MAJOR BRIGGS’ office was on the second floor of an old stone building, one of several that stood about a paved courtyard in downtown Bridgetown and formed the Central Police Station. Overlooking this court and the huge Indian evergreen in the center was a covered veranda with Demerara shutters. Two plain-clothes men and a policewoman worked here at desks and the tiny anteroom at the end was empty when Alan Scott arrived shortly before ten. He was admitted to the private office as soon as he gave his name, and what happened then surprised him a little.
The Major, pleasantly businesslike, waved him to a chair at the end of the desk. He pushed a pad of paper and a pen at Scott and leaned back in his chair. There was no cross-examination, threats, or insinuations. What Briggs wanted was a simple statement in writing as to what Scott knew about the affair.
“Just put down what you told me earlier,” he said. “Plus anything else that may have occurred to you since then. Just the simple truth will do for now, Mr. Scott, though I do wish you’d give some thought to time.”
“Time?”
“Perhaps I should have said the time element. When Mrs. Lambert was taken to the cabin, when the others left, things like that,’ He smiled faintly to indicate that he did not want to be unreasonable. “Not that I expect you to be exact. One doesn’t go about looking at clocks at a time like that but—do the best you can.”
Having already decided to stick to his story, Scott wrote it down, hardly expecting that this would be the end of the investigation but glad that there was to be no inquisition for the present. When he had finished, Briggs read the statement, called an aide in and had him witness Scott’s signature.
“That’ll do for now,” he said. “Thank you very much.” He rubbed his palms gently together, hesitated; then stood up. “I’m going to ask you ‘o stand by for an hour or so, if you don’t mind. Until I’ve talked to the others.”
Scott frowned, the disappointment showing in his angular face. At the point of congratulating himself on the simplicity of the interview, he understood now that this was only the beginning.
“Here?” he said.
“Well, no.” Briggs waved one hand. “We’re hardly equipped to make you comfortable, but you might wait on the downstairs veranda, or in your car if you prefer. Just so we can find you when we want you.”
Scott eyed him sardonically. “You mean you want to have another session with all of us after you’ve compared notes.”
“It’s sometimes helpful,” Briggs said, and smiled pleasantly but with no great warmth.
Scott went out to find Sally and Lambert waiting in the anteroom along with Freddie Gardner. They all stood up and Briggs, who had followed Scott, was introduced to Sally.
“Should we come in now?” Lambert asked.
“Well—yes.” Briggs smiled. “But one at a time, if you don’t mind. Suppose we start with you?”
Lambert, looking like a man who wanted to protest but did not dare, glanced at Sally, shrugged and followed the Major. When the door closed, Scott took the girl’s arm.
“We should have time for a cigarette,” he said. “Will you excuse us, Freddie?”
Freddie wet his lips. He wore another of his white drill suits with raveled cuffs and this one had a stain on one pocket. His round face held a melancholy look and behind the spectacles his light brown eyes were distressed and uncertain.
“Yes, certainly,” he said reluctantly, “although I do wish someone would tell me just what happened.”
Sally wore a navy-blue linen dress and carried a straw bag. She was bare-legged and though her green eyes were subdued her tanned skin looked fresh and flawless and he liked the way she kept her chin up. But as they went down the stairs his mind held no thoughts of love. He was worried about how she would react to Briggs, and he was annoyed that she had come here with Lambert instead of him.
“You’re all set, aren’t you?” he asked when he gave her a cigarette and a light.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” That was what he wanted to say. He wanted to shout at her and shake her and make her see how important this was to her.
“Just remember you know nothing about anything,” he said, concentrating on his voice. “After the party you went home and went to bed.”
She turned as he spoke and put her hand on his arm, her gaze troubled and her brow furrowed.
“I’m not sure this is the right way, Alan. I have nothing to hide.”
You’ve got plenty to hidel That’s what Scott thought but he did not say so; he did not try to explain that if she told the truth about the pillow she would be a suspect, and might possibly always remain so. He forced a smile. He squeezed the hand on his arm. Then, seeing the Farrows drive up, he said:
“Play it my way. Forget the pillow.”
With that she turned and went up the stairs and he waited for the others.
Mark was clad in white shorts and a sport shirt which contrasted sharply with his sunburned skin and dark hair. His squarish face was grave but his accented voice was as soft as ever as he said good morning.
“Have you finished already?” he asked.
“The first round.”
“First round?”
“There’ll be a more general inquisition later. I’ve been told to wait.”
“Oh?”
“What, exactly do they want with us?” Vivian asked.
She stood tall and straight in her beige dress, her olive-skinned face impassive but impatience in her voice and a hint of nervousness lurking in the corners of her black eyes. She had a half-smoked cigarette between her fingers and she threw it away as she spoke. She shifted her bag under one arm, her glance straying to the floor above.
“Just a statement,” Scott said. “For now.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happened after the party. Where you went and—”
“We went home,” she said, interrupting. “We stayed there,’
“Which is what we tell the Major,” Farrow said. “Suppose we get on with it . . . Oh,” he said as an afterthought. “About the cruise.”
