THE ROAD was downgrade and winding and Scott drove fast but not recklessly until he came to Highway 7. This was a stop street and he obeyed the sign before turning left. For some distance here the road was straight and he could see three cars in front of him before the curves started again. The one ahead was not the one he wanted and he followed it for a half mile before he could pass it.
He still did not know what was ahead of him but after another half mile he came to this turn he was looking for and cut right towards the sea. The shore dipped sharply in here at one point and on the opposite side of the resulting cove he saw headlights just disappearing around the corner.
Inshore the water was a glassy black but farther out a white line of surf broke upon a reef, and beyond that and far down on the horizon a solitary light marked the progress of some sailing craft. He saw all this briefly as he skirted the cove and then the road swung left and straightened into a narrow lane, lined with small houses on the left and on the other side, the walled-in yards of the more elaborate estates which faced the sea. Far ahead of him a red light winked and went out and presently Scott slowed down until he came finally to the gateway of this two-storied stone house, the front of which overlooked the beach. When he saw the name on the gate-post he knew it belonged to the Farrows.
Leaving his car parked just beyond the gate he walked back and stood a moment, speculating, eyeing the house across the road and remembering what Briggs had said. It was here that the party was in progress the night the Farrows had come home together; here that some guest had seen a car come through the gateway at a later hour.
There were three cars parked in the paved court beyond the wall and when he stepped close he saw the familiar license number and knew he had come to the right place. Somehow the knowledge did not excite him. In a way this might be the end of the road but he had no enthusiasm to explore what lay there. He felt tired and strangely sick inside and it was this sickness and his thoughts of Freddie Gardner, rather than any concern for Sally that made him press on.
Sally was all right. Sally would be all right unless something unforeseen happened. That is what he told himself as he walked past the cars and skirted wide to the lawn on the right. The lights were on all along this side and he could see someone working in the kitchen. In the room beyond a maid was setting the table for dinner and now, coming to the veranda, Scott climbed the rail and tiptoed along to the room at the front where light spilled brightly from open French doors.
By then he could hear voices and he moved quietly forward, keeping to the wall until he could peer round the corner and get a glimpse of the room and the five people who stood there.
Until that moment Scott had not known what to expect. In his own mind, supported by his own brand of reasoning, he thought he knew who had killed Julia—and Freddie. He had hoped to tell Briggs what he thought but things weren’t working out that way. The strain in the voices that came to him, the words that were spoken, told him that something quite drastic had to be done before Briggs could arrive. A man with a gun in his hand is not always amenable to reasoning and the spoken word, and now, understanding what was happening, Scott felt the tension build swiftly inside him. For it was all too clear that if anything was to be done in time it would have to be done by him, the occupants of the room being otherwise occupied.
An oversized coffee table in front of the divan was laden with cocktail things. Beyond it, near the mantel, Howard Crane stood beside Sally. Diagonally ahead were the Farrows: Vivian with a cocktail in one hand and her cigarette holder in the other, Mark, dark-haired and stocky-looking in his gray flannels, edging slightly in front of his wife.
“Don’t be a fool!” he was saying.
The voice that answered him was high-pitched with strain and carried overtones of hysteria. It came from Keith Lambert, who faced away from Scott at an angle. In his hand was a small automatic pistol and it was pointed right at Vivian.
“I know what I’m doing,” he said. “Just stay away from me unless you want to get hurt.”
Crane cleared his throat. He gestured emptily, the smile on his tanned blunt-jawed face as fixed and false as a burlesque queen’s.
“This is not the way, Keith,” he said with surprising calmness. “Let’s get the police if you’re so sure about this.”
Scott did not hear what came next because he was concentrating on the problem at hand and feeling the stiffness slide up the back of his legs as he measured the distance from the door to Lambert. He thought four long steps might cover it and now he stepped softly into view of the others, putting his finger to his lips to demand in pantomime their silence.
Even at that angle he could see that Lambert’s thin face was white and set and shiny at the cheekbones. There was tension in every line of his neck and shoulder, and the gun never wavered as Scott took his second step, recognizing the odds but knowing no other way.
It was difficult to take those steps without making a sound. He could feel his muscles draw taut and knotty as he forced one foot in front of the other, lifting it, balancing all the time on the rear foot and then putting the first one down, not touching the heel. He had to transfer his weight from toe to toe. He had to keep his weight controlled and it seemed, somehow, a ludicrous thing. It reminded him of comics he had seen in movies as they burlesqued the act of sneaking up behind the villain. The difference was that he had never been more serious in his life.
He did it well too. He made no mistake. The trouble was that eyes are hard things to control, especially when surprised. Someone, he never knew who, gave him away.
Some glance strayed and in it there was something that warned Lambert, for in the next instant his head swiveled and his eyes opened wide. His thin, gangling frame recoiled visibly. He never actually turned his back on anyone but he half wheeled and then retreated a step so he could bring the gun to bear in any direction.
For an instant then his eyes had a wild, startled look. He backed away another step, his indecision a frightening thing to behold. Finally he found his voice.
