Delphi collected works o.., p.410
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 410
The Commissioner said: “Quite candidly, I don’t see there’s very much use in continuing this conversation, but I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Isles, that the happenings of this evening place you in an uncomfortable position, to say the least of it. The police doctor’s report as far as it goes at the moment suggests that the murdered man was killed some time between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock, or thereabouts. You say that you arrived at the house at a quarter past ten, but there’s no corroborative evidence to that effect. You merely say so.”
“You mean I might have been there at ten o’clock or five to ten?”
The Commissioner said: “A jury might easily think that, and there’s another point which I think I ought to put to you. It is this: You say that you received this message at the Leonard Hotel — the message that asked you to go to the call-box and receive this call — and that you went and took it at ten o’clock. Someone might suggest, Mr. Isles, that you did not receive any message; that there was no phone call to the call-box.”
Isles said: “I don’t care what anybody suggests. It is easily proved that the barman at the Leonard Hotel gave me that message.”
“Exactly,” said the Commissioner. “But no one knows exactly what you were doing before you went into the bar.” He looked at Isles keenly. “I’m not saying this is true; it is merely a suggestion, but it would have been quite easy for you to have slipped out of the hotel and from this very call-box to have phoned the hotel and left the message for yourself, disguising your voice. You then walk back into the bar and receive it from the barman.”
Isles nodded. “That could be, but why should I want to do that?”
The Commissioner shrugged his shoulders. “The reason’s obvious. You received that message from the barman before dinner, and if you had put it through yourself — in other words if it were false — and if you did not go to the call-box at ten o’clock but instead went straight to the house, then you will agree that you could have arrived there at, shall we say, five minutes to ten instead of a quarter past. Do you see what I mean?”
Isles said: “I see what you mean, but it just isn’t true.”
The Commissioner said: “If I were you, Mr. Isles, I should be rather inclined to concern myself with what a jury might think might be true.”
Isles grinned. The Commissioner, who was not very pleased with the result of his examination, thought it was an insolent grin.
He said: “I must say you seem to be taking a very casual attitude to this grim business, Mr. Isles.”
Isles said airily: “Why not? What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to do a couple of backfalls because some half-shaven young man gets half his head shot off? And as for your remarks about what a jury might or might not think, I think you’re being rather stupid. If you think that sort of stuff intimidates me you’d better think again. If you accuse people of murder, Commissioner, you have to prove it. That’s why I’m not concerning myself particularly about this business. What possible motive could I have for wanting this man dead? I don’t even know him.”
“So you say,” said the police officer. “But, having regard to the fact that we don’t know what your business is on this island, except that you are here on some mysterious errand, you mustn’t be surprised if one disbelieves your statement that you didn’t know this man.”
Isles said nothing. He yawned.
Major Falstead got up. He said: “Well, frankly, I don’t see very much use in prolonging this conversation. I think that some time tomorrow, possibly in the morning, when we have had a little more time to investigate this matter, I may want to talk to you again, Mr. Isles. Naturally, you will not leave the island.”
Isles got up. “Very well. Good night, Commissioner.”
The Commissioner said: “Good night.”
Isles went out of the office.
Falstead walked over to the window; stood there looking out on the palm trees outside. Then he went back to his desk; picked up the telephone. He called a number. After a minute he said:
“Is that you, Stanley? . . . Sorry to get you out of bed. We’ve a little trouble here. Young Gelert was murdered tonight by somebody up at Evansley — the house that was let to the Tinsley people. Remember? . . . They’re away anyway, so they don’t come into it. But somebody does — a visitor by the name of Julian Isles — an Englishman. Isles discovered the body and rang through to the police barracks. He might easily have been there at the time the murder was committed. It’s a rather odd business. This Isles won’t make any statement. His story is that he is a private detective employed by a firm in London, England, called Chennault Investigations, the owner of which is a John Vallon.
