“A bit too handy.”
“Did you know he was going to sell copies to this thing?” Again Colonel Vincent stabbed at the paper with his forefinger. He seemed unable to bring himself to mention the title, as though it were an obscene word.
“Of course I didn’t know,” Fletcher said. “I didn’t even know he had kept any prints. It never occurred to me that he had.”
“A man like that, you might have been sure he would. How much did you tell him?”
“In what way?”
“I mean did you tell him where you took the pictures?”
“No.”
“Not that it makes any difference. The foolish thing, of course, was to let him process the film. If it was not something rather more than foolishness.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What were you intending to do with the photographs?”
“Nothing.”
Colonel Vincent’s eyebrows went up “Nothing! That’s a little hard to believe. You take photographs and have no intention of doing anything with them?”
“Only to keep them. People do take photographs just to keep.”
“But these are hardly ordinary photographs, are they? Not the sort you paste in albums or hand round to your friends. These are potentially dangerous.”
“Dangerous to whom?”
Colonel Vincent leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. “Mr. Fletcher, I find it difficult to make up my mind about you. Are you a liar or are you genuinely naïve?”
“I’m certainly not a liar,” Fletcher said. “I shouldn’t have described myself as naive, either. Though of course I may be without realising it.”
“Naïve or not, you are certainly fortunate.”
“Am I? I don’t quite see how.”
“It’s fortunate for you that we were able to nip this affair in the bud.” Colonel Vincent took the paper between thumb and forefinger and gave it a shake, as though chastising it for the sin of existing. “If this thing had gone into circulation even a plea of naïvety would hardly have saved you from the consequences.”
Fletcher experienced a sense of relief. “Then you are not going to arrest me?”
“For the present, no. But I am warning you again—don’t talk about this matter. Leave it to us; it’s our business, not yours.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“We are doing all that is necessary.”
“Have you got a lead on the murderers?”
Vincent’s expression hardened slightly. “I have already told you, Mr. Fletcher, that is not your business.”
“Perhaps not, but one can’t help being interested. A mystery of this kind naturally arouses the curiosity.”
“Curiosity is a dangerous thing. I advise you to keep it strictly under control.”
“So you don’t intend to tell me anything?”
“No, Mr. Fletcher, I don’t intend to tell you anything. The less you know, the better it will be for all concerned. And that includes you.”
“And Mr. Singh? What happens to him?”
“Mr. Singh will have to face the music.”
“He’s a harmless little man.”
“Perhaps not as harmless as you imagine.”
“He has a wife and family. How will they manage if he isn’t there to support them?”
“Mr. Singh’s wife and family are no concern of mine,” Vincent said.
Fletcher saw that it would be useless to plead Dharam Singh’s cause; but he felt a certain degree of guilt concerning the unfortunate little man. If he had not taken the film to be processed Singh would not have been in his present trouble. On the other hand, it could not be denied that he had brought it on himself by dishonestly selling copies of the photographs to the
Freedom
newspaper. No one had compelled him to do that, least of all Fletcher. It was his own greed that was to blame for all that had happened to him and he would just have to face the consequences. Nevertheless, Fletcher’s conscience was not altogether soothed by these reflections; he could not help thinking of Singh’s family who were undoubtedly going to suffer. But perhaps the sisters would look after them.
“We shall, of course, require the film and any prints you may have,” Colonel Vincent said. “You haven’t, I hope, given any copies away?”
“No.”
“Well, that at least is something to be thankful for. You don’t have them on you, I suppose?”
“No; they’re in my room.”
“In Port Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Captain Green will go back with you and pick them up. And don’t do anything foolish like trying to keep any of them. We want them all. Is that understood?”
“It’s understood. And I don’t want to keep any of them. I never want to see the damned things again. They’ve caused me enough bother already.”
“You caused yourself that,” Vincent said. He gave a nod to Captain Green. “All right.”
“If you’re ready, Mr. Fletcher,” Green said, “we’ll be on our way.”
Fletcher stood up. Green was already moving towards the door. Vincent was stowing the copy of
Freedom
safely away.
“There is just one other thing,” Fletcher said.
Vincent glanced up at him. “Yes?”
“I wonder whether you know anything of two men named Hutchins and Brogan? Americans.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you ask?”
“I had a talk with them yesterday. They advised me to leave the island.”
“Did they indeed?”
