Although the Baptist Hospital was only four blocks away and the policeman was rushed into intensive care, he died before morning. He was twenty-three, and he left a widow and baby daughter.
His radio calls had alerted two prowl cars, which were closing on the area. A mile down the road, one of them saw the speeding motorcyclist and forced him into a turn so tight that he fell off. Before he could rise, he was under arrest.
By aspect, the man looked Hispanic. The case was given to Gomez and Favaro. For four days and nights they sat opposite the killer trying to get a single word out of him. He said nothing, absolutely nothing, in either Spanish or English. There were no powder traces on his hands, for he had worn gloves. But the gloves were gone, and despite searching every trash can in the area, the police never discovered them. They reckoned the killer had thrown them into the rear of a passing convertible. Public appeals turned up the Sig Sauer, tossed into a neighboring garden. It was the gun that had killed the policeman, but it bore no fingerprints.
Gomez believed the killer was Colombian—the liquor store had been a Cuban cocaine drop. After four days, he and Favaro nicknamed the suspect the Scorpion.
On the fourth day, a very high-priced lawyer turned up. He produced a Mexican passport in the name of Francisco Mendes. It was new and valid, but it bore no U.S. entry stamps. The lawyer conceded that his client might be an illegal immigrant and asked for bail. The police opposed it.
In front of the judge, a noted liberal, the lawyer protested that the police had only apprehended a man in red and white leather riding a Kawasaki, not the man on the Kawasaki who had killed the policeman and the others.
“That asshole of a judge granted bail,” Favaro said to McCready now. “Half a million dollars. Within twenty-four hours, the Scorpion was gone. The bondsman handed over the half million with a grin. Chickenfeed.”
“And you believe ...?” asked McCready.
“He wasn’t just a mule. He was one of their top triggermen, or they’d never have gone to such trouble and expense to get him out. I think Julio saw him here, even found where he was living maybe. He left his fishing vacation early to try to get back so Uncle Sam would file an appeal for extradition from the British.”
“Which we would have granted,” said McCready. “I think we ought to inform the man from Scotland Yard. After all, the Governor was shot four days later. Even if the two cases turn out not to be linked, there’s enough suspicion to comb the island for him. It’s a small place.”
“And if he’s found? What offense has he committed on British territory?” Favaro asked.
“Well,” said McCready, “for a start you could make a positive identification of him. That could constitute a holding charge. Detective Chief Superintendent Hannah may be from a different force, but no one likes a cop-killer. And if he produces a valid passport, as a Foreign Office official I could denounce it as a forgery. That makes a second holding charge.”
Favaro grinned and held out his hand. “Frank Dillon, I like it. Let’s go see your man from Scotland Yard.”
Hannah stepped out of the Jaguar and walked toward the open doors of the plank-built Baptist chapel. From inside came the sound of song. He stepped through the doors and accustomed his eyes to the lower light inside. Leading the singing was the deep bass voice of Reverend Drake.
Rock of ages, cleft for me ...
There was no musical accompaniment, just plainsong. The Baptist minister had left his pulpit and was striding up and down the aisle, his arms waving like the big black sails of a windmill as he encouraged his flock to give praise.
Let me hide myself in thee.
Let the water and the blood ...
He caught sight of Hannah in the doorway, ceased singing, and waved his arms for quiet. The tremulous voices died away.
“Brothers and sisters!” roared the minister. “We are indeed privileged today. We are joined by Mr. Hannah, the man from Scotland Yard!”
The congregation turned in their pews and stared at the man in the door. Most were elderly men and women, with a scattering of young matrons and a gaggle of small children with huge saucer eyes.
“Join us, brother! Sing with us! Make room for Mr. Hannah.”
Next to him, a vast matron in a flowered-print frock gave Hannah a wide smile and moved up, offering him her hymn book. Hannah needed it. He had forgotten the words, it had been so long. Together, they finished the rousing anthem. When the service was over, the congregation filed out, each member greeted by the perspiring Drake at the door.
As the last person left, Drake beckoned Hannah to follow him into his vestry, a small room attached to the side of the church.
“I cannot offer you beer, Mr. Hannah. But I’d be happy for you to share in my cold lemonade.”
He took it from a Thermos flask and poured two glasses. It was lime-scented and delicious.
“And what can I do for the man from Scotland Yard?” inquired the pastor.
“Tell me where you were at five P.M. on Tuesday.”
“Holding carol service practice here, in front of fifty good people,” said Reverend Drake. “Why?”
Hannah put to him his remark of the previous Friday morning on the steps of Government House. Drake smiled at Hannah. The detective was not a small man, but the preacher topped him by two inches.
“Ah, you have been talking with Mr. Quince.” He pronounced the name as if he had sucked on a raw lime.
“I didn’t say that,” said Hannah.
“You didn’t have to. Yes, I said those words. You think I killed Governor Moberley? No, sir, I am a man of peace. I do not use guns. I do not take life.”
“Then what did you mean, Mr. Drake?”
“I meant that I did not believe the Governor would transmit our petition to London. I meant that we should pool our poor funds and send one person to London to ask for a new Governor, one who would understand us and propose what we ask.”
“Which is?”
“A referendum, Mr. Hannah. Something bad is happening here. Strangers have come among us, ambitious men who want to rule our affairs. We are happy the way we are. Not rich, but content. If we had a referendum, the great majority would vote to stay British. Is that so wrong?”
“Not in my book,” admitted Hannah, “but I don’t make policy.”
“Neither did the Governor. But he would carry a policy out, for his career, even if he knew it was wrong.”
“He had no choice,” said Hannah. “He was carrying out his orders.”
Drake nodded into his lemonade. “That’s what the men who put the nails into Christ said, Mr. Hannah.”
Hannah did not want to be drawn into politics or theology. He had a murder to solve. “You didn’t like Sir Mars ton, did you?”
“No, God forgive me.”
“Any reason, apart from his duties here?”
“He was a hypocrite and a fornicator. But I did not kill him. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, Mr. Hannah. The Lord sees everything. On Tuesday evening the Lord summoned Sir Marston Moberley.”
“The Lord seldom uses a large-caliber handgun,” suggested Hannah. For a moment he thought he saw a hint of appreciation in Drake’s glance. “You said ‘fornicator.’ What did that mean?”