The older section I came to was heavily overgrown with grass and vines and gnarled sapodilla and gumbo-limbo trees, all but forgotten. I prowled a short distance through the tangle until I found what I was looking for, under the sprawling branches of a gumbo-limbo and half hidden from the lane by a scabrous tomb. If it hadn't been for the lean of a wooden marker, you wouldn't have been able to tell that there was a grave beneath the thick grass mat. I shone the torch briefly on the marker. So old that the wood was split and insect-pitted, and whatever had been written on it had completely faded away.
I drove the Mini as close to the grave as I could. I pried the thing out of the passenger seat, using the handle of the shovel to loosen one of the stiffened legs, then carried it through the wet grass and dumped it a dozen feet from the grave. To the car again for the shovel and the piece of Dacron and the rubber gloves. When I had the sailcloth spread on the grass, I paced off a distance of six feet back from the marker and dug the rough, shallow outline of a rectangle six feet long by two feet wide. I cut the inside of the rectangle into small squares. These I dug up in three-inch-deep clods, setting them aside under the tree one by one to preserve the tall stalks of grass. Then I scooped out the new grave, shoveling the muddy soil onto the Dacron.
It was hot, filthy work. But not as hard as you might think. The clearing sky now shed enough moonlight and starshine to give me some visibility. The earth was sandy and moist from the rain; the only difficulty I had was chopping through straggles of tree root. I don't know how long it took to open up that six-by-two rectangle to a depth of six feet. There were no visible lights, no sounds except for the wind and the dripping water and the bite of the shovel into the earth—nothing to make me aware of the passage of time.
The muscles in my back and shoulders were on fire by the time I'd gone deep enough to uncover the buried coffin. There wasn't much left of it, just rotted crumbles of wood; the blade sliced through and clanged against something that sounded like bone. I scraped away shreds of wood and flung the pieces up onto the pile of dirt, widening and deepening the hole a little more. The flashlight was hooked onto my belt; I turned it on to take a quick look at the partly exposed skeleton and the grave walls. Deep enough, wide enough.
I climbed out, wet to the skin and covered in slick mud, a quivering in my arms and legs from the strain of digging. For a little time I sat under the gumbo-Umbo with my back against the trunk to rest. When my strength returned, I went to Uft the thing again and haul it to the grave. It wouldn't lie flat when I dropped it in, and I had to get down there with it and use the shovel in a couple of ways I'd rather not talk about. It fitted the space well enough when I finished.
I shoveled and scraped most of the dirt back in. Picked up the ends of the sail and dumped in the rest. Firmed it down, replaced the clods of grass, dragged over a couple of dead tree limbs and some brush and vines. You could still see the seams here and there, tell that somebody had been excavating, but you had to be standing right on the spot. From a distance of a few feet there were no visible signs of disturbance; I put the light on briefly to make sure. If nobody came poking around back here in the next week or so, enough new grass would sprout to hide the seams completely.
I shook out the sailcloth, folded it, took it and the shovel back to the Mini. Off with the gloves and filthy clothing, into the garbage bag with them and the rags I used to scrub mud off my arms and face. On with the clean shirt and shorts. I rested again for a time before I started the engine and got the car turned around.
The highway was deserted when I reached the gates. It stayed that way as I rolled through and closed them behind me and turned toward Charlotte Amalie. My hands were steady on the wheel. I drove slowly, carefully. None of the handful of other cars I passed was a police patrol, and none of the drivers paid any attention to me.
Home safe and sound. Exhalisted, so relieved I was weak and tin-gUng. I admit to a feeling of exhilaration, too—the kind you can't help but feel after a dangerous job well done.
There were still a few things left to do. In the garage, I dropped the plastic bag into the trash can, rinsed off the shovel and the Dacron in the utility sink and put them away, and hosed mud spatters off the Mini. In the house, I scrubbed down under a long, hot shower. Afterward, I shaved off my beard and mustache, then used a pair of scissors and a hand mirror to trim my hair all around—preparations for the solution to the next problem.
It was full dawn when I crawled into bed for few hours' sleep.
The Hotel Caribbean was a small, old-fashioned hotel on Kronprind-sens Gade off Market Square, built before World War II when the Virgins were sleepy islands and the tourist trade was at a relative minimum.
It's long gone now. In the early eighties it was staggering along on its last legs, catering to small package-tour groups and individuals who wanted a little island ambiance on the relative cheap. Naturally Fred Coder had gravitated there; it was the only inexpensive hotel in the downtown area.
The lobby was crowded when I walked in at ten o'clock. It was my first visit to the hotel, so there was little danger of my being recognized as Richard Laidlaw. Shaved, hair trimmed, talcum powder lightening my sun-weathered skin, wearing a Madras shirt and white slacks, I blended right in with the snowbirds. I was even blue-eyed that morning, the first time I'd been out in public without the tinted contacts since I'd been on St. Thomas—unnecessary, but I was still feeling bold. I crossed straight to the elevators as if I belonged there and rode up to the second floor.
Cotler's room was at the rear. I let myself in with the tagged key. Stuffy little box, its single window overlooking a corner of the hotel garden and most of the gravel parking lot—probably the cheapest accommodations the Hotel Caribbean had to offer. The maid hadn't been there yet that day; the bed was rumpled, the glass-topped teak nightstand littered with cigar ash, an ashtray cradling a couple of cheroot butts, and an empty beer bottle and several wet-rings. The room stank of stale cigar smoke.
I looked in the nightstand drawer first. Empty except for the usual Gideon Bible. In the closet, half a dozen shirts and pants on hangers and an imitation leather suitcase. I opened the suitcase on the bed, checked through all the pockets inside and out. Coder's American Airlines return ticket was in one of them. Economy fare, the cheapest available judging from the rate. From what I knew of airline practices, economy fares were nonrefundable; if a ticket wasn't used, it was immediately canceled, the passenger's seat was given to somebody else, and no permanent record of the cancellation was kept. I called the American counter at the airport later to make sure.
The rest of Coder's clothing was in one of the bureau drawers—underwear, socks, T-shirts, an extra belt. The only personal item in the bathroom was his toilet kit, and it contained nothing other than his ring of keys and the usual travel items. The only other place in the room to look was under the bed; I found nothing there but a freshly dead roach. I was satisfied then that Coder hadn't brought anything with him that pointed to Jordan Wise or Richard Laidlaw. Or to Annalise.
Had he told anyone other than Annalise that he was going to St. Thomas? Probably not. You don't advertise a trip you're making for the sole purpose of extorting money from a fugitive. He could be traced here, of course, once his disappearance was reported, but only if someone cared enough about him to pursue an investigation—someone other than Annalise. The police in places like Yonkers don't have enough manpower to run thorough backchecks on every missing-person case. If Cotler was traced to the island, the odds were good that his trail would lead no farther than the Hotel Caribbean. And I was about to make those odds even better.