“Oh, no!” he said. “Not quite, Alan . . . You followed me,” he said, his voice near breaking. “Well, now you can stand over there with them. Move!”
Scott let his breath out and felt his muscles relax. He took three steps in the indicated direction, easily and with deliberation. This put him beyond Lambert but still apart from the others. He cocked a brow at the gun. He did not like the tightness of the hand that held it, nor the tremor that came to shake it from time to time, but when he spoke he kept his voice as casual as he could, as though none of this was very important.
“You were at Freddie’s,” he said. “In the hall closet—or was it a room?—with that gun.”
“I only got there a few minutes before you did,” Lambert said. “He was on the floor and I picked up the gun and then I heard you knock. I didn’t know what else to do.” He hesitated, lip quivering before he could still it. “You followed me to Crane’s.”
“I tried to but I lost you.”
“How did you know I was there?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did you come?”
“I knew Howard had picked up Sally.” Scott gestured at Crane and glanced at the girl. She stood very still, lips parted and one hand on her bosom. Her green eyes seemed shocked and bewildered and though she looked at him when he spoke he was not sure she saw him. “I thought he might have brought her to his place. Why did you go?”
“What?” Lambert swallowed and wet his lips.
“You went to Crane’s too. Why?”
“Yes, I went there. I heard you call the police.”
Scott turned to the others and began to explain how he had gone to Freddie’s and what he had done after that. He spoke unhurriedly, ignoring Lambert for the moment and trying his best to sound unconcerned. Time was what he wanted. Time for reason to penetrate the dammed-up hysteria which was warping Lambert’s thoughts.
“You still haven’t told me why you went there,” he said.
“Because that’s where I thought they were.” Lambert jerked the gun towards the others. “They said they were going to Howard’s for cocktails.”
“That was the original idea,” Crane said, and winked surreptitiously at Scott to show he understood the reason behind all these questions. “We were going to my place for drinks and then coming here for dinner. But Freddie refused the invitation and so did Lambert—”
“And so,” Vivian cut in, “we decided to have our drinks as well as dinner here.”
“Maybe now,” Lambert said in the same tight voice, “you know why I refused. Why I changed my mind about investing in this island of yours. I may not be concerned about the scruples or the conduct or the ideals of my associates, but I hope I’ll never be a partner with a murderer.”
He glanced at Scott. “Freddie was my friend,” he said. “The best friend I ever had. She killed him.” He looked at Vivian, his gaze hot and bright and somehow no longer quite sane. “Just like she killed Julia.”
“Nonsense,” Mark Farrow said angrily.
“How crazy can you get?” Vivian put her glass down, the cigarette holder beside it. She straightened and put one hand on her hip. She looked right at Lambert, and if she was afraid she did not show it. “Why don’t you pour yourself a drink,” she said acidly, “and stop being childish.”
“Keith.”
Sally’s voice came softly across the ensuing silence. She waited until Lambert glanced at her and then she smiled. It was a strained sort of smile. The pallor showing through the smooth tan of her cheeks spoke of the effort behind it and Scott was very proud of her as she continued.
“No, Keith,” she said in the patient, almost indulgent tone of a fond mother talking to her child. “You must be mistaken. Vivian wouldn’t do a thing like that. She couldn’t.”
For a moment or so Lambert seemed to waver in his resolve. He glanced again at this girl he had liked so much. He brushed his tousled straw-colored hair back from his forehead with his free hand. There may have been an instant when a further plea by Sally might have turned the trick but before that happened Mark Farrow’s blunt indignant voice destroyed the spell.
“Of course she couldn’t,” he said. “Vivian’s been with me ever since six o’clock.”
“Hah!” Lambert said, scornful now. “That’s what you said the other night,” he argued. “You said you went home together and stayed there. You said neither of you left this house and that’s a lie because I saw her come through the main cabin that night. In a bathing suit . . . You thought I was asleep, didn’t you?” he said to the woman. “You too,” he said, not looking at Scott but speaking to him.
“You wanted me to pass out so I wouldn’t bother Julia. You thought I would if I took one more drink. I was afraid I would too. That’s why I only sipped it and pretended the rest. You took my shoes off, and my jacket . . . Well, I wasn’t asleep and I hadn’t passed out. After you’d gone I sat up. I talked to myself, trying to get up nerve enough to go in and wake Julia.”
Once more his mouth trembled and he said: “I couldn’t make myself do it. I was afraid. I hated myself but I couldn’t help it. I stretched out again. I was still awake when she came into the cabin.” He looked at Vivian. “In a dark blue swim suit,” he said. “You didn’t see me at first and then you stopped and looked at me. You thought I was asleep. You went forward. I didn’t hear a sound and I kept on pretending I was asleep until you left. Then I went in and looked at Julia. She had that pillow over her face and head. She was dead.”
He took a quick breath and said to Scott: “Then you came just after that. I watched what you did. I saw you take the keys from Julia’s pocketbook. I didn’t know what to do. I—I guess I fell asleep. I can’t remember anything until you shook me that morning.”
“What rot,” Farrow said. “You’re lying,” he added harshly.