“Yes. They advised it pretty strongly. They even used a bit of pressure.”
“Is that so? And what was your answer?”
“I said I liked it here. It’s a pleasant island.”
“I hope you continue to find it pleasant.”
“Is there any reason why I should not?”
Vincent did a little circular massage on his left cheek with two fingers. “That, I think, rather depends on you.”
Fletcher noticed that he had not said whether or not he knew Hutchins and Brogan. It seemed fairly obvious that he had no intention of providing any enlightenment on that point, so Fletcher turned and walked towards the door where Captain Green was waiting for him. He was about to go out of the room when he heard Vincent’s voice again, low-pitched and a trifle insinuating perhaps.
“Maybe you should have taken the money, Mr. Fletcher. Maybe that would have been the wisest thing to do.”
Which was rather a funny thing to say, Fletcher thought, bearing in mind the fact that he had made no mention of any money.
If he had had any thoughts of hanging on to a set of the photographs it would have been difficult to do so. Captain Green stayed as close to him as a Siamese twin and made a search of the room before leaving.
“Do you have a warrant to do that?” Fletcher asked.
Captain Green looked at him with a sardonic grin. “Do you have any objection?”
Fletcher doubted whether it would have made any difference if he had had any objection, and he decided to make a show of being co-operative.
“No. You go right ahead.”
“Thank you,” Green said; and he went right ahead, making it a very thorough search indeed. He even leafed through the copybook in which Fletcher had jotted down a few notes. “This what you write?”
“It’s what I write.”
“Don’t amount to much, does it?”
“Not yet.”
Green put the copybook down. Fletcher was glad there was nothing political in it. Green turned his attention to the camera.
“So this is what you used?”
“Yes.”
“Nice job. Must have cost a lot of money.”
“Too much.”
It was a Japanese camera, compact but efficient. It had been secondhand when he bought it, but it had set him back quite a bit nevertheless.
Green was still holding it in his hand. “Any film in it now?”
“No,” Fletcher said. He showed Green how to operate the camera. “Are you interested in cameras?”
“I’m interested in this one,” Green said.
Fletcher wondered whether he was going to confiscate it, but he had had no orders from Colonel Vincent to do that and he had no sound excuse for doing so. He handed it back to Fletcher.
“Yes,” he said, “a very nice job. But in future be careful what you photograph with it.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” Fletcher said. “I don’t intend photographing another boat or another dead man as long as I live.”
Captain Green nodded. “That’s a very wise resolution.” He gave a grin. “After all, what good can it do you?”
“No good at all.”
“Now,” Green said, “I think I’d better have a word with Mr. Thomas.”
He had his word with Joby in private. They went out into the garden and talked under the stars. When Green left, Joby came back indoors. The children were in bed, and he went into the kitchen and got himself a can of beer and brought it to the living-room where Paulina and Fletcher were waiting for him.
“You want a beer?” Joby asked, looking at Fletcher.
“I’ll get it,” Fletcher said. He got up. “Shall I bring you one, Paulina?”
She shook her head. “Not for me, thanks.”
He got the can from the refrigerator and brought it into the living-room and sat down and drank from the can. Joby was still standing. Fletcher thought there was a sullen look about him.
“Well? What did he say to you?”
“He warned me,” Joby said.
“What did he warn you about?”
“’Bout waggin’ my tongue. ’Bout the kinda places I take people to. ’Bout a lotta things. I gotta be careful or mebbe I don’t have no boat no more.”
“It won’t come to that,” Fletcher assured him. “Just be careful and keep your mouth shut and everything will be all right. And it could have been worse. Have you heard what happened to Dharam Singh?”
They had not heard. Fletcher told them.
Paulina’s eyes widened and she looked scared. “They smashed up his studio and arrested him just because he processed the film for you?”
“Oh, no,” Fletcher said. “If he’d done no more than that he’d have been safe enough; nobody would have laid a finger on him. But he wasn’t content with that; he had to keep a set of the prints and sell them to
Freedom
.”
“Oh, man!” Joby said. “That was a fool thing to do.”
“Unlucky, too. The police got a tip-off and raided the press. They confiscated the entire edition before it could go into circulation, and then they paid Singh a visit and picked me up as well.”
“But you’re not under arrest.”
“Not yet I think you might say I’m on probation. Like
you, I’ve had a warning to be on good behaviour. What they’d really like is for me to leave, but they seem to be reluctant to kick me out. Maybe they think it would be bad publicity.”
