that a most stimulating sensation.”
She giggled and popped a small cake into her mouth. Her face worked for a moment, like a quicksand bog swallowing an unwary mouse. A drop of chocolate appeared at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted out and got it.
Holding the tiny cup and saucer in his large hand, Shayne patiently started over. “In the first place, Mrs. Watts, sooner or later the local police will have to know I’m here, but the longer I can work independently, the better. Don’t tell anybody you’ve talked to me.”
“You can count on my absolute discretion,” she said. Leaning forward, she added confidentially, “It’s my belief that they’re covering up for somebody.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that turned out to be true,” Shayne said gravely. “I don’t want to ask for their files until I have to, so I’ll probably take you over ground you’ve already covered with them. I know this must be very hard for you, Mrs. Watts.”
The eagerness faded out of her face, and she became melancholy. She sighed.
Shayne went on, “So far I don’t know anything except what’s been printed in the paper. Your husband called up from work and told you not to expect him for dinner. He locked the office promptly at six, as usual, and walked off down High Street toward the bay, with his raincoat over his arm, also as usual. At that point he disappeared. The cops haven’t turned up anyone who laid eyes on him between two or three minutes after six and midnight, when a native watchman found him lying dead in a doorway. He had been stabbed three times. His wallet was missing and his pockets were turned inside out. From the trail of blood on the sidewalk, he had fallen several times before he collapsed for good in the doorway. His clothes were badly disheveled. He had been drinking heavily.”
“Poppycock!” Mrs. Watts said sharply. “They falsified those blood tests, for obscure reasons of their own, or perhaps not so obscure, after all. Albert was a militant abstainer. He hadn’t touched a drop in twenty years.”
“He never went to bars or nightclubs?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Shayne. He would sooner have patronized-” She blushed. “Well, I almost said a house of ill repute, but if you had known Albert-” She finished with one of her nervous giggles.
She glanced at the small upright piano. There was a photograph on it, obviously of the dead man. He had worn a bristling cavalryman’s mustache, which had been in striking contrast to the rest of his face. His hair and chin had both receded. Even in the photograph his eyes seemed to be watering. There were worried brackets at the corners of his mouth. He had tried to fix the camera with a soldierly stare, but it had been a failure.
Shayne asked, “Was your husband in the war?”
“No, he suffered from a kidney difficulty which kept him a civilian. He was reticent about his feelings, but I believe he felt it keenly. He was painfully shy and introverted, and it might have done him a world of good to rub elbows with men from other walks of life.”
Shayne lifted his cup as though about to drink, then set it back on the saucer. He observed, “Shy people don’t usually work for travel agencies.”
“Oh, he didn’t have the kind of position where he was called upon to mingle with the public. He used to refer to himself-he had a dry sense of humor at times-as a high class baggage clerk. He kept accounts, planned itineraries, placed reservations, and of course he did have a lot to do with baggage. You probably know that American tourists who stay more than a few days are entitled to take back five hundred dollars worth of goods duty-free. You’d be surprised how many people buy things they can’t possibly use, merely because they’re so much cheaper here. Albert didn’t care for tourists, especially ladies. He used to tell some horrendous tales.”
Looking away so she wouldn’t see what her hand was doing, she picked another little cake out of the basket. It was very hot in the room. Shayne could feel himself perspiring.
“What kind of tales, Mrs. Watts?” he said with an effort.
“Oh, you know what they’re like,” she said, chewing. “Brassy, immodest in their dress and language, screeching to each other about the sensational bargains. Albert could take them off quite aptly. The thing he chiefly couldn’t abide was their frightful sentimentality toward the natives. Charming and unsophisticated, so fresh, so childlike.” She snorted. “If they knew these savages the way we do!”
“That’s one of the things we wondered about,” Shayne said. “Did he have any reason to be in the native quarter the night he was killed? Did he have any native friends, or spend any time there as a rule?”