“No,” Vivian said.
“What?” Mark stared at her.
“He’s right,” she said, her voice strangely quiet. “I did go there.”
“Vivian!”
She did not seem to hear her husband. Her strong-boned face was impassive, but her mouth was white and the proud shoulders had begun to sag.
“I couldn’t sleep after we’d gone to bed,” she said. “I kept thinking of her. Hating her. Knowing she would spoil everything if she could. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and I knew what I had to do.”
There was no other sound but the monotone of her voice as she told how she had put on her bathing suit and a long dark robe, how she had driven as close to the club as she dared and then swam out to the schooner.
“I didn’t stop to think of the consequences; I guess I didn’t quite realize what I was doing. Even after I saw Keith on the bunk I wouldn’t give up. I went into her room and looked down at her.”
She stopped and wet her hps. She said: “For what was in my mind I certainly must be guilty.”
Scott swallowed against the dryness in his throat and for some reason found it hard to break the silence that expanded through the room.
“She was dead, wasn’t she?”
Vivian nodded. “I couldn’t see too well but I saw the pillow. It was across her face and I moved it and then I realized she was not breathing. I took her hand and there was no pulse and then—” Her voice broke but she quickly controlled it. “I can’t remember what I did then. I only knew I had to get out. Somehow I did.”
“Just a minute . . . Please!” Lambert shifted the gun and his mouth was slack. He peered bewilderedly at Vivian and then at Scott. “Are you saying Julia had already been killed. I mean, before that?”
“Yes,” Scott said. “And she wasn’t killed by anyone who swam out to do the job.”
“Alan!”
The sound of that voice surprised Scott and he had to glance round to realize that it was Sally who had spoken. She had moved closer to her step-sister, putting out a hand to reassure her. He recognized that gesture for what it was, but it was the look in her eyes that hit him hard inside. Those eyes were silently pleading for help. He had given her hope and she was waiting, expectantly and yet afraid lest some trick or empty promise shatter his hope.
“Are you sure, Alan?” she whispered.
He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat, grateful that what she wanted to hear was the truth.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure.”
“How do you know?” Lambert demanded, his tone suggesting he believed none of this.
“A swimmer’s feet would have been clean.”
“Clean?” Farrow’s hard-jawed face was grim but his dark gaze held a baffled look. “Naturally they’d be clean.”
“I saw the wet spots on the deck that Vivian had made.”
“But-”
“A swimmer coming directly aboard from the water could not have brought sand with him,” Scott said, and then went on to tell how he had gone below in his bare feet once he had awakened. “I’d swept up before I went ashore,” he said, “but when I stopped outside Julia’s cabin there was sand on the carpet. I felt it. There was more sand on the cabin carpet.”
When there was no reply he said: “It didn’t mean anything then. I felt it and somehow knew that sand shouldn’t be there but all I could think about then was Julia. Not until tonight when Freddie made me think, when I knew he’d been on the beach—not until then did I realize that if there was sand in the alleyway and cabin—and there was—it meant the killer brought it from the beach. It stuck to his shoes after he’d rowed out. When he went below some of that sand fell off.”
“What you’re saying is that Vivian didn’t kill Julia,” Crane said finally.
“I’m saying Julia was killed before that by someone who came aboard from the beach.” He hesitated, glancing from one to the other. “Maybe you don’t know about Waldron.”
“Waldron?” Lambert said. “How does he—”
“He came aboard that night,” Scott said. “I’ll tell you about it. It may take a while but you ought to know about him.”
He had Lambert’s attention now and that pleased him. He still did not like the look in the young mans eyes nor the way he clung to the gun. It scared him a little and he was hoping that if he took his time his words might work as a mild soporific which, if it did nothing to change Lambert’s mind, might at least make him less alert.
“Waldron was a friend of Julia’s,” he said, “and she phoned him the night she arrived. Howard knows about that”—he glanced at Crane—”because Waldron was questioned the other afternoon when we were. Maybe the rest of you know too, but what you don’t know is that Waldron isn’t the right name.”
He went on unhurriedly to tell who Waldron was and why he had come to Barbados. He spoke of the newspaper clipping that Julia had sent him and then he went back to relate the story of Waldron and Luther and the plan which was to get Luther oif the island and remove him as a witness until Waldron felt safe.
“Julia intended to blackmail Waldron,” Farrow said.
“That’s the way it looks.”
“And Waldron killed her?” Lambert asked in slow bewilderment.
“He says not.” Scott hesitated. “And if the one who killed Julia also killed Freddie then it couldn’t have been Waldron because Briggs has had him wrapped up since four this afternoon when they took Waldron off the Colombie”
“But”—Crane frowned and shook his head—”you’re trying to tell us that Julia was killed by someone that came from the beach, and Waldron did just that, but Waldron didn’t do it.”
“That’s right.”
“Then—who did?”
“You,” Scott said. “The way I figured it, Howard, after I’d talked with Freddie, is that it had to be you or him and Freddie’s dead. That leaves you.”
Crane started to laugh, then stopped abruptly. “You are serious, aren’t you?”
“You know I am.”