“Apparently, Isles came here working for this firm. He refuses to say what his mission is; says it would be a breach of confidence between Chennault Investigations and the client. I think it would be a good idea if we tried to get a line on this Isles. Put a call through to Scotland Yard at once. Get a priority. You ought to be able to take the call up some time tomorrow morning. Ask the Yard to get everything they can on Isles and possibly they’ll be able to go and see this Vallon at Chennault Investigations. Maybe he’ll be more inclined to talk to them than Isles is to us. In the meantime I’ve told Isles not to leave the island. He’s staying at the Leonard Hotel. Not that he can leave anyway, because there’s no plane until the early morning plane tomorrow. So I suggest that some time tomorrow morning you might put a tail on him — just to see what he gets up to. Understand? . . . All right. Good night, Stanley.”
He hung up the receiver; went home to bed.
Isles got into his car; drove along the road to the right. He imagined the road would take him back to the sea-front and thence to the Leonard Hotel. But it was a long, winding road and Isles, sitting behind the wheel, thinking over the events of the evening, took no particular heed as to his direction. He turned to the left into a smaller side road, fringed with trees and occasional houses.
A hundred yards down this road he saw, sparkling not far ahead of him, an electric neon sign which, as he approached, showed the brilliant words “The Golden Lily.” The noise of a dance band came from within the building. There was a little crowd of colored people round the entrance.
Isles pulled his car into the side of the road; walked into the building. It was a club — a Negroes’ club. He went straight in. The dance floor was small, surrounded by tables. There was an eight-foot balcony that ran round the sides about three feet off the main floor. On it were more tables, and in the corner was a bar.
The place was crowded. The floor was filled with dancing couples. Isles, leaning over the edge of the balcony, watching the scene before him, thought that the dancing, if peculiar, was much better than in most places. The band was good.
He moved to the bar; bought himself a drink.
He said to the bartender: “Are there any other clubs on the island?”
“Not like this,” said the bartender. “No, sir . . . this is the only colored club on the island. There are other clubs, of course, but not for us. How d’you like the band?”
“I like it a lot,” said Isles. He drank half his drink. He asked: “What does one do on a night like this?”
The Negro raised his eyebrows. His eyes were large and round and surprised. He said: “That depends what you want to do, sir, don’t it? You stick around here. You stay as long as you like. You can drink all you like. Or you can go for a walk, ‘cause Ah think the rain’s goin’ to lay off. It’ll be all right pretty soon. An’ if you don’t want to go for a walk you can go back to the hotel an’ drink. An’ if you don’t wanta drink you can go to bed. Unless you wanta go bathin’. It won’t be so cold. It’s a nice night. Unless you wanta go fishin’ for shark. That’s certainly somethin’, sir — fishin’ for shark.”
Isles said: “Is it?”
“It’s a great sport,” said the bartender. “I never done it myself. I don’ like the idea.”
Isles asked: “How do they fish for shark?”
The bartender said: “Well, you sit in a seat in the back of the boat, sir. Usually they go out about this time — or any time between eleven an’ one o’clock. An’ they take some blood with ’em in a bucket. An’ you sit strapped into a seat at the back of the boat holdin’ on to your line, watchin’. Then they sling the blood overboard. Most these boys here take the boats out, they know where to go to look for sharks. The shark likes the smell of blood an’ comes up, see? An’ you hook him. . . .”
Isles said: “Very interesting. I suppose you know all the boys who take the boats out?”
“You bet I do.” The barman took Isle’s empty glass, refilled it. “I know ’em all. If you want to go after shark you go out with Jacques — Mervyn Jacques — a colored gentleman — who knows more about the fish around this island than any guy. He’s pretty good. Except one thing; you wouldn’t get him tonight.”
Isles asked: “Why not?”
“Jacques is takin’ out Colonel MacPherson tonight,” said the barman. “An’ some other guy. He’s goin’ out with them at half-past twelve. Ah know; he told me. But maybe if you went down along the front about a hundred yards this side the Leonard Hotel — there’s a quay — a sort of pier, see — you’ll find Jacques down there gettin’ the boat ready. Maybe the Colonel wouldn’t mind takin’ you along with ’em.”
Isles said: “Thanks.” He put a dollar bill down on the bar. “Good night.”