“And you still plan to stay on?”
“I’ve no other plans at present.”
Joby exchanged a glance with Paulina; neither of them appeared completely at ease. Joby gave a nervous cough.
“Mebbe you should have.”
“You mean you think I should leave?”
“Lotta people advisin’ you to. Could be they’re not all wrong.”
Fletcher looked at Paulina. “Is that what you think?”
She answered with some apparent reluctance: “It’s bad having the police around. They can make a lot of trouble. We don’t want trouble.”
“We jus’ wanna live nice an’ quiet, see,” Joby said. “Not get mixed up in nothin’. We got kids—”
Fletcher saw that the two of them had been talking things over. Even before the arrival of Captain Green they had probably made the decision to ask him to leave. He did not blame them; they had to think about the welfare of the children as well as of themselves. They could hardly be expected to run the risk of continuing to provide lodgings for someone who had so evidently become unpopular not only with the police but with other influential people besides. That was no way to preserve a quiet life. And now the news of what had happened to Dharam Singh must have added a lot of extra weight to the argument.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand.”
“It’s not that we don’t like having you here,” Paulina said. “It’s just—”
“I know.”
“If we hadn’ gone to look for that damn ship,” Joby said, “there wouldn’ have bin no trouble. All ’cause of that damn ship.”
“Yes; it was a mistake. But how were we to know?”
“Well, we know now.”
They finished their beer. Joby took the empty cans into the kitchen and came back.
“I’ll look for somewhere else tomorrow,” Fletcher said.
Joby stared at him. “You mean you still plan to stick aroun’? You still don’ figure on leavin’ the island?”
“No. Why should I? I’ll just find other accommodation. That way you won’t be embarrassed.”
Joby shook his head doubtfully. “Might not be easy. Word’ll get aroun’.”
“You mean I could be on some kind of blacklist?”
“Don’ know ’bout no list. But when people like Colonel Vincent an’ Cap’n Green want you out there’s ways they have of makin’ things mighty hard. If you ask me, there’s nobody’s likely to have a room to let when you go askin’. Not even a hotel.”
“So that’s the way it is?”
Paulina was looking very unhappy. “We’re sorry. You know we don’t want to do this. We’ve enjoyed having you here and the children love you. But what else can we do?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Fletcher said. “I told you I understand. I’m not blaming you. Anything that’s happened has been my own fault. I should have taken that film to the police.”
“No,” Joby said; “you should’ve destroyed it an’ said nothin’, not a damn thing. That was the mistake—ever goin’ to them at all.”
“Maybe it was. But it’s done now. Tomorrow I’ll look for new lodgings.”
“It won’t be easy,” Paulina said.
* * *
It did not take him long to discover that she had been right. In the morning he went down to the Treasure Ship and consulted Fat Annie. If anyone knew of a room to let, she surely would. But he found Annie strangely unhelpful.
“No, Mist’ Fletcher, I don’t know no place you could get a room. We ain’t got none here and there ain’t nobody I know as has one, either”.
“But there must be someone with a room to spare,” Fletcher said.
“Not for you. Not for you, Mist’ Fletcher.”
He saw that Joby had been right: the word had got around.
“You mean there’d be a room for somebody else?”
“Could be.”
“But I’ve got a bad name? Is that it?”
“That Mist’ Singh,” Annie said, “he ain’t come home yet, so I hear. Folks say the cops smashed his place up before they took him away. You know anything about that, Mist’ Fletcher?”
She was digging for information; he could see a kind of greed in her eye. She knew very well that he had gone to Dharam Singh’s house after leaving the Treasure Ship the previous evening. Now she wanted to get the whole story from his own mouth. But he would not give her that satisfaction. He finished his drink and pushed away the empty glass.
“Well,” he said, “I’m sorry you can’t help me with finding a room. I shall just have to try elsewhere.”
The look Annie gave him held more than a hint of mockery. “You try, Mist’ Fletcher. You jest try.”
He tried. He went from house to house in the burning sun and got the same answer at each one. No rooms. He was damp with sweat when he finally decided to give up the search as hopeless; he was evidently going to find no accommodation in Port Morgan.
