The Green Hell Treasure

14

“I’m not so sure I know what we’ll do with her,” Inspector Storrs said.

The inspector together with the two Interpol men were seated in a booth at the Badger Inn; Da Silva and Wilson had glasses of rum before them while the inspector nursed a giant mug of ale. The camper had been returned to the rental agency by Constable Wexford; the baggage of the two men was stowed in the trunk of Inspector Storrs’ car at the curb, waiting to take them to Seewell Airport and the return to Brazil. Wilson sipped his rum and looked across the table at the inspector.

“But I understood that you had ample evidence.”

“Oh, we have evidence,” the inspector said. “Diana Cogswell left her fingerprints all over the place — quite liberally, I might mention. I doubt she had any intention at the time of having McNeil blamed for the crime; she hadn’t learned where the stones were as yet, and that’s what she was after and had been since the beginning.”

“Then if you have evidence—”

Inspector Storrs looked at Wilson almost pityingly.

“You’re not thinking. I’d judge it shouldn’t take the worst barrister on the island more than two minutes to get an acquittal on the basis of self-defense. In fact, I’ll entertain a wager from you gentlemen at any odds that the jury wouldn’t even leave the box. After all, a chap kidnaps her. She says she tried to escape and the chap tried to stop her. The pitchfork is there at hand — she tries to ward him off. And an unfortunate accident occurs. But what’s a poor woman to do?” He shrugged. “It’s her story, and if you ask me, it’s a pretty good one.”

“Even if it isn’t true?”

“Even if it isn’t true.” Inspector Storrs took a deep draught of his ale and set the mug down. “And if I went on the stand and swore under oath that she killed Thomas Glencannon to reduce the number of people in the division of the spoils — just as she tried to get you to kill McNeil and had the immense fortune of having him kill himself — if I swore those things, the only thing the jury might do immediately upon freeing the girl, would be to recommend a long rest in some asylum for me until my brains became less addled.” He smiled gently across the table. “Picture her on the witness stand, with her dress above her knees and a low-cut neckline. You talk as if you’d never seen her in all her glory.”

“We’ve seen her,” Da Silva said, and smiled rather grimly. “I also saw her holding what I thought at the time was a loaded pistol to my head. Speaking of sights, that was not a very pretty one.”

“And she would simply deny it. Or, better yet, claim it was all a joke; that she knew the gun wouldn’t fire because she’d tried it before, aiming into the cove at a shark just for sport. Would you be able to prove otherwise?”

“No,” Wilson admitted unhappily. “And I imagine if I repeated some of the things she yelled out to us while she was handcuffed to that stanchion inside the cabin, the jury would claim that anyone unfairly handcuffed anywhere had every legal right to be upset. After which the judge would give me six months, or the lash, or both, for using obscenities in the courtroom.” He sighed. “So she gets away with it!”

Da Silva frowned and shook his head.

“I’m not so sure. She won’t swing for Glencannon, maybe, but she’ll suffer. Interpol has the complete story on her, and wherever she goes she’ll be watched. Anything off-color in the neighborhood and she’ll probably be brought in for questioning. And with her temper and her tastes, it’s merely a question of time before she gets picked up for something she did where self-defense won’t work. These things pile up, you know. I wouldn’t envy her if I were you.”

“I don’t envy her,” Wilson said stiffly. “Why should I? She’s not an exotic dancer, and she can’t even pilot a plane.”

Inspector Storrs stared. “What?”

“An in joke,” Wilson explained. “And not a very good one.” He sighed. “So someday we might run into the lovely Diana Cogswell again, eh?”

“Not if I can help it,” Da Silva said fervently. He looked at Wilson. “While we’re going through this autopsy, I’d like to ask a few questions myself. What led you to suspect her in the first place? Her bona fides from Interpol were genuine enough.”

“Oh, I never doubted she was with Interpol,” Wilson said. “But I have a hunch she managed to get in just for the purpose of getting her hands on those stones. Sound outlandish? It really isn’t, you know. She’s only been with Interpol a few years, and when I tell you some of the other things I dug up, you’ll see the connection.”

He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into an ashtray, staring at his glass of rum through a cloud of smoke, putting his thoughts in order while the others waited patiently. At last he looked up.

“Well, to start: In Port-of-Spain, in that bar, she started to say she had no plan — to find out what Zé knew or had in mind, I imagine — but the fact is that she did have a plan, and I spilled it in a childish exhibition of showing off my ability at picking pocketbooks. Now, as an Interpol agent assigned to Captain Da Silva, this reticence was rather odd, when you consider it. Unfortunately, I didn’t get around to considering it for a long time, but it stayed in my subconscious.