“Good night, sir,” said the barman. “Whatever you do Ah hope you sure have a good time.”
Isles said, with a smile: “I’ll try.”
He went away.
The barman watched him walk round the balcony towards the entrance. He picked up Isles’ glass; swallowed the whisky. He said: “There is sure strange white man. He orders a drink an’ don’ drink it.” He rolled his eyes. He said to himself: Maybe the guy’s got somethin’ on his mind. Who knows?
Isles got into his car outside the Golden Lily; drove back to the hotel. He left the car in the courtyard; went into the bar; drank a whisky and soda; then went up to bed. He looked at his strap-watch. It was a quarter past eleven.
He lay down on the bed, smoked a cigarette and looked at the ceiling. He thought the situation was a little more than amusing. The idea was beginning to take definite shape in his mind that somebody was trying to frame him for murder.
He yawned. He understood the attitude of Falstead, the Commissioner of Police, perfectly. His story must have sounded very phoney. Not only that — the telephone message at the call-box asking him to go to the house must have sounded even more phoney. Isles thought it certainly looked like a frame-up.
He waited five minutes; picked up the telephone; rang room service; ordered a pot of tea. He took off his coat, trousers and shoes; put on his pyjamas over his underwear. A few minutes afterwards the waiter came up with the tea. Isles was in bed.
When the waiter had gone, he slipped out of bed; put on his coat, shoes and trousers. His room was on a lower, first-floor corner of the hotel. He went to the side window that looked out on the plantation at the side of the hotel. Everything was quiet. Then he went to his document case; put his money and passport in the breast pocket of his coat, and slipped a small .32 Spanish automatic into his hip pocket.
He opened the french windows leading on to the side balcony; swung over it; dropped on to the grass beneath. He walked through the plantation, out on to the dirt road that led towards the hotel; circled the hotel; came out on to the main road some three hundred yards below it. He crossed the road. Standing on the grass verge under a palm tree, he could see the wooden pier that the barman had told him about; the white motor launch moored beside it. Keeping in the shadow of the palms that fringed the road, Isles walked towards the boat.
A Negro was sitting in the stern. He was whistling. He got up; touched his hat as Isles, bare-headed, his hands in his pockets, came down the quay.
Isles said: “Are you Mervyn Jacques?”
Jacques grinned. “Yes, boss . . . that’s me. But Ah can’t do nuthin’ tonight. Ah’m booked up, see? Ah’m goin’ out with a party.”
Isles said: “You’re not. I’ve just walked down from Colonel MacPherson’s place. He was going out with you tonight. He’s changed his mind. I told him I’d drop up and tell you.”
“O.K., sir,” said Jacques. “Did he say when he wanted the boat?”
Isles shook his head. “He’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.” He looked out to sea. “It’s a nice night now,” he said. “How’d you like a run round the bay for half an hour?”
“Suah thing,” said Jacques. “You don’ want to do no fishin’? Because my mate don’ get around here till about twelve o’clock. If you wanta fish maybe we’d better wait for him.”
Isles said: “I don’t want to fish.”
Jacques said: “Well, you come aboard, sir. Ah’ll take you a nice ride. Maybe we’ll run towards Treasure Island, or Nassau or one of them places.”
Isles got into the boat. He went forrard of the awning; sat down on the deck, his legs dangling over the side. Jacques threw off the mooring; started the engine. The boat moved out to sea.
Now it was a lovely night. The moon was out of the clouds, and the sea calm — almost limpid. Isles thought it would be a good night for bathing if you wanted to bathe. He grinned to himself.
Jacques called out: “Would you like a drink, sir? I’ve some nice liquor aboard.”
“It’s an idea.” Isles got up; went aft; jumped into the cockpit.
Jacques said: “You’ll find the liquor and some ice water just inside the cabin, sir. Help yourself.”
Isles went into the cabin. He found a bottle of Calvert, a glass jar of iced water. He gave himself three fingers of the whisky, drank it neat, then a little water. He sat in the cockpit looking over the quiet sea.
After a while he said: “This is a nice life. I suppose you don’t have a lot to worry you here.”
