Operation Manhunt Page 5

  “Conrad Brown.” Brown held out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Anders. You interested in mountains?”

  “In volcanoes, Mr. Brown.” Jonathan took his cue from Crater. “I’m writing a book on them.”

  “Is that a fact? You figure on climbing that thing?”

  “With Mr. Crater and his camera right beside me. Care to come along? From the top you get a superb view of the Grenadines. You know, that archipelago of little islands which stretches all the way down to Grenada.”

  “Sounds attractive,” Brown said. “Tell you what, you fellows staying at the Anchor?”

  “We hope to,” Jonathan said.

  “Oh, there’s room. And that Mrs. Boden is real cute. I’ll meet you in the bar there tonight, and we’ll talk about it, shall we? Right now, I’m off to climb a small mountain of my own, up to that Fort Charlotte. Old forts, those are my hobby. I’ll see you around.”

  They watched him walk down the street. “Think he’s carrying his gun?” Crater asked.

  “It’ll be in the haversack,” Jonathan said. “I imagine it’s a folding rifle with a telescopic sight. And the raincoat means he’s out for the day, and the glasses are just about the most powerful you can buy. Which means.…”

  “That he’s been here three days and ain’t sure yet about his man. Say, you haven’t explained why he’s after your man, with a gun.”

  “We just want to remember he is. Let’s get a couple of rooms.”

  They climbed a trellis-enclosed staircase, entered a large airy room furnished with the inevitable cane furniture. It was deserted, and the office was also empty.

  Jonathan raised his voice. “Anybody home?”

  Mrs. Boden came out of the dining room. She was extremely old and very small. Her brown face broke into a mass of wrinkles when she smiled, and she had a peculiar gesture of patting the tightly rolled white hair on the nape of her neck, suggesting that once she might have been a pretty young woman with long, and perhaps unruly, hair. Her vanished beauty was also suggested by the small, straight nose and the firm chin, and there was nothing faded about the black eyes. “Two rooms.” She smiled. “But of course. The hotel is empty, save for one gentleman.”

  “Mr. Brown,” Jonathan said. “We know him. He recommended you, as a matter of fact.” He fanned himself with his handkerchief, wandered over to the open windows overlooking the bay. “Isn’t that a lovely ship?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Boden said. “It must be years since I’ve seen a schooner that looked so trim. Time was when we used to get four-masted barques in here. They lay right where the Sidewinder is. There’s deep water all around us, you know. St. Vincent rises clear out of the ocean bed, just one huge volcano, some people say. Farther north, why, you can anchor a deep-draft schooner and step ashore.”

  “Our taxi driver told us that ship has been in here a week.”

  “Oh, yes. Seems they hit something out at sea. A floating log, or something, and it buckled their starboard propeller.” She smiled. “Fancy, putting into Kingstown on account of a buckled propeller. And her a sailing vessel.”

  “Ah, well, when you’re on charter, I suppose you must always be thinking of the passengers’ comfort and safety. I suppose you’ve seen a lot of them? The passengers, I mean.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Mrs. Boden said. “They keep to themselves. Oh, they come ashore quite often, take trips around the island. But they don’t have much to do with us Vincentians. They’re a sad-looking lot.” She smiled. “I suppose they didn’t pay a small fortune to sit off Kingstown for seven days.”

  “Are they a big party?”

  “Oh, no. Just two men and two women.”

  “I wonder if we could get an invitation on board,” Jonathan said.

  “You’d be very lucky,” Mrs. Boden said. “Mind you, if you’re really keen, you could maybe strike up an acquaintance with them when they’re ashore. They’re ashore now. Well, in a manner of speaking. They went off in the ship’s tender, a great big launch it is, this morning, and headed north. There’s some lovely scenery on the north coast, you know, and the road ends at Richmond.”

  “Did all of them go on this trip?”

  “One of the women stayed behind. And a couple of the crew. I watched them from the window.” She smiled. “Watching ships is my only hobby nowadays.”

  “It’s a rewarding pastime,” Jonathan agreed. “Could we dump this gear in our rooms? I’d like to have a look at the town. I haven’t been here for years.”