“Then, of course, there was the matter of her volunteering for the assignment just because it was in Barbados, her home sweet home. Now, I’ll admit I’ve had army training that Diana obviously didn’t, but the fact is I’m automatically suspicious of anyone who volunteers for anything, anytime, and the hometown bit struck me as being the flimsiest. I’m from Ohio, and I certainly don’t volunteer every time there’s a jewel robbery in Medina or Canton. My experience is that when Interpol wants you someplace, they see to it that you get there. So I sent a small cable from your communications center, Inspector, and discovered that Diana Cogswell hadn’t simply volunteered; she had used about every trick she could think of to get the assignment.”

Da Silva frowned. “And you never told me?”

“It was still only a faint suspicion,” Wilson said evenly. “Besides, you were always so busy in your meetings that I didn’t want to bother the brains of the operation with details. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Then there was the matter of age. When McNeil went up, he was twenty-two; Diana Cogswell was fourteen, and a beautiful creature at fourteen, I should imagine. Not a baby by island standards — in fact, I doubt if she was anything but a lovely young lady by any standards.” He shrugged lightly. “It struck me as being highly dubious that in an area as restricted as the Brighton-Queensland axis, let’s say, that McNeil and Diana had never met. A brawny young cock of the walk and what had to be the prettiest girl in the place? Very doubtful. But, I said to myself, where would they meet? Certainly not in the pub; certainly not in school, since McNeil probably quit before Diana even started. Then where? Ah, I said to myself — being a detective, you see — what if she went to church, and they had dances, and McNeil and his friends, who played beautiful music everyone agrees, just happened to pick up some change that way — or managed to meet girls that way — both normal youthful objectives? So I called the Queensland church, and the rector there, bless his soul, didn’t remember Diana or any of the girls and boys, but he did remember that McNeil and his friends played for dances there...”

“You were a busy little bee while I was in meetings, weren’t you?” Da Silva murmured, but his eyes were smiling.

“But still,” the inspector said in his soft island voice, “you only had suspicions, nothing more.” He had been watching closely; his attention riveted on the other; his tone indicated he was waiting for more. Wilson hastened to comply with the unspoken wish.

“They were just suspicions up to that point, it’s true,” he admitted, “but then Zé had one of his meetings that was a bit more boring than usual — you’ll forgive me, Inspector — and I wandered about your headquarters building; and being naturally interested in genealogy, I thought I’d just check on the Cogswell family.”

“We checked, you know, on her aunt when Diana first contacted us,” the inspector said quietly. “Her aunt’s maiden name was Windom; her married name really was Cogswell, you know.”

“I know. I found that in checking your records. What I also found out, though, is that Aunt Margaret was Diana’s mother’s sister.” He looked at the others proudly; all he got in return were blank stares. He frowned. “Now who’s not thinking? If her aunt married a man named Cogswell, how did Diana get the name? Did her mother also marry a man named Cogswell? Or did Diana merely adopt the name and later take it legally? And if she did give up her real name, why did she do so?”

“You’re trying to say something,” Da Silva said quietly.

“I am, indeed. Her real name was Corbett — Diana Corbett.”

Inspector Storrs sat up straight. “Jimmy Corbett’s sister! I imagine she would have known about the stones!” He turned to Da Silva. “He was one of the four who held up the ship. He died in prison.”

“I know.” Da Silva turned to Wilson. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself. Anyone could have done it who wasn’t tied up in meetings all day.” He smiled.

Inspector Storrs was drumming his thin fingers nervously on the table.

“This may change the picture. We may be able to bring up a bit more at the trial than I had thought.” He looked at Wilson. “You’ll be able to stay here to testify, of course?”

Wilson’s self-satisfied grin disappeared instantly. He raised his hand hurriedly.

“Look, Inspector, you don’t need me. Everything I told you is a matter of record. I have to get back to Rio. I’ll make a deposition when I get back, notarize it at the Embassy and send it along airmail. But I have to get back. I’ve been away too long as it is.”

Da Silva smiled. “He has a date with some smells, and to cross a street.”

The inspector was beginning to recognize in jokes. He didn’t let them bother him. He glanced at his watch.

“All right. I’ll accept the deposition. And if you really want to catch your plane, we’ll have to be leaving soon. What about a final cup of cheer on the Barbados constabulary?”

“Good,” Wilson said, relaxing. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

Inspector Storrs smiled and turned to call the waiter; a thought struck him and he turned back. “By the way,” he said curiously, “how is it that at my house you preferred cognac, but here at the inn you seem to prefer rum?”

There was a moment’s pregnant silence.

“Do you mean,” Da Silva said slowly, “that they serve more than rum or beer?”

“Of course.” Inspector Storrs raised his voice. “Sam, what do you have in the way of brandy? Anything foreign?”

The bartender stooped beneath the bar, coming up with a dusty bottle.

“Some salesmon, he sell it to the boss one day,” he said. “Funny taste, boys don’t like it much. Got a name—” He squinted at the label. “Reserve San Joan, or something...”

“My God!” Wilson said in an awestricken tone.

There was a twinkle in Da Silva’s eye.

“Serve it quick and let’s get going,” he said, “before Wilson changes his mind and sticks around for the trial...”