The Killer Touch

Three

Next morning Burt found a shining new padlock on the door of cabin two. He shoved his hands into his pockets and regarded it with a feeling of frustration; he had merely glanced toward the cabin as he walked along the beach, feeling normal curiosity, and now... now he felt an aching desire to go in. The detective syndrome, he thought; you see a locked door and you want to look behind it. Or is that a burglar syndrome? Maybe there wasn’t much difference.

He walked toward the club. It was a gray day, and a steady east wind carried moisture in such fine particles that he didn’t know it was raining until he found his hair damp. The lagoon was like a blanket being shaken; the surf washed over the jetty and made tentative passes at the pilings which held up the beach club. Rolf’s launch was gone, and Burt could hear Joss’s voice raised in shrill anger behind the kitchen.

He found her standing over Coco, who was squatting on the ground, sullenly picking a scab on his instep.

“What’s wrong?” asked Burt.

Joss turned, looking sheepish. “This ignorant ass let the rowboat drift away last night.”

Coco looked up. “Mist’ March, I leave it on the beach where the surf do not reach.”

“Let’s go see.”

In front, Coco showed him the boat’s keel mark in the sand. It extended three feet above the line of coral, driftwood and coconut husks which marked the high-water point.

“She lie here when I go to sleep,” said Coco. “Not here this morning.”

“You must have moved it,” said Joss.

“No, mistress. I am sure.”

They all stood looking at the marks in the sand as though, if they looked long enough, the boat would materialize. Finally Coco shuffled off, mumbling. Joss shrugged. “Weather like this bugs these people. They don’t know it, but it does.”

Burt walked with her to the club. “What bugs me is losing the boat.”

Joss waved her hand airily and sat down at a table. “Hell, it wasn’t worth much. It’s just that one by one all my rowboats disappear. That boy gets out there day-dreaming and a boat gets carried onto the rocks; he forgets to put in a drainplug and a boat swamps; he goes skin-diving alone and his boat drifts away.” She sighed and signaled Godfrey to bring coffee. “I’ll get another one made on Bequia. Meanwhile there’s no problem. I just bought a pile of supplies, food and liquor, with the money I got from Keener and Smith. And O’Ryan will be through again in two or three days.”

“Suppose somebody gets sick?”

“You feeling bad?” She eyed him quizzically, then shrugged. “I’m sure, if there was an emergency, Rolf Keener would lend his launch.”

At that point Burt realized what really bothered him about losing the rowboat. Rolf Keener now had the only means of transportation on the island — and Rolf Keener had gone out early this morning to check his launch.

“Where’d the Keeners go?” he asked.

“For a cruise,” said Joss.

Burt frowned at the frothing sea. Fifteen-foot rollers broke against the rocks around the lagoon and sent up explosions of spray. Black-toothed rocks bit through the surface each time a wave receded.

“He’s in no danger, Burt,” said Joss. “He’s got twin outboards, besides his inboard engine, and he seemed to know what he was doing.”

“Yes,” said Burt. “He gives that impression.”

Godfrey brought two mugs of French coffee, hot and strong and heavy with chicory. Burt sipped it slowly, squinting out beyond the dripping thatch. He thought about Rolf, not because he feared for his safety, but because he wondered what could lure a man out to sea in this weather.

“You made a good impression on him,” said Joss after a long silence. “He said you could keep cabin one. He wants you for a neighbor.”

Burt gave a wry smile. “I wonder what else he wants.”

“Why?”

“He told me his life story last night. Some men do it because they like to talk. Rolf isn’t a compulsive talker. I think he wanted to exchange confidences.”

“Did you?”

“Wasn’t much more I could tell. He knew I was with the police, searched my wallet while I was out cold.”

Her mouth dropped open. “No! But that doesn’t sound like—”

She broke off as Jata appeared at the railing and morosely held up a mop and a bucket. “Miss Joss, how I’m cleaning cabin two?”

“You’ll have to wait, Jata. Mr. Keener wants to be there when you clean.”

The old woman’s blue-black, wrinkled face settled slowly into a mask of fury. She turned and strode off, somehow managing to convey injured dignity in the way she planted her large bare feet on the sand. Burt regarded Joss with a question in his eyes, and Joss looked down into her coffee. She spoke defensively:

“It sounded perfectly reasonable when he explained it this morning. I... didn’t realize how it would sound.”