  “But of course. Here I have been gossiping when I should have been attending to business. Millie, bring those bags, will you.” She led the way along a corridor opening off the lounge, past a row of doors. As in all West Indian houses built before air conditioning, there was no ceiling, just the rafters under the sloping shingles, to let the air circulate freely, but also preventing any true privacy.

  “Here we are,” Mrs. Boden said. “I’m afraid there’s no view from back here, except over the patio and the garden. But that’s rather pretty, I always think. See the breadfruit tree? Did you know it was in St. Vincent that Captain Bligh planted the first breadfruit ever brought to the West Indies? The ones which had previously caused all that trouble on the Bounty. You can still see the original tree in the botanical gardens. I should take a walk up there, if I were you. But of course, you know all that, if you’ve been here before. We serve lunch at twelve-thirty.”

  “We’ll be here.” Jonathan closed the door, took off his jacket and tie in favor of a sports shirt. Crater came in from next door.

  “So what now?”

  “We’ll never have a better opportunity to get something done than right now. We’ll go out together, take a stroll around the town. Once we’re away from the hotel we’ll split up. You see if you can find out anything about the people from the ship. If they’ve been in here for a week they must have done some shopping. Especially the steward, I would think. Then come back here, walk in as quietly as you can, go to your room. If the coast is clear, and they should all be working on the lunch by then, nip into Brown’s room and see what you can find.”

  “And what are you going to be doing?”

  “I’m going out to the schooner.”

  “You figuring on busting in? Don’t you think maybe the old girl is right, and it’d be safer to strike up an acquaintance?”

  “Sure. But I’m worried about our friend Brown up on the hill. Seems to me that with half the crew away, now’s his big chance too. And Mrs. Boden said only one woman went on the picnic. You don’t want your Geraldine involved in a shooting match, do you?”

  “Holy smoke!” Crater said. “I never thought of that. I’m coming with you.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not. You’re finding out what you can here, as we arranged.”

  “But look here.…”

  “Listen to me, Thomas. Don’t you realize the crew will recognize you the moment they lay eyes on you?”

  “Oh, sure. And supposing you do get on board by yourself, what happens then? You can’t take on three or four real heavies. And if Gerry is in trouble.…”

  “But we don’t know for sure that she is in trouble. If both she and her old man have been seen around Kingstown they can’t be under any sort of restraint.”

  “Suppose none of those people is Gerry or her father? They could have been bumped off and replaced by another man and girl.”

  “Oh, come now,” Jonathan said. “My man’s a petty embezzler, not a murderer.” But he realized that Crater could be uncomfortably close to the truth. “No, I’ll just use my nose and my ears, and when I come back ashore we’ll decide just what we are going to do next. I also hope you’ll have enough information for us to be able to come to a decision about Brown, as well. Let’s go.”

  “But say.” Crater hurried behind him down the corridor. “Suppose, just suppose, that you’re not back this morning?”

  “You don’t want to start worrying too soon. I’m going to have to hurry slowly, push my intere
st in the ship rather than the people. So I may not even be in for lunch. You’ll have to apologize to Mrs. Boden, but explain how crazy I am about ships. Then sit tight. But if I’m not back by, let’s say five o’clock this afternoon, you’ll have to use your discretion.”

  “Oh, great,” Crater muttered unhappily. “I’m not noted for my discretion. If you’re not back, and with good news about Gerry, by four o’clock, I’m just liable to get in touch with the local fuzz, and go looking for a search warrant, or whatever it is you need to tear a ship apart.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Jonathan said thoughtfully, “if I’m not back by four this afternoon, I will probably think that is a very good idea.” He knocked on the door to the little office. “I wonder if you could help us, Mrs. Boden? My friend, who’s a photographer, you know, wants to take some shots of your Vincentian policemen at work. Who do you think we should contact?”

  “You want to go along and see Superintendent Jimmy Gowrie. You tell him Cissy Boden sent you.”

  “That’s just fine. Thanks ever so much. We’re just off to look at those botanical gardens.”

