Operation Manhunt Page 3

  “A Barbadian policeman?”

  “Oh, no. This guy could’ve been from anywhere, although it seems he did have a Yankee accent. He didn’t come in here, so I can’t really tell you much about him, save that he was a white man, maybe forty, and had a little mustache. But he sure was anxious about that schooner. So we thought a bit. The season for yachting ended a couple of months back, and the weather isn’t all that good. They say there’s a storm out there now, and coming our way. But the Sidewinder was in here for several days last month, and so far as I could find out, she wasn’t intending to go back north for a while.”

  “But she was on charter?”

  “That was the word.”

  Jonathan scratched his head. “Then I’m not altogether with you, Seth.”

  “Well, here we have a ship knocking around the islands, crewed by at least two ex-cons, and meaning to spend the storm season in these waters, so far as anyone can tell. And here we have somebody trying to find out something about her. So it seems a fair bet to me that the Sidewinder’s passengers ain’t the right sort of people.”

  “They could be Cuban exiles,” Joey Halman said. “Those guys are always up to something.”

  “Did you have a look at them?”

  “They looked all right,” Seth Halman said. “A distinguished-looking guy, with a young woman always close by, and a middle-aged man, might have been the chap who chartered her, and his wife, I reckon. Man, there was a large woman.”

  “And the crew was all local?”

  “Oh, no. Only the deck hands were West Indians. The skipper and the mate were Americans, I figure. And the engineer was a white guy. English, maybe.”

  “No steward?”

  “Oh, well, all these ships have a steward. But he never came ashore.”

  “I think there was something the matter with him,” Joey said. “I don’t know what, but I heard two of the hands joking about it on the waterfront one day, while they were waiting for the tender. Funny thing, he was a white guy, too. I had a look at him one day when I was out fishing, and I passed close to the schooner while he was on deck. You don’t often get white guys stewarding in the islands.”

  “And no one has any idea where the Sidewinder was heading when she left here?”

  “No, sir. She just upped anchor one morning, without warning, and sailed off. Seems the guy running her is one of those chaps who just gets the itch to move all of a sudden.”

  Jonathan grinned. “A ship of mystery. But you’re letting your imagination run away with you. To tell you the truth, I saw a photograph of the Sidewinder in a travel magazine in England. She looked so good, reminded me of the old days so much, that I tore it out.” He took it from his pocket, unfolded it, laid it on the counter.

  The Halmans bent over it. “That’s her, all right.”

  “And who’s the man in the deck chair?”

  “That’s the distinguished-looking guy I was talking about. Boy, he sure looks contented.”

  “And that’s the steward behind him?”

  “I guess so. Like I said, I never saw him close.”

  “The point is, Seth, this photograph makes a hash of your sinister theories. If the skipper was really trying to keep out of trouble, he wouldn’t plaster a photograph of his yacht all over an international magazine.”

  “Now there’s a point, all right, Jonathan. If I were you, I’d ask the guy what took it. Tom Crater.”

  “So how do I find him?”

  “Oh, just around the corner, in Broad Street. You can’t miss his studio.”

  “I’ll go along there now. You chaps have got me quite interested in this ship. There’s just one more thing, Seth. What about this man who was asking questions? Is he still in Bridgetown?”

  “Now that I can’t say. He hasn’t been down at the Careenage for a couple of days. But he was staying at the Harbor Hotel.”

  “Well, thanks again. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll see you around.”

  It was August, and as was inevitable at this time of the year, the noonday clouds had gathered, low and black, moving west out of the Atlantic, seeming to be closing their ranks at their first sight of land. No sooner had Jonathan regained Broad Street than it began to rain, enormous drops plummeting downward with stinging force, taking only a few seconds to absorb all the dust on the street and turn the tar into a gleaming river. Jonathan stood in a shop doorway with a dozen passersby. He had forgotten about West Indian rain. The fact that several thousand gallons of water were being dumped on the street had no effect on the temperature; he was sweating more now than five minutes before, persumably because he was huddled in the midst of a mass of perspiring humanity. But he remembered that these noonday showers never lasted more than half an hour, and he could use the time well.