“Yes. He’s very logical... in his own way.” Burt frowned. “I wonder what valuables he had that he couldn’t take with him.”

Joss wasn’t listening. She gulped down her coffee and stood up. “I’d better go soothe Jata’s pride. See you at lunch.”

Burt breakfasted on soursop juice, fried breadfruit and red snapper. Boris was sorry, but the rats had stolen the eggs and the mongooses had eaten all the chickens and there was no way to get off the island until Mister Keener returned.

Burt felt a new twist of unease: “If he weren’t here how would you get off?”

“We would cut the glass, sir.”

“Cut the glass?”

“Take the mirror, go up to the piton, catch the sun and flash it to the fishing boats.”

“And if there’s no sun?”

“If there is no sun, then you wait. The sun always return.”

After breakfast, Burt climbed the steep stony path which had been hacked through the shoulder-high grass. By the time he reached the base of the three black crags, he had to stop and massage his aching leg. Maybe I’m pushing too hard, he thought, can’t afford to get crippled up at this point.

At what point? Well, before it happens, whatever Rolf is going to make happen...

A six-foot watchtower had been built on the highest crag, dating from the days when the French and English had been killing each other to plant their flags around the world. The eminence was a paved area no larger than a shot-put ring, with a waist-high parapet halfway around it. The rest of the parapet had fallen a breath-taking five hundred feet to the rocks below. Burt leaned his elbows on the parapet, breathing heavily as he scanned the horizon. The mist-laden wind cooled his flushed face. Clots of low gray clouds floated over the white-capped sea below, seemingly anchored by silver streamers of rain. To the north, the populus island of Bequia formed an irregular crescent, pointing a gnarled finger at the southern tip of St. Vincent. To the south, a score of smaller islands thrust up from the sea, some so close together that it was hard to see where one began and another ended. He had visited all of them in the past; he recognized the jutting red peak of Battowia, inhabited by a few native fanners; he saw the wooded, rolling hills of Cannouan, the twisting spine of Baliceaux, the yellow-green pastures of Mustique, and the jagged thousand-foot spires of Union. Most of the smaller islands were waterless and uninhabited except for semiwild sheep and cattle, and voracious sandflies. There were none of the usual fishing boats bobbing between the islands, and no sign of Rolf’s power cruiser.

He left the tower and strolled aimlessly around the island. At least, he thought he was strolling aimlessly; he realized his subconscious had taken charge when he found himself regarding once again the padlock on cabin two. There was nobody in sight. He walked around the cabin looking for a means of ingress. The windows were small and hooked on the inside. The padlock hung on a rusty hasp screwed into rotting wood; he could have ripped it loose but he wanted to leave no sign.

He stumbled over an accumulation of litter from the cabin: broken bottles, rusty cans, and charred newspapers, all damp and glistening. One small pile had not yet been burned; he supposed it included Mrs. Keener’s sweepings. He got a stick and poked through it. Several wads of lipsticked tissue. Funny, there were two different shades, one the dark red he’d seen in the purse, the other a pale orange. Mmm. Maybe women changed their lipstick according to mood. Here was a mass of tangled, knotted hair, filled with lint as though it had been cleaned from a comb. He pulled an end loose and examined it. A pale wavy hair, ash blonde. Not Rolf Keener’s, too long for that. Possibly from a woman guest who predated Mrs. Keener, fallen in a corner and swept out only recently. Have to ask Joss. He looked for something to keep the hair in. All the paper was charred and soggy; ah, here was one, wadded up into a tight little ball like a piece of popcorn. He smoothed it and found that there were two sheets of thin airmail stationery. It had been burned carelessly, and much of the writing remained legible. The salutation caught his eye:

So, it was written by Mrs. Keener in a blunt vertical script totally without flourishes. He had not expected her to write in such a near-masculine hand. He spread out the second sheet and found only one and a half sentences intact:

A coldness grew at the back of his neck. He’d read many suicide notes, and this had the ring of authenticity. Funny, he thought, folding the letter and shoving it into the pocket of his shorts; this was written by a quietly desperate woman who had decided to end her marriage, perhaps even her life. He couldn’t picture Mrs. Keener in that part at all.