  “You’ll enjoy the gardens, Mr. Anders. And you should get some excellent photographs, Mr. Crater.” She beamed at them, waved them out of sight. They walked up to Middle Street, where they separated, Crater reluctantly going toward the shopping center while Jonathan made his way back down to the waterfront. He sweated, but figured it was mainly the heat, as the rain clouds began to gather on the summit of Mount St. Andrew, preparatory to assaulting the town. As always, when things were coming up to a crisis, he felt remarkably relaxed, content to take the next few hours exactly as they came, to follow his instincts into trouble, presumably, and then, he hoped, back out again. He was, after all, obeying Craufurd’s instructions in attempting to get on board the schooner.

  He walked along one of the several little wooden jetties which protruded from the shore, came to a boy bailing a battered-looking rowboat. “Good morning,” he said. “A dollar to take me out to that schooner.”

  The boy cocked his head, calculating the short distance. “Done,” he said. “Come aboard.”

  Jonathan sat in the bows, rested his shoes on the seat amidships to keep them out of the water swirling over the bilges. The boy stood in the stern and propelled them with that utterly nonchalant rotation of the wrist which makes the art of single-oar sculling so incomprehensible to the novice. The boat slithered across the pond-like surface, already blue a few feet from the shore, and came gently into the accommodation ladder clinging to the side of the schooner.

  “Sidewinder ahoy,” Jonathan called, introducing a suitable brogue into his voice.

  A deck hand appeared at the top of the ladder. “You want something?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Jonathan said pleasantly, starting up the ladder. “I’m looking for my uncle, Brian O’Connor.”

  “Eh?” The man hesitated, and Jonathan seized his opportunity to reach the deck. The water looked a very long way away, and the watchman, if not very tall, was powerfully built. Another sailor lounged forward, and this was a really massive Negro, who would not have looked out of place in a ring fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world. Apart from this pair the deck was deserted, and the Sidewinder looked sufficiently tidy to please even Headly. And how he wished Headly were coming up the ladder behind him.

  “He wrote me, you know,” he said chattily. “Told me he was cruising in the Windwards, and said if I was in these waters at all he’d love me to drop in. So here I am.”

  The deckhand glanced at the rowboat, now on its way back to the jetty, and then at the shore, so close it was almost possible to overhear the conversation of the people on Bay Street. “Hey, Jonas,” he shouted. “You go below and tell Mr. Harman the gentleman is looking for Dr. O’Connor.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Jonathan stepped around him and went aft. “I say, what a beautiful ship.”

  “You stay right here until Mr. Harman gets on deck, eh?” the sailor said.

  “Just looking, my dear fellow. Or rather, admiring.” Jonathan reached the stem, glanced through the thick windows into the wheelhouse. Here the atmosphere of luxury was heightened by the amount of space, the upholstered seats, the mahogany bulkheads, and the polished brass fittings.

  “What’s it all about?” Harman was a rather small man, with sandy hair and sharp features. He wore white-duck trousers and a blue cap, but like his deckhands, was shirtless. His physique, Jonathan was happy to note, did not match that of the sailors.

  “You the owner?” Jonathan stuck out his hand. “Jonathan O’Connor. Uncle Brian around?”

  “The owner’s ashore,” Harman said. “I’m the engineer. But I’m in charge until he gets back. Your uncle isn’t on board.”

  “You mean he’s ashore, with the owner?”

  “I mean he isn’t on board at all, any more. We dropped him off at … Port of Spain. A fortnight back.”

  The hesitation had only been minimal, but it had been there. Jonathan grinned. “Now that would have been a real shame, wouldn’t it, Mr. Harman? If he had got off at Port of Spain, I mean. The trouble is, I’ve just flown in from Trinidad this morning. I live there, you see. And Uncle Brian knows that. So he would have contacted me right away. The Sidewinder hasn’t been south of the Grenadines.”

  Harman glanced at the smaller of the two deckhands, who took up his position to Jonathan’s right, against the stern rail. The Negro called Jonas had also reappeared on deck, and stood on the far side of the wheelhouse, effectively blocking any escape route forward.