  Craufurd’s instincts had always been sound. Unfortunately, he had in the fullest possible measure the old British complaint of underestimating the opposition, or of not troubling to estimate it at all. Someone else had seen that photograph in the magazine. Or someone else was in possession of far more information than they were.

  He found himself staring at the sign, tom crater photographic studio, on the other side of the street. The rain was already slackening. He jumped across the overflowing gutter, and sprinted. It took him only a few seconds, but he was wet through by the time he reached the pavement on the far side. He mopped himself with his handkerchief, ignored the amazed comments of the other people sheltering from the rain, and went inside.

  “Good morning.” A pretty girl smiled at him from behind the counter.

  “It was,” he agreed. “Mr. Crater around?”

  She opened a book on her desk. “He’s out right now, but he could give you a sitting this afternoon. Two-thirty? Would it be a passport or a portrait?”

  Jonathan took the photograph from his pocket. “I’d just like to find out something about this picture.”

  She spread it on the counter in front of her. “Now isn’t that funny.”

  “Let me guess,” Jonathan said. “Someone asked you that very question only a couple of days ago.”

  She raised her head. “That’s right.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Oh, tall, had a mustache, spoke with an American accent.” She shrugged. “Everyone speaks with an American accent, nowadays.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Same as I’ll tell you. We didn’t take it. It’s a Polaroid print. You know, one of those instant-developing things? No professional would use them, they’re too expensive.”

  “It has your name as a credit.”

  “Oh, sure. Funny thing, that was. It was brought in here by a passenger on this yacht, a girl. She asked if we could use it. Well, it’s a good photograph. So I took it, filed it, and forgot about it, and what do you know, only three days later, right after the ship had left, a man came in and said he was looking for a good publicity shot of a charter yacht, and did we have one. So I looked in the file and there it was. Well, the girl had said she’d taken the shot herself, and presumably she had the copyright. Anyway, you can’t really identify the yacht. So I let him have it. He paid ten guineas for it. Oh, brother, if I’d known it was going to arouse so much interest, I’d have burned it.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t, for one. What about the girl? Can you tell me anything about her?”

  “A white girl, kind of small, quite pretty, dark haired, spoke with an American accent. Very well dressed. I took her name, of course, but she said, ‘Joan Smith.’ Well, I ask you.”

  But it occurred to Jonathan that she wasn’t telling the truth either; her story had been a shade too well rehearsed.

  The rain had stopped, and the sun had returned. Now the wet street steamed, as if there were vast fires in the sewers. People steamed, too, and splashed through the rapidly drying puddles as they mopped faces and necks with handkerchiefs. In half an hour’s time there would scarcely be any indication that it had rained at all.

  Jonath
an asked a policeman, impressive in high-domed white helmet, and was given directions to reach the Harbor Hotel. He made his way along Broad Street, turned right at the appropriate corner, hesitated. There was nothing wrong with this lane; and the house at the end, although clearly not a tourist trap, looked respectable enough. A coat of paint, he thought, would work wonders. There was a bookstore on the corner, and he paused to glance over the titles in the window, using it as a mirror to look back at Broad Street. There was nothing unusual behind him, either, although the pavements were suddenly crowded as Bridgetown took its luncheon break. The only person not hurrying seemed to be a young man, sandy-haired and heavily tanned, wearing a red sports shirt and with his hands deep in his pockets, gazing moodily into the window of a sports outfitter. There was nothing the least bit out of the ordinary for Broad Street on an August morning. Yet Jon was suddenly nervous. Because he was going to lead with his chin, as usual.