Well, that settled one thing. He had to get inside. He circled the cabin again and saw that the bathroom was roofed with corrugated tin. Probably it had once been thatched, but moisture had rotted the grass. A ladder led up to a platform which held a barrel of water for the shower. Burt climbed up and found that the roofing had merely been laid in place and covered with heavy stones to keep it from blowing away. He moved the stones, propped the sheeting open with a stick, and crawled inside. Standing on the low stand which held the basin, he pulled out the stick and lowered the roof back in place.

Inside, he noticed that Mrs. Keener had the same habit of untidiness he’d found in many otherwise attractive women. Her robe hung on the bathroom door and a pair of black panties were draped over the shower head. He touched his fingers to the transparent, chiffon-like fabric. Little red lips were embroidered around the bottom. It was the kind of lingerie teenagers order from the little ads at the backs of true confession magazines.

And what did that prove about Mrs. Keener? Simply that she took pride in her sexuality and liked to adorn it as well as possible. All of which fit the woman he had — met was too weak a word: encountered, maybe, or engaged. Such a woman would hardly consider suicide; if she did, she would write a fiery renunciation of the world, then reconsider and seek renewed life in an affair with a new man.

He froze at the entrance to the bedroom. Had a window blown open or... what was that breath of coldness? All the windows were closed. Burt didn’t have Joss’s blind faith in the supernatural, but he’d run into things which couldn’t be explained any other way. There was a feeling which often came to him in a scent of past violence; it had been present in the jewelry store, it was here now. A residue of fear or pain, like an invisible mist weighting the air.

He shook off the feeling and made a quick, thorough search of the room. More feminine clothing and inexpensive jewelry — in rather garish taste, he thought — but only one overnight case which held male clothing. Inside the case was a box of thirty-eight caliber ammunition. He catalogued the fact without emotion; Rolf had a gun, no doubt he kept it on the boat. A paranoiac with a gun was a combination devoutly to be avoided under any circumstances, but he had no time to consider it now.

He found the olive-green purse, but the talcum powder and the wallet were gone. Curious; it was as though Rolf had known his cabin would be searched. After removing all traces of incriminating evidence, why had he padlocked the door? Because he knew that would titillate Burt’s curiosity? Damn, he didn’t like the feeling of being always one step behind the man...

He jumped at the sound of tapping on glass. “Sir! Sir!” He saw Maudie’s round face pressed against the window. “They comin back, sir.”

He hurriedly glanced around the room, satisfied himself that he’d left no signs of his search, and departed the way he had come. Maudie was waiting as he dropped to the ground. He saw no point in asking how she’d known he was in the cabin; she’d been following him, of course. Didn’t she always?

He walked away from the cabin and stopped beneath the palm trees. “You know what I was doing in there?”

“No, sir. I think, yes.”

He frowned, trying to decipher her patois. “You don’t know, but you have an idea?”

She nodded. “I think you place charm to kill him. Because he bash you.”

He looked at her and smiled slowly. “You’ve lived with your mother too long.”

“Yes, sir.”

She seemed to be waiting for something more, and Burt reddened at the realization that his words could be taken as some sort of proposal. Maudie wore his gift beneath her T-shirt, and it was, as he’d expected, far too small. He failed to see how she breathed. He thought of telling her she didn’t have to wear it to please him, then realized it would merely drag him into more semantic confusion. He shrugged and started toward the club. Maudie followed. Burt called over his shoulder:

“Keep following me around, Maudie, and you’ll see things you shouldn’t.”

“Yes, sir,” she said gravely.

He walked on, and heard her bare feet slapping the path behind him.

He reached the club in time to watch Rolf negotiate the entrance to the lagoon. A split-second’s error in timing would have ripped the bottom out of the sleek, lap-hulled Swedish cruiser, but whatever else Rolf was, he was a skilled boatman. He waited for the swell, then gunned the engine and rose up with it. A wall of spray hid the boat for a moment, then it sailed into the comparatively calm lagoon. Burt was waiting as Rolf tied up at the jetty.

“We’ve lost our rowboat,” said Burt. “You didn’t happen to see it drifting?”

Rolf stood up, three inches taller than Burt. He looked strikingly virile and Nordic with his yellow hair blowing and his windbreaker jacket sparkling with water droplets. Burt noted the bulge beneath his left armpit and was half-relieved to know where the gun was.