  “So what gives?” Jonathan demanded cheerfully. “You see, my uncle and I, and my cousin Geraldine, are all invited to dinner with Superintendent Gowrie, of the St. Vincent police. You’ve met Superintendent Gowrie, haven’t you, Mr. Harman? Charming fellow, Jimmy Gowrie. You should hear his anecdotes. He has the reputation of being the toughest policeman in the whole Caribbean. He’s an old friend of mine, and when I told him that Uncle Brian was on the schooner in the harbor, he just insisted that I come out and fetch him.” Jonathan stopped smiling. “So where is he?”

  Harman ran his tongue around his lips, once again glanced at the two sailors, jerked his head. They hesitated also, turned, and went forward. “Well,” Harman said, allowing the word to sound hyphenated, “maybe I wasn’t sure who you were, Mr. O’Connor. The fact is, Dr. O’Connor, your uncle, being a famous man, you see, doesn’t care for publicity, and you’d be surprised at the number of reporters who’ve tried to muscle on board to take a photograph of him. He’s gone with Mr. Malthus all right, to look at a waterfall up at the north end of the island, and they won’t be back until late this afternoon. Why don’t you come below and wet your whistle?”

  “I’d like that very much,” Jonathan said. “In here, is it?”

  “And then down the companionway.” Harman followed Jonathan into the wheelhouse. “She’s a mighty nice vessel, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I certainly would.” Jonathan stood in the center of a spacious and beautifully appointed saloon, the port side of which contained the dining table, while the starboard side was fitted out as a sitting room, complete even to an upright piano. From a basket on the settee a large black Pekingese sat up and growled.

  “Oops,” Jonathan said. “Doesn’t he like company?”

  “You want to watch him,” Harman said. “That’s Aristotle, that is, and he bites.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” Jonathan inspected the large ship-to-shore against the bulkhead, then took advantage of the liberty he was being allowed to duck his head under the door leading aft, beneath the wheelhouse, where he found the galley and the small steward’s cabin. Like the saloon, this was empty, but he noted a closed hatch in the far corner. “As comfortable as any house.” He strolled through the saloon once more, looked down the two steps into the corridor forward. “I’d like to take a voyage in her.”

  “Oh, you’d enjoy that, all right. And what’ll it be, Mr. O’
Connor?”

  “Cold beer will be fine, thank you,” Jonathan called. “And along here are the staterooms?”

  “That’s right, Mr. O’Connor.” Harman handed him a frothing glass. “Here’s to your very good health.”

  “And I’ll drink to my uncle. I’m really looking forward to seeing him again. Can I go down there?”

  “Help yourself, Mr. O’Connor,” Harman said. “There are six staterooms, you’ll see, three on each side. The two after ones in each case are singles, and on each side are separated by their bathrooms. The two forward cabins are doubles, and they each have their own bathrooms. They’re plumb amidships, you see, so they’re in the most stable part of the ship. Would you care to have a look inside? This one’s vacant.”

  He opened the door. The cabin would have done justice to first-class accommodations on board any liner.

  “This is tremendous,” Jonathan said. “Do you chaps have rooms like this?”

  “You’re joking, of course, Mr. O’Connor. I’ll show you forward, if you like.”

  They stood in the corridor. The other five stateroom doors were closed, and the corridor ended in a blank bulkhead. “You can’t go forward from here?” Jonathan asked.

  “Oh, well, no, Mr. O’Connor. There’s a double bulkhead over there, and the sole is insulated, too. The engines are under here, and the owner don’t want to be disturbed by either crew or pistons.”

  “Real living,” Jonathan murmured, and turned the handle nearest him. The cabin was empty.

  Harman grinned. “I have an idea you don’t trust me, Mr. O’Connor. Here, have a real look.” He paced the corridor, opening every door, allowing Jonathan a thorough inspection. “Happy?” He went back into the saloon, climbed the companion ladder, led Jonathan through the wheelhouse and back on to the deck. The sun was gone now, obscured by the rain clouds as they dipped lower. Bay Street was almost deserted as the Vincentians looked for shelter. Jonathan wondered if Crater had got back to the hotel yet; in which case he could well be watching the schooner through binoculars.