  He went up a shallow flight of steps, crossed a deserted veranda, entered a hallway furnished with a couple of battered cane chairs and an equally dilapidated hatstand. To his left was a counter on which there was a bell. He rang. A few moments passed, and then a middle-aged woman, tall and broad and good-humored, came down the stairs from the upper floor. “Good morning, sir. You would like a room?”

  “No, thanks very much. I understand there’s a friend of mine staying here.”

  “You can give me the name?”

  “Well, the fact is, my friend uses more than one. If you follow me.”

  She grinned. “Oh, yes, sir. But how can I help you if I don’t know who you are looking for?”

  “I can give you a description. The man I want is a Caucasian, fairly tall, with a little mustache. He would be older than me, and he speaks with an American accent.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. That would be Mr. Brown.”

  “Mr. Brown,” Jonathan said. “Of course. He nearly always uses Brown. Is he in?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Mr. Brown has gone. Let me see.” She went behind the counter, opened her guest book. “He came here on Friday last week, and he stayed for four days, and he left yesterday morning.”

  “Oh, what a shame. I really hoped I’d catch him here. Do you know where he was off to?”

  “Well, sir, I don’t know exactly.” She looked coyly at Jonathan. “He left his big bag here.”

  “You mean he’s coming back?”

  “Well, sir, you see, you have to come back to Barbados, or go down to Trinidad, or up to Antigua or Jamaica, to get a flight back to Europe. The small islands are served only by the local planes.”

  “And he went to one of the small islands?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. So he asked me if he could leave his bag until he came back through, and he took the little one. It’s right here.” She tapped something under the counter, then raised her head to gaze at Jonathan. Jonathan gazed at her. Think, he told himself.

  “I suppose you’re very busy,” he said.

  “Oh, no, sir. Not in August. It is far too hot for tourists. And then, the weather is so unsettled.”

  “Then can you give me lunch?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. It will be a pleasure. You must come into the lounge and I will get Waldo to mix you up a nice rum cocktail.”

  She led him beyond the stairs and into a small parlor filled with cane furniture and potted palms, but opening on to a surprisingly shady and attractive little garden.

  “This is very nice,” he said. “Very peaceful. But really, a cold beer would be just right. And you must join me, Mrs.… ?”

  “You must call me Honor. And it will be a pleasure, Mr.… ?”

  Jonathan considered. He’d already had a Smith and a Brown this morning. “Jones,” he said. “Lloyd Jones, from Cardiff,” adjusting his accent suitably.

  “Oh, we have a lot of Welsh people in the West Indies.” Honor sat down. “They do say the West Indian accent is like the Welsh. Waldo! Bring two beers from off the ice.”

  “I hear you, madam,” said the boy, barefooted but wearing a spotless white jacket.

  “And tell cook the gentleman is lunching,” she shouted.

  Jonathan raised his glass to her, sipped, and felt cooler and more confident all in one. “I suppose you’ve guessed that Mr. Brown isn’t really a friend of mine?”

  Again the happy giggle. “Oh, yes, Mr. Jones. He ain’t the sort of gentleman a gentleman like you would know.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged, a massive gesture. “I see people, Mr. Jones. They come and they go. Not only the ones what are staying here. All Mr. Brown did was hang around the waterfront, talking with people, asking questions. Then he up and left.”

  “I’m asking questions,” Jonathan pointed out.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Jones, but your clothes are different and all. Not like Mr. Brown’s. Oh, no. Your lunch is ready.”

  “You must let me buy you another beer.”

  “Man, you’re a real gentleman,” she said. “That Mr. Brown never bought me nothing to drink. Do you know, Mr. Jones, he even wanted to argue about the bill? And there ain’t no hotel in Barbados what has more reasonable rates. No, sir. You come and sit over here by the window and look at the garden.”

  There were only two other guests to lunch, and Jonathan estimated they were the only residents as well. This pair were salesmen, from the briefcases propped against their chairs. But it was a good lunch, grapefruit and flying fish with avocado pear, very highly seasoned, and coconut ice cream. Honor served him herself, while a young girl, obviously her daughter, attended to the other table.

