Da Silva stared at him with raised eyebrows. Wilson winked at him.
“That’s right, Mr. Wilson. I gather you must have read the transcript. At any rate, it struck us as quite a coincidence to find him on the passenger list from Recife to Port-of-Spain that day, so we started to check further. Although many people aren’t aware of it, foreigners who rent houses on the island are registered automatically with the police through the real estate agencies; it isn’t true of hotels, although some nationalities are still required to fill out a passport form even there.” The satisfaction in his soft voice was evident even through the inadequacies of the radio speakers. “In any event, Mr. Glencannon came to Barbados three months ago, and rented a house in the northern part of the island. Then, on April tenth he left Barbados for Recife, and returned on the same plane as McNeil as far as Trinidad. He came back a day later from there — apparently didn’t want to get off with police all around who might just remember his connection with the case, even fifteen years later. I don’t think there can be the slightest doubt but what he was the one who planned the affair from the beginning, using the ship’s librarian to get the gang together.”
Da Silva moved closer to the microphone. “Do you think he was also responsible for the kidnapping of Miss Cogswell? That was our hypothesis, remember?”
“I’m sure of it. We just came back from his place, bringing him along. The property has a barn on it that sounds like the place Miss Cogswell was held; and the location is right for the time she says she walked before collapsing and the place she was found. Between the Portland junction and Cherry Tree Hill.”
“Good,” Da Silva said, pleased. “Maybe we’re finally getting someplace.”
“I think we are. So let’s stop playing games with the mon,” Inspector Storrs said briskly. “Jamison, get Pierce and pick up McNeil right now. And bring him in to headquarters in Bridgetown.”
There were several pregnant moments of silence; Constable Jamison finally began clearing his throat when Wilson took pity on the two men and moved to the microphone.
“That’s the problem, Inspector,” he said, his Midwest American accent identifying him. “You see, he got away...”
“What?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Again?”
“Yes, sir.” The others were watching Wilson, the two Bajan policemen owlishly, Da Silva with a slight twinkle in his eye. Wilson returned to his story, bending the truth a trifle. “He came out of the house in an unexpected manner—”
“An unexpected manner? What’s that?”
“Yes, sir. Anyway, he got behind Pierce and knocked him out before Pierce could do anything, or make an outcry of any sort. It’s unfortunate, sir...”
“It certainly is.” The inspector’s voice promised that it would be unfortunate for somebody. “Well, I think you and Captain Da Silva should come down here as soon as possible. And Jamison, you too; with Pierce. We’ll have to start an island search again...”
Da Silva leaned forward. “I was planning on seeing Miss Cogswell to find out what happened when she was kidnapped, and what McNeil just said to her—”
“It can wait until morning,” the inspector said. “She’s tired, and let her rest. I have what happened to her on paper.” There was a moment’s silence while Da Silva sighed hopelessly, looking up toward the darkened house. When the inspector spoke again, he also sounded a trifle hopeless. “Twice,” he said. “To lose the man twice...”
Constable Jamison tried to look on the bright side.
“Anyway, Inspector,” he said in a placating manner, “what would we possibly hold the mon for? Miss Cogswell is home safe and sound, and even if you have this Glencannon chap for the kidnapping, sir, on what charge could we possibly hold McNeil?”
When the inspector came back on, his voice was cold as ice.
“I was thinking of a matter of murder,” he said quietly. “We brought Mr. Glencannon back with us, but we brought him back with a pitchfork stuck through his stomach...”
12
The loud, insistent rapping on the door finally penetrated Wilson’s fogged brain; he tried to bury his head beneath the pillow, but escape in this fashion was impossible. The banging shook the small camper, and the closer one got to the bedsprings the worse the vibration. With a sigh he rolled over and sat up, staring blearily at the watch on his wrist. Six o’clock? What maniac was going around banging on camper doors at six in the morning, when he and Da Silva hadn’t gotten to bed until after three? Well, he just hoped it was McNeil, that was all; he was in just the proper mood to settle with that character once and for all! He yawned deeply and stretched, trying to wake up, to bring some sense of proportion into his fuzzy brain, and then reluctantly reached for his trousers.
The rapping did not abate during Wilson’s pause for recovery from his fogginess. The nondescript man glared resentfully across the camper at the other cot while he zipped himself up; Da Silva, dead to the world, sprawled out, his feet overhanging the edge of the midget cot by a good foot. And how can you sleep through all this racket? Wilson thought sourly. Why should you have had the good fortune to either be born deaf or to have an affinity for unconsciousness that saves you having to answer the door at moments like this? What about all the nonsense that a good policeman springs up widely alert at the sound of a mouse biting into soft cheese? He sighed, suddenly aware that the rapping had not ceased at all during his cerebrations. He got to his feet and staggered sleepily to the door, peering through the locked screen, his eyes squinting against the brilliance of the early morning sun reflected from water and sand.
“Well, well,” he said, and yawned again. “Why didn’t you sing out?”
“I did,” Diana said tartly, “for about ten minutes before I started rapping. It certainly took long enough to wake you.”
“It doesn’t take so long when I get some sleep first,” Wilson explained, and unlatched the door, swinging it wide. A tin can that had been perched above it clattered to the floor, making them both jump. Wilson pushed it aside with his foot, grinning. “Not new, and I doubt in this case it would have been very effective. That was there in case Mr. McNeil decided to pay us a visit without an invitation last night. He seems to dislike us, for some unknown reason.”
“I know all about it.” Diana came in and looked down at Da Silva. Wilson’s grin widened; he tossed a sheet over the sleeping man.
“He’s not as alert as I am.”
“Well, alert or not, you’ll have to wake him.”
“Let him sleep at least until we find out the reason for this bright and early call,” Wilson suggested calmly. “I don’t remember leaving one at the desk.”
Diana Cogswell’s jaw tightened a bit dangerously.
“Do you know, Mr. Wilson, that I have a strong feeling that before this case is over, one of these days we’re very apt to have a fight?”
“If that’s a challenge,” Wilson said, “then I have the choice of weapons and method of combat. I choose bare-handed wrestling.” He grinned. “If I might coin a phrase — and it came to me like that — I should like to say that you look exceptionally beautiful when you get angry.”
“Then I’d look exceptionally beautiful most of the time if I had to work with you very often.” She turned, staring down at Da Silva. “Now, do you wake him or do I? With the water bucket?”
Two dark eyes opened very suddenly, staring up into hers from the bed.
“Just because you’re angry with Wilson is no reason to take it out on me.” Da Silva slid up in bed, pulling the sheet with him modestly. He stared at the girl gravely. “Water bucket! I’ll have you know we have to go miles to get it refilled with fresh water.”