He passed Dharam Singh’s house on his way back along the main street. The front door was closed and the house seemed dead. The rust and the cracked plaster and the flaking paint looked worse than ever. He glanced up at the first floor windows and thought he caught a glimpse of one of the sisters peeping out, but he could not be sure. He was in half a mind to ring the bell and inquire whether there had been any news of the photographer, but decided that, coming from him, such an inquiry might not be welcome, and he walked on.
Joby was not at home when he got back to the bungalow. He told Paulina how unsuccessful his expedition had been. She refrained from saying that she had told him so, but it was probably in her mind.
“I’ll go over to Jamestown this afternoon.”
“You think you’ll have any better luck there?”
“I can try.”
“Well, if you think it’s worth while.”
She obviously did not think it was.
“I suppose you think I’m being just plain obstinate?”
“Well,” she said, giving him a pretty straight look, “aren’t you? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to do what everyone seems to want you to do?”
“Oh, certainly it would be more sensible. But why should I? Why should I let them kick me out?”
“If they really mean to, you can’t stop them.”
“I know that. But I’m damned if I’ll let them do it this way.”
“Suppose you don’t find accommodation in Jamestown. What then?”
He understood what she was saying; she meant that he could not expect to hang on to his room indefinitely while he went round hunting for new lodgings.
He smiled at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Whether I find anything or not, I’ll leave tomorrow. I won’t be an embarrassment to you any longer.”
He could see that she was relieved and that she was also a little ashamed of herself for being so.
“But what will you do if you haven’t found a place to go?”
“Maybe I’ll buy a tent and live rough.”
It failed to bring a smile to her face. It was no joking matter to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am sorry.”
* * *
He might have saved himself the bother of going over to Jamestown. When he mentioned his name rooms became suddenly unavailable: they had just been taken; they had been promised to someone else; they were being redecorated or having new floors put in or simply being taken off the market. At the hotels it was the same story, and he could only marvel at the efficiency of Colonel Vincent’s organisation which had so effectively closed to him every kind of
accommodation. He decided to call it a day and return to Port Morgan.
Joby had arrived home and was in the kitchen with Paulina. Fletcher gave them a brief report of his experience in Jamestown. Neither of them was surprised; they had known how it would be.
“So what now?” Joby asked.
Fletcher shrugged. “I don’t have much choice. Tomorrow I’ll see about getting a seat on the next flight out. Or maybe I’ll find a ship with a spare cabin. That’s one kind of accommodation that’s not likely to be barred to me.”
He was feeling tired and disillusioned, and he must have sounded a trifle bitter. Both Joby and Paulina looked uncomfortable, but their discomfort was not enough to make them change their minds and tell him he could continue to occupy the room. And he would not have accepted the offer now even if they had made it. He knew they wanted him out of their hair, and the sooner the better.
“Will you try to find those Americans?” Joby asked.
“No,” Fletcher said.
“You don’t aim to pick up the two thousan’ dollars?”
“I don’t want their money,” Fletcher said. Which sounded a grand renunciation but had a phoney ring to it. They all knew he had probably lost all chance of getting the dollars anyway.
He went to his room and did some packing ready for departure in the morning. He was not happy to be going, because he had liked it there; but he supposed it was the wisest course; in fact, the only one. And if he was ever going to write that book it was probably as likely to get written in a bed-sitter in London as on a West Indian
island. Here the climate was too relaxing; it was too easy to be idle, just letting things drift from day to day. So okay; he would pull up stakes and go.
He hung around the bungalow until evening, but the atmosphere seemed strained. Finally he announced that he was going down to the Treasure Ship for a farewell drink, and he asked Joby whether he would like to come along.
“Not tonight,” Joby said. “I got things to do.”
It was a queer way of putting it: if he didn’t go along with Fletcher that evening, when would he? There was not going to be another opportunity. But Joby very seldom did go to the Treasure Ship because Paulina was against it. Nevertheless, Fletcher felt a sense of grievance: Joby could surely have made an exception for his last evening.
“Well, please yourself,” he said.
“Will you be late?” Paulina asked.
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“No; it doesn’t matter.”
“If I get stinking drunk I’ll just sleep it off on the beach or somewhere.”
She looked hurt. “You know I wasn’t thinking that. You never do get drunk.”
It was the truth; he was only a moderate drinker. But he had felt a sudden impulse to give vent to some of the resentment he was feeling, and she had been the one to receive it. He wanted to apologise at once, or at least to make it into a joke, but he could do neither.