“I should say not! Quite the opposite. The place is filthy, unsanitary, a perfect sink. Albert was fastidious. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in that part of town.” She exclaimed, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Because he was caught dead there, wasn’t he? And that’s the whole point, you see. Reading the account in the newspaper-and I’ve seriously considered suing them for slander-what would one conclude? That here was another respectable and henpecked husband who had kicked over the traces and gone off to some low colored dive to make a night of it. He had more rum than was good for him, blundered among thieves and was just foolish enough and intoxicated enough to put up a fight. All very plausible. But untrue.”
“Let’s go back to the phone call, Mrs. Watts. Exactly what did he say?”
“Well that,” she said, considering, “was a bit queer, one must admit. I won’t bore you with the ins and outs of island politics, which I don’t understand clearly myself, as a matter of fact. In brief, Albert had recently joined a committee to protect the traditional interest in the face of increasing native agitation. He phoned to say that this committee was having an extraordinary session to discuss a confidential matter. He would have a bite of something at a restaurant in town. Very well. So far so good. I had no reason to doubt that there would actually be such a meeting. But he kept on with it, and told me just where the committee would be meeting, who would be there, and this and that-all made up out of whole cloth, because about the one thing our brilliant police have established so far is that no meeting had been scheduled, or even discussed. By the end I said to myself, ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ quoting the Bard, you know. He promised to bring home a magazine I had asked for, and those were the last words I heard from Albert in the flesh.”
She touched a little napkin to her eyes, although Shayne hadn’t noticed any tears.
“Was there any change in him in the last few months?” Shayne asked.
She put her finger to her chin. “Nothing too extraordinary, Mr. Shayne. There were little things. He was wakeful-Albert, who during the whole previous course of our married life had always slept like a log. Sometimes he would go out for what he called brooding walks. He would stride along the sand for hours, and come home drained and exhausted. And he became increasingly irritable. He was always a phlegmatic person, but one night a few weeks ago he took a rolled-up copy of Punch and struck Georgette a violent blow across the face. All she was doing, poor innocent, was scratching to go out.”
Shayne kept his face serious. “Did he ever mention the possibility of coming into a sum of money?”
She shook her head, her fingers moving toward the cake basket. “Money. I think not. One thing-he had always admired the way I managed the household funds, but recently he did tell me that I didn’t need to make do with the cheaper cuts. He specifically told me to get top-round from then on, and leave the spareribs to the natives.”
It was becoming hotter in the room by the minute. Shayne barely managed to resist an impulse to put down his cup and escape into fresh air.
“A couple of other questions, Mrs. Watts. Did he do much traveling?”
“No, I thought I’d explained that. He had to go to Miami recently for some kind of training course, but that’s the only time he stirred off this island in years.”
“Did he ever have any dealings with a man named Luis Alvarez?” She shook her head, and he tried another name: “Paul Slater?”
He was watching her closely. She started. “Surely you don’t think that nice good-looking Paul Slater could have any connection with-”
“Just a shot in the dark,” Shayne said. “He and your husband knew each other?”
“Superficially. We saw the Slaters sometimes at the Yacht Haven dances, or at fireworks displays, that kind of semi-public occasion. Mr. Slater was once kind enough to fetch me an ice at a dance. A most agreeable young man, for an American. I don’t mean to imply,” she said hastily, “but the Americans one sees on St. Albans-”
“You aren’t hurting my feelings,” Shayne said.
He put down his cup on the lee of the teapot, so she couldn’t see how little he had drunk.
“More tea, Mr. Shayne?”
“No, thanks,” he said, standing up. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Watts, and I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“Do have one of my little cakes, at least,” she said. “Dear me, they seem to be all gone. Mr. Shayne, you’re so abstemious you quite put me to shame.”
She struggled forward, but soon gave up the attempt to rise. “I’m going to be most discourteous and let you find your own way out. I feel a little faint. I don’t think of myself as a demonstrative person, but when I speak of Albert, the tears have a way of coming.”
She touched her eyes again. The cross little dog let Shayne leave without barking at him. It seemed to the American that the eyes of Albert Watts’ portrait followed him as he made his way to the door.
Outside, he mopped his forehead and let out his breath in a long, soundless whistle.