“No,” Fletcher said; “I didn’t see any guns.”
“Under them fancy jackets. They got guns shuh nuff. They’d use ‘em too — and get away with it. Get away with murder, them Leopards. Mebbe already have.”
Fletcher gathered that she did not much care for Leopards. He had never yet heard of anyone who did.
He finished his drink and walked out of the Treasure Ship, and they were still there, sitting in a car parked about fifty yards down the street. He had to pass the car and he saw that they were smoking cigars. There was no sign of the sister or the blond seaman, so maybe she had managed to get him to Dharam Singh’s house. One of the Leopards stretched out an arm and knocked ash off his cigar at Fletcher’s feet as he drew level with the car.
“Good night, Mr. Fletcher,” he said. “Sleep well. Happy dreams.”
He could hear them both laughing as he walked on. If he dreamed of them the dreams were not likely to be very happy; that was for sure.
FOUR:
AND SOMETHING ON TOP
Fletcher called at Dharam Singh’s house early in the morning to make sure of catching the photographer before he set out on whatever project he might have in view for that particular day. By daylight the house looked even more run down than it had in the less revealing light of the previous evening; the sun, already hot, showed up the blemishes like the wrinkles and blotches on the face of an ageing courtesan. He noticed that the curtains were still drawn across the upper windows, and was not surprised; the sisters were unlikely to be early risers. He wondered what had happened to the blond seaman; no doubt the man would eventually find his way back to his ship, rather stiff and sore and a good deal poorer. But that was no business of his.
Dharam Singh took him into what he called his studio, which was just another room with a sink in it where he did his photographic processing and took portraits if anyone happened to want something in that line.
“You’ve finished the pictures?”
Dharam Singh nodded. “Oh, yes, certainly. All finished.”
“And they came out all right?”
“Perfectly. You are becoming quite skilful at that kind of work, Mr. Fletcher, my good sir; really quite skilful.”
“Thank you for the compliment. I’m not a professional, of course.”
“A professional could hardly have done it better. Bearing in mind the circumstances, the detail is surprisingly excellent. Yes, most surprisingly excellent.”
Fletcher was aware that Dharam Singh was burning to ask questions about the photographs. But mixed with the curiosity there was also a certain uneasiness in his manner; perhaps a trace of shiftiness too.
“You would like to know, of course, where I took the photographs.”
Dharam Singh squirmed a little. “It is not my business. Nevertheless—”
“No; it is not your business. It is the business of the police.”
“The police! Are you telling me they know?”
“You don’t imagine I’d keep a thing like that to myself, do you? That I would fail to report it.”
“No, most certainly not. It would not be right; it would not be legal; it would not be — safe. And what will the police do now?”
“That’s up to them. I suppose they’ll fish up the bodies. Perhaps the boat as well.”
“Yes; yes, I suppose so. And where—”
“Where is the boat? I don’t think I’d better tell you that. I’ve had strict instructions not to talk about it.”
“Ah, I understand. It might hinder investigations perhaps. And the police, they know of course about the photographs?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, no,” Fletcher admitted. “I rather think that if I had told them about those I wouldn’t have been able to bring the film to you.”
“That is certainly possible. But when they find out that you have taken these photographs don’t you think perhaps they will be annoyed with you, Mr. Fletcher, sir?”
Fletcher gazed into Dharam Singh’s deep brown eyes and tried without success to plumb the depths of the photographer’s mind. “That is very possible,” he said, “if they find out. But is there any reason why they should? Is anyone going to tell them? Can you think of anyone who would be likely to do that?”
Dharam Singh gave the fleeting shadow of a smile. “No, Mr. Fletcher, my good sir, I can think of no one.”
Fletcher smiled also. “And why would the police want the photographs anyway? If they need photographs to help them solve the crime they can surely take their own.”
“Assuredly,” Dharam Singh murmured. “After all, they have their own photographers.”
“So now if you will let me have the prints and negatives—”
“Of course, of course.”
Dharam Singh went to fetch them.
“You didn’t tell me you took photographs,” Joby said. He sounded unhappy about it. Paulina too looked worried.
“You knew I had the camera,” Fletcher said. “I thought you’d know I used it.”
“And you didn’t tell Colonel Vincent about them?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Paulina asked.
“I thought I’d like to hang on to them.”
“Oh, man,” Joby said; “do you like to make trouble for yourself!”
“I don’t see that it’s trouble.”
“You will when they find out. That’s like withholding information or some such. They won’t be pleased about that. No, sir; not pleased at all.”
“They aren’t going to find out. How should they?”
“Dharam Singh—”
“He won’t say anything. Will you?”
“Me!” Joby said. “You catch me goin’ to the cops! You jus’ catch me!”
“So it’s okay. No trouble.”
“You hope.”
The photographs were laid out on the kitchen table. They were, as Dharam Singh had said, very good considering the conditions under which they had been taken. The bullet-holes in the heads of the five men were clearly visible, and anyone who had known them well would probably have had little difficulty in recognising them.
“See anyone there you know?” Fletcher asked.
Joby shook his head emphatically. “Not me, no. I never saw the one of them before.”
The pictures of the boat had come out well also. It was possible to read the name on the bows.
“Did you ever hear of a boat called the Haleón Español?”
Again Joby shook his head. “It’s a new one on me. Could be she come from another island or some place. You didn’t see no port of origin on the stern?”
“No. Maybe it had been painted out.”
“Could be.”
“I have an idea Colonel Vincent had heard of it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Just a hunch. The way he reacted when I told him the name. And something he said about its not being funny. Yes, I’m pretty sure he’d heard of it.”
“I don’t like it,” Paulina said. “I wish you’d never gone out there yesterday.”
Fletcher was not at all sure that he himself would not have been happier if he had not done so. Until the previous day he had never had any contact with the police or the Leopards; now he had had contact with both, and he did not care for either lot. And he had a feeling that he was going to have more contact with them; perhaps too much. Why couldn’t he have minded his own damned business and kept his nose out? Why?
Yet, looking at the matter coolly and logically, there was no reason why he should be worried. What had he done but report a crime — as any law-abiding citizen was bound to do? And though there was admittedly the question of the undisclosed photographs, that was surely of small importance and hardly likely to come to the notice of the police anyway. So why worry? But despite this mental argument a slight uneasiness continued to nag at him and he wished that he had had nothing to do with the business.