“Yeah,” Scott said.
“How would it do to meet us at Goddard’s when we finish here? We could discuss it then.”
Scott watched them enter the doorway. When they started up the stairs he sat down on the railing but before he had a chance to look about another car entered the narrow, tunnel-like entrance from the street. He watched the sedan back round and park at one side and then Howard Crane came along the court and up the steps.
“Good morning,” he said. “Anyone else here?”
“Everyone’s here.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone who was aboard last night.”
“Oh. And what is one supposed to do?”
“Give a statement, I guess.”
“About what? I mean, what is there to say?”
Scott said he guessed Briggs wanted to compare notes as to what had happened aboard the schooner and where people went afterward. Crane listened, a restlessness working on his flat-muscled body so that he was unable to remain still. His tanned face was grave and his gray gaze seemed worried. He said it was a shocking business; he could not understand how such a thing had happened unless it was just an unfortunate accident; even that was hard to accept.
He seemed to expect no answers to his comments and presently he was gone and Scott was looking off across the court to where a squad of uniformed constables was lined up in front of a sergeant. Apparently this was an inspection of some sort because the sergeant looked over each man’s equipment in a precise and military manner before he marched them away.
Through the open doors and windows of the one-story frame building which made up two sides of the court other officers were busy with paper work, and there was a constant going and coming from the one two-story structure in the corner which apparently served as a barracks of some sort. Beyond this and to the right he could see through the trees the courthouse in the next block. Court—in the States it would have been Superior Court though he did not know the term used here—was in session. The Daily Advocate chronicled the facts of that court and Scott knew that at the moment a manslaughter case was being heard, a knifing of some sort involving two natives. Through the high open windows he could see the backs of the spectators, the white jackets of the constables acting as attendants; on the pavement outside little groups stood here and there beneath the mammoth evergreens.
Scott continued his idle inspection until Freddie Gardner came through the doorway and moved up beside him, removing his spectacles to mop his moist round face and then starting to polish the lenses. He accepted the cigarette Scott offered with thanks. He said he much preferred American cigarettes when he could get them.
“The trouble is,” he said, “the only chance one has is to go aboard some of the ships that come in. Like the Colombie for instance. She’ll be in this week. French. Very pleasant to go aboard for lunch if one is in funds. Best to take a woman. Handbags, you know. Need one to stow your carton of cigarettes. Customs knows what’s going on of course but they won’t bother you if you don’t make it obvious.”
Sally and Lambert came out to join them shortly and Scott could not tell by looking at her how it had gone with Briggs. Little was said by anyone as they lined up along the rail and presently the Farrows enlarged the line. When, ten minutes later, a constable came to tell them Major Briggs was ready, they filed in through the door and up the stairs.
Chairs had been moved into Briggs’ office and he remained standing until everyone had been seated. While he busied himself with the statements on his desk, Scott glanced round at the various charts which adorned the walls. The one closest to him seemed to show the breakdown of the various districts and sub-stations that covered the island, the colored pins spotted here and there to indicate the complement of officers and men. Across the room another chart seemed to indicate a month-by-month record of island crime in its various ramifications. Then Briggs was talking, still very pleasantly, telling them how much he appreciated their cooperation.
Briggs was no amateur. He had been in the Colonial Service for many years, as the crowns on his shoulders indicated. He had served in Kenya and the Gold Coast before being assigned to Barbados and would one day move on to another station befitting his rank. He had a habit of rubbing his palms gently together when his mind was working and he did so now before he addressed himself to Sally, his tone conversational rather than accusing.
“These statements give me a rather good picture of what happened last night,” he said, “even though we will have to await the police surgeon’s report before we can be positive as to the cause of death. Right now I don’t want to inconvenience any of you any more than I have to, so if you can help me clear up one or two details, Miss Reeves, this shouldn’t take long.”
Scott was watching the girl and he liked the way she looked at Briggs, the way she sat in the straight-backed chair. Erect and ladylike without being stiff, she had her feet flat on the floor, knees together and her hands at ease in her lap. She looked cool and composed in her navy dress and Scott was so busy liking what he saw he did not hear Briggs’ opening remark. What he did hear, and it scared him, was the word Sally spoke.
“Pillow?” she said.
“Yes.” Briggs indicated a sheet on his desk. “In your statement there is no mention of your using a pillow.”
“Using-”
“You were overheard to say that you quieted Mrs. Lambert with a pillow, something to that effect.”
Scott’s face was suddenly tight and something froze inside as a strange and shapeless fear began to work on him. He stared at Sally, his eyes anguished. He watched the color ooze from her cheeks and her lips part, as though she had been struck a physical blow. For an instant her glance touched his and when he saw the tortured look in her eyes he knew what she was thinking: he had told her to say nothing about the pillow but someone had, and he was the only other one who knew about it. He wanted frantically to speak up and could not. He wanted to signal her in some mute way, to tell her she was wrong, to shake his head. He did shake his head, scowling hard, but by that time Briggs had continued and she did not see him.