The woman stood behind him, her eyes hidden by dark glasses. Her nose and forehead were sunburned, and there was pinkness on the long legs which extended below her white shorts. He wondered at her folly in submitting herself to the sun after being burned yesterday. Perhaps she’d been deceived by the haze; many northerners didn’t realize the tropic sun could burn through a layer of clouds.

“There was nothing out there,” said Rolf. “Everybody seems to be staying in port.” He frowned. “Lost the rowboat, eh?” His eyelids drooped slightly. “Then it seems I’m in possession of the only means of leaving the island.” He smiled blandly at Burt. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”

He walked away, and the woman followed without having spoken, or even nodded to Burt. He noticed that the shorts molded her so snugly that the cloth was shiny tight. It seemed wrong for her to be so blatantly sexual in public; she was the type who waited until it could produce immediate results. Furthermore, she wasn’t handling herself in a seductive manner. She walked as though she were self-conscious and uncomfortable, as though she’d been caught unprepared and had to wear a smaller woman’s clothing—

“All right, March. Shove your eyes back in your head.”

He turned to Joss beside him. “You notice anything strange about Mrs. Keener?”

“It isn’t strange. Everybody’s got one. Not everybody throws it around.”

He had to smile at Joss’s criticism of another woman’s apparel, considering her own home-made bathing costume. He walked with her to the club and sat down at a table.

“Tell me, did a blonde happen to occupy cabin two before she came?”

Joss frowned. “No. The last ones were two Frenchmen from Martinique. Rum-heads. Threw up all over the joint. Had to scrub it with soap and water to get the smell out. Why?”

“When did Jata clean it last?”

“Yesterday. She couldn’t today because—”

“I know. Then it had to be night before last.”

“What?”

He hesitated, then pulled out the two sheets of paper and handed them to her. She squinted, then shook her head and handed them back. “Light’s bad here. You read.”

“The light’s perfect and you know it.” Burt read the two notes and explained where he’d found them. He didn’t mention that he’d gone inside.

“Okay, Burt,” said Joss without interest. “She was alone and bugged by the fact.”

“Bugged enough to consider suicide?”

“Enough to write a note about it, and enjoy the thought of her husband being sorry she was dead. It’s like a crying drunk; you feel way down, you can’t figure why you’re down, so you invent trouble.”

“Maybe.” Burt folded the sheets and returned them to his pocket. “But you’ve got to admit, she doesn’t seem to be feeling sorry for herself now.”

“So her husband came and she’s happy.” Joss raised her glass, obviously ready to forget Mrs. Keener.

“One more thing,” said Burt. “Have you noticed any changes in her since I came? Has she dyed her hair... or anything?”

She set down her glass. “Burt, she had only one head, she wore clothes, she didn’t wear a beard. That’s all I can tell you. You know my eyesight.”

“Maybe the boys—”

“They won’t tell you anything.”

Her positive tone made Burt look at her sharply. “Why not?”

“Well... they’re not supposed to look.” Joss looked uncomfortable. “We’ve had some trouble in the past. The boys are typical islanders, you know, pretty direct types. Uninhibited. When they see a pretty woman they... look her over. But good. Stateside women aren’t used to that, and most of them have this color thing. I finally had to give strict orders to the boys, don’t look at the women.”

“Hell, Joss. That won’t stop it.”

“No, but they still won’t tell you anything. That would mean admitting they’ve disobeyed.”

Burt had to agree, and reflected that here was the drawback in throwing your authority around; you cut yourself off from sources of information. He decided not to tell Joss about the heroin, nor about the suspicion which was taking shape in his mind. Joss couldn’t help him until he knew which way it was going, and there was no point in spreading the burden of silence. With Joss, it would be a tremendous burden. He supposed it was her stage background that made her accept people for what they said they were. It was part of her charm.

Joss broke into his thoughts with somber sincerity:

“Listen, Burt, I don’t know what that bump on the head did to you, but you’re going to louse up your holiday. Not only that, you’ll depress me, and then I’ll drink too much and go on a bawling jag—”

“I’m sorry, Joss, but—”

“But, nothing. The weather’s bad enough without you catfooting around the islands. What we need is a party.”

It occurred to Burt that a party might be exactly what he needed to shake out more information. “You’re right, Joss. Get the boys in with their instruments—”

“And I’ll broil pigeons, and get some more wine—” She paused. “The Keeners?”

“Invite them, by all means. It won’t be a party if they don’t come.”