Jacques said: “Not me, sir. I never worry about nuthin’. Mos’ the time I spend out in this boat fishin’. If Ah’m not fishin’, Ah’m drinkin’ or eatin’ or sleepin’. Ah don’ know what’s the matter with that.”
Isles said: “Neither do I.”
Jacques began to croon softly to himself. Now the shore was almost out of sight.
Isles asked: “Where are we now?”
“Well, Ah’ll tell you, sir. You know Nassau. We call it Nassau, but it’s rightly Providence Island. It’s away there over on your left. Right ahead is Burnt Island — a little sort of place — just two houses on it, both belonging to millionaires. Away past Burnt Island, over on the right, is Miami.”
“How long does it take to get to Miami?” asked Isles.
“Depends where you start from, but from here — well, in this boat — an’ it’s not a bad boat, she’s fast enough — I reckon you’d be there some time in the early mornin’. Dark Bahama’s really the nearest island to Miami, see? Only takes just over half an hour in the plane.”
Isles got up. “Look, would you like to earn yourself some money?”
The skipper looked at him in the half-light under the canopy. Isles could see the whites of his eyes.
He said: “Suah t’ing, sir. Ah always like to make myself some dough. What do you want to do — take a fishin’ trip tomorrow?”
Isles shook his head. “I want to go to Miami. I suppose you could make it by about seven o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Maybe,” said Jacques. “But Ah don’ want to go to Miami tonight, sir. I reckon maybe I got enough gas to get there, but I ain’t enough to come back.”
Isles said: “You could fill up there, couldn’t you?”
“Yeah. . . . I could fill up there. But Ah don’ want to. Ah got dates for fishin’ tomorrow so Ah don’t want to go to Miami tonight. Ah don’ want to go there any time.”
Isles sighed. “You’re going. And you’re going now. . . .” He brought some notes out of his left-hand trouser pocket. “There’s ten pounds English money. You get there the quickest way you can.”
Jacques said: “Look, boss . . .” Then he stopped. He saw the automatic pistol in Isles’ right hand. He said: “So it’s like that? What’re you doin’?”
Isles said: “You mind your own business. Just get cracking.” He smiled. “I don’t mean perhaps. Keep going till you get there; otherwise there’s going to be an accident. Understand?”
Jacques shrugged his shoulders. “It’s all the same to me, sir. But ten pounds ain’t a lot of money for this job with the dollar the way it is. An’ Ah’ve got to fill up when Ah get there.”
Isles said: “Gas is cheap in Miami. But I’ll make it fifteen.”
Jacques shrugged his shoulders. “That’s O.K. by me. You know what you’re doin’. But Ah reckon Colonel MacPherson ain’t goin’ to feel so good when he ain’t got any boat tomorrow for fishin’.” An idea struck him. “Say, listen, boss. . . . I suppose you are a friend of Colonel MacPherson?”
Isles shook his head. “I’ve never seen him. But when you get back to Dark Bahama give him my compliments. Tell him I’m very sorry if I’ve had to inconvenience him.”
Jacques said: “O.K. If that’s the way it is.” He altered course.
Isles put the pistol back into his pocket. He went into the cabin; helped himself to a little more whisky. Then he looked round the cabin. In a drawer underneath the chart case he found a .48 calibre automatic. He took it out of the drawer; picked up the whisky; went back into the cockpit.
He said: “Listen. Just to stop any trouble on either side, you get this gun back when I get to Miami. Understand?”
Jacques grinned. “Suah, boss. You suah think of everythin’.”
He turned back to the wheel. Isles sat in the stern, the automatic by his side, sipping the whisky, thinking about Mrs. Thelma Lyon.
CHAPTER FIVE
I
THE HOTEL YACHTSMAN occupies a block in a street running parallel with the Miami beach front and some five hundred yards behind it. Quite a lot of people believe that the Hotel Yachtsman is a very nice hotel. So it is. It is a quiet, not-too-fashionable place and, so long as guests behave themselves within certain limits and pay their bills, the management is not inclined to be too curious as to their business or their comings and goings.