“Is that what you said, Miss Reeves?”
“No.” Sally shook her head and her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “I mean, I may have said something like that but I didn’t—not really, that is—”
“You didn’t use the pillow?” Briggs prompted.
“Well, there was a pillow and I did pick it up and—”
“And because she was noisy you put it over her face and held it there?”
Scott could only watch the girl, an agony of despair warping his thoughts as he sought some way to help her. Somewhere in the room there was a murmur of denial, the sound of a breath sharply drawn. Then someone spoke, bluntly and with force.
“Just a moment.”
Scott saw that it was Mark Farrow. He had leaned forward, his squarish face dark and scowling.
“Isn’t that rather putting words in Miss Reeves’ mouth, Major? Shouldn’t she be allowed to say what she has to say in her own way?”
Briggs considered the question. He rubbed his palms. He nodded. “I wish she would,” he said without animosity. “Mr. Scott carried the woman to the cabin,” he said to Sally. “You partially undressed her and she stretched out on the berth. Did she protest?”
“Well, yes. In a way. She swore at me.”
“Then what?”
“I turned out the light and when she tried to sit up I pushed her back. There was an extra pillow—”
The sentence dangled as she faltered and her glance dropped before the Major’s steady gaze. He prompted her again.
“You put it over her face?”
“It was more—well, I suppose I did. I tossed it over her face.”
“You didn’t press down on it?”
“No,” she whispered and then, more firmly as her chin came up: “No.”
“Do you know what effect that had on her? Did she struggle or try to throw the pillow aside?”
“I don’t know,” Sally said. “I didn’t stay to watch. I went out and closed the door.”
“Very good,” Briggs said. “I think that’s clear enough for the present.” He shuffled the papers on his desk and then glanced up, his gaze touching each of the others in turn. “There’s just one other point that could stand some clarifying and I’m afraid this also has to do with you, Miss Reeves.”
Talking to the room at large, he said: “As most of you know there’s quite a bit of what one might call beachcombing done here by the natives. The sprat-fishermen with their nets, people looking for driftwood or anything else of value they might find. Well, early this morning a man by the name of Lee was coming along past the Yacht Club when he saw something up ahead, not far from the Aquatic Club pier. Now in nine cases out of ten a native finding anything of value immediately appropriates it. For some reason that is not quite clear to me, this man Lee turned his findings over to an Aquatic Club attendant. He in turn gave them to one of my men who was in the vicinity making inquiries.”
Scott watched the Major lean down behind his desk and bring forth two articles which, when separated, proved to be a towel and a feminine-looking robe. Right then Scott remembered the man he had seen on the beach when he had rowed to the Aquatic Club to telephone Briggs, a Negro who had stopped to pick up something that looked like clothing. He understood that the man had probably done the honest thing because, having been observed by Scott, he was afraid to do otherwise. Even so he was not prepared for what followed.
“This is an Aquatic Club towel,’ Briggs said. “And this robe”—he shook it out—”belongs to you, I believe, Miss Reeves.”
Sally’s green eyes were focused on the Major now, her face lovely in profile, the cheekbones no longer white. When she spoke her voice was controlled.
“Yes.”
“Did you leave it on the beach?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
Briggs frowned and there was a glint of exasperation in his gaze. Before he could phrase the next question, Sally elaborated.
“It was last night after I’d gone to bed but I don’t know just when because I don’t know what time it was.”
“You didn’t mention this in your statement,” Briggs said, still frowning.
“You asked me about the party. I thought that was what you wanted to know, that and when everyone left.”
Her glance strayed to meet Scott’s bewildered look and she seemed to be censuring him, as though it was his fault that she had not told the truth in the first place. Then, as he sat there with the dismay and incredulity growing in him, he heard the story of Sally’s swim and the oarsman in the dinghy who had tried to strike her down. The recital of those details scared him, even though the telling was done matter-of-factly and without emphasis; then there was only confusion in his mind when he realized that all this had happened before he went to her place to tell her about Julia and warn her to be silent about the pillow.
Briggs had trouble too. He went over the story point by point, giving particular attention to the time element.
“You went to bed but you didn’t go to sleep,” he said. “You don’t know how long after that you went for your swim?”
“No. I’m sorry but I don’t.”
“You don’t know who the man was?”
“No.”
“Or if it was a man.”
“I assumed it was but—I’m not sure.”
“All you’re sure of then is that someone was rowing the dinghy towards the shore. When you hailed him he attacked you.”
The exasperation was still working on Briggs when Sally nodded. He glanced at the others. Finally he stood up;
“All right,” he said crisply. “That will do for now.” He hesitated while chairs scraped and his audience came to its collective feet; then he turned to Sally. “All except you, Miss Reeves. I’m going to ask you to remain long enough to give us another, and more complete, statement.”