There was a counter on the right of the entrance hall, with a couple of policemen behind it hammering laboriously away at typewriters and another one, with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves, using a telephone. They were all black and looked well fed; they were wearing short-sleeved green shirts and green trousers, and they had leather belts with holstered revolvers and handcuffs attached to them. The fact that the island police was an armed force gave Fletcher no feeling of confidence at all; he had a grave suspicion of all armed police. Though if it came to the point, practically all the police in the world were armed except the British; and the way things were going, even they might be compelled to come to it before so very much longer. There was violence everywhere, and how else could you deal with the armed criminal than by taking up arms also?
He went over to the counter and waited patiently while the sergeant finished his telephone conversation, and tried not to look like a criminal.
“Yeah,” the sergeant said; “sure we’ll do that. That’s what we’re here for … No; no need to worry … Well, I can’t promise that; now how could I? We’re not supermen … You thought we were? That’s nice.” He chuckled cosily, enjoying the joke with whoever it was on the other end of the line, and there was still some of the smile remaining on his face when he put the telephone down and turned to deal with Fletcher.
“Some guys,” he said, “they think we can work miracles. Get their car stolen in the morning; expect it back as good as new so’s they can drive out to Mariana Bay for the evening. Supermen!” He gave another chuckle, then cut it off abruptly. “Yes, sir; and what can we do for you?”
“I want to report a sunken boat,” Fletcher said.
The sergeant gave him a long, hard look. Then he said slowly, as if to get the matter entirely clear: “You want to report a sunken boat?”
“And a killing.”
“And a killing?” The sergeant was not smiling now. He looked as if he had never smiled in his life.
“Five killings,” Fletcher said.
The sergeant was frowning. The two typewriters had stopped clattering. The two other policemen had turned on their chairs and were looking at Fletcher.
“Five?”
“Yes,” Fletcher said. “Five men shot through the head.”
The sergeant gave a sigh; the sigh of a man who feels that his patience is being sorely tried. “And where are these five men who’ve been shot through the head?”
“In the sunken boat.”
“You saw them?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing when you saw them?”
“Skin-diving.”
“Where?”
“To the east of the island; a few miles out. I was looking for an old ship that was torpedoed in the last war.”
It was apparent that the sergeant knew about the ship. For the first time since the start of the conversation he ceased to give the impression of someone who believed that he was dealing with a lunatic.
“Did you find the ship?”
“Yes.”
“And a boat, too?”
“Yes. The boat was lying on the bottom with the ship, but it hadn’t been there long. The dead men were all in the cabin.”
“But you don’t think they’d been drowned?”
“Not unless somebody shot them afterwards.”
“And you don’t think that’s likely?”
“Do you?”
“No,” the sergeant said; “I don’t.” He gave Fletcher another long, hard look, as though trying to make up his mind as to whether or not he was being told a cock-and-bull story; then he said: “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He came out from behind the counter and walked away down a corridor. Fletcher waited. The two other policemen had not yet started again on their typing; they were still looking at him. He knew that if he made any kind of move to leave the building they would be on to him like a flash. He made no move; he just stood there feeling uncomfortable and hoping that the sergeant would soon come back.
In fact it was less than a minute that he had to wait. The sergeant returned accompanied by an older man with three stars on his shoulder straps. This man was thinner and his hair was beginning to go grey. He had a disillusioned air, as though he no longer expected anything good to come to him, and least of all from Fletcher. He introduced himself as Captain Green and began by getting Fletcher’s name for the record; which was something the sergeant had omitted to do.
“I take it that you’re here on holiday, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Not exactly,” Fletcher said. “I’m here to write a book.” He saw the captain’s head give a slight jerk and his eyes narrowed a shade, as though he had heard an incriminating admission. Perhaps it had been an unwise thing to say. “I’m lodging with Mr. and Mrs. Joby Thomas in Port Morgan.”
“And you’ve found five dead men?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better come into this room over here and tell me all about it, if you don’t mind, Mr. Fletcher.”
“I don’t mind,” Fletcher said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
The sergeant came with them. It was a plain square room with a table and two chairs. Fletcher sat on one chair and the captain sat on the other, facing him across the table. The sergeant stood by the door. Fletcher felt more like a criminal under interrogation every minute.
“Now,” Captain Green said, “let’s have it from the beginning. All of it.”
Fletcher gave him all of it from the beginning. The captain listened intently, putting in a question now and then. Fletcher told him everything except the bit about taking photographs of the dead men and the boat. He could not have said why he omitted that part, but he did.
When he had finished Captain Green sat for a while in silence, as if turning it all over in his own mind. Then he got up suddenly, pushing the chair noisily back and nearly oversetting it.
“Wait here,” he said. It seemed to be one of the favoured orders. They all seemed to think that, given half a chance, Fletcher would run away and never come back. Which was rather ridiculous really, seeing that he had come there entirely voluntarily.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll wait.” But in fact he was the one who was beginning to worry. He could not have explained why; it was just a feeling he had, a feeling that he was indeed becoming involved in something he might have been well advised not to become involved in; something which could have a far deeper significance than he or Joby had supposed. Maybe he ought to have paid more heed to that first instinct to keep his mouth firmly shut. But it was too late now; he had opened it and the wheels had been set in motion.
Captain Green left the sergeant to keep an eye on him and make sure that he really did wait there. Whether he accepted Fletcher’s word or not, he was taking no chances. The sergeant stayed by the door, saying nothing. Fletcher shifted uneasily on his chair and tried to think of something to say, because the silence was getting on his nerves. But nothing came up: the sergeant and he had nothing in common, nothing to discuss, except possibly the subject of mass homicide.
Finally he cleared his throat and said: “Do you know where he’s gone?”
“No,” the sergeant said.
Which effectively put an end to that conversation.
Some five or ten minutes had passed when the door opened again and Captain Green came in.
He said: “Colonel Vincent would like to see you, Mr. Fletcher. If you’ll just come with me.”
Fletcher, reflecting that he seemed to be making a rapid rise through the ranks of the police and that the information he had brought was undoubtedly being treated as a matter of importance, got up and followed Captain Green out of the room. The captain led the way along a corridor, up a flight of concrete stairs, and along another corridor until they came to a door marked in gilt lettering: “Colonel Arthur W. Vincent.” Captain Green tapped lightly on the door with his knuckles, a voice on the other side mumbled something that might have been an invitation to enter, and they went in. Green closed the door gently behind them.