  “And now you must have some coffee and a cigar,” Honor said when he had finished. “Good cigars. Havana.”

  Jonathan sighed. “Actually, I don’t smoke. But,” he added as she showed her disappointment, “I have a friend who does.”

  “Then you must take him some.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea. I’ll take two.”

  She giggled. “Now, I can see that you’re not mean, Mr. Jones. Not like that Mr. Brown. You’re just not thinking.”

  “Of course you’re right, Honor. I’ll take a box. But I won’t have any coffee, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, the coffee is included in the cost of the lunch, Mr. Jones. I will go and get your bill and that box of cigars. But you don’t have to wait in here. You can do that in the office. It’s very comfortable in there, and very private, at this time of the day.”

  Jonathan went down the hall, stepped into the little office, and closed the door. He knelt, examined the locks, laid the case on its side, and inserted the blade of his penknife between catch and socket. A moment later the first lock snapped open, and the second proved no more difficult. But he was no longer anticipating anything dramatic. If Mr. Brown had been prepared to abandon a suitcase as easy of access as this one, he certainly would not have left anything incriminating in it. And so it proved. There were shirts and socks and underwear, and a folded suit, bought in Miami. There were a couple of loud ties. There was no hint as to Mr. Brown’s identity or where he came from. There was nothing, except … Jonathan wrinkled his nose. The faintest of unusual smells, only retained because it had been fresh a few seconds before the suitcase had been closed. He looked again, found a slight brown stain against the back pocket, diffused over several inches. He touched it with his finger, sniffed. An oily rag had been pressed hard against the pocket, in a suitcase packed with clothes. He was no nearer knowing Mr. Brown’s business, but he knew now that Mr. Brown meant business, if he carried a gun.

  “Here are your cigars,” Honor said. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “More than enough to go on with,” Jonathan said. “You really have been tremendously helpful.” He gazed at the street through the glass-fronted door. It was two in the afternoon, and although Barbados, like most of the former British colonies in the West Indies, did not officially recognize the siesta, there was a definite slackening in activity between lunch and three o’clock. Yet the same m
an who had been looking into the sports outfitter’s window before lunch was now looking into the bookstore window on the corner. “One last piece of information, Honor. Would you happen to know the name of that chap across the street? The one looking into the shop window?”

  Honor screwed up her eyes. “That? Oh, man, that is Mr. Crater, the photographer. He has a studio on Broad Street. You must have seen it. He’s an American gentleman.”

  “Of course,” Jonathan said. “Well, thanks again. I’ll see you around.” He closed the front door behind him, ran down the steps. Crater saw him coming, turned, and hurried along the lane. Jonathan reached Broad Street, though he could not see him. But his instincts, which had got him into so much successful trouble in Guernsey, were again screaming for him to attack. He crossed the street, hurried along the pavement, darting in and out between people, and pushed open the door to the studio.

  The bell jangled, and the pretty girl smiled at him, but her eyes were anxious. “Well, hi,” she said. “Forgotten something?”

  “You said I could have an appointment with Mr. Crater for this afternoon.”

  “Well, yes, I did. But I didn’t actually make one. And he’s gone across to Bathsheba, on the other side of the island.”

  “I’ll wait for him. Upstairs, is it?”

  “He won’t be back this afternoon!” She hurried from the desk, but he was already past her and taking the steep flight of steps three at a time. “Tom!” she shouted. “Trouble!”

  Jonathan reached the top step, ducked as he saw the shadow darkening the gloom of the landing. The man’s fist brushed off the top of his head, but even so came with sufficient force to throw him off balance. The girl was up to him now, and reaching for his ankles to complete his collapse. He struck the floor heavily, and the old wooden building seemed to shake.

  Crater knelt above him, trying to secure his arms. The girl was sitting across his legs. “Shall I call a policeman?” she gasped.