Peril in Pink

Connie Blair shivered in anticipation as she boarded the

plane that would take her to the Caribbean, never guessing
that soon she would shiver in fright. But once again what
began as a business trip was to become surrounded with
danger and intrigue.
When Mike Ingersoll first showed her the map, Connie
was caught up in the excitement of a search for sunken
treasure. It seemed little more than an inconvenience when
her traveling bag and Mikes were switched until she
discovered that she had the map, and someone else knew it!
How Connie pits all her mystery-solving skills against a
sinister modern-day pirate makes a fast-paced tale of
suspense and excitement.

The CONNIE BLAIR Mystery Stories

The Clue in Blue
The Riddle in Red
Puzzle in Purple
The Secret of Black Cat Gulch
The Green Island Mystery
The Ghost Wore White
The Yellow Warning
The Gray Menace
The Brown Satchel Mystery
Peril in Pink
The Silver Secret
The Mystery of the Ruby Queens

A CONNIE BLAIR MYSTERY

Peril
in Pink
By
BETSY ALLEN

Grosset & Dunlap

PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK

 1955 BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.

Night Flight
Sam Lords Castle
The Grenada Hop
Night Intruder
The Escape
Island X
Wild-goose Chase
Martinique Incident
In the Cathedral
Where Is Bertie?
The Black Beach
A Bus Named Paradise
Fire! Fire!
The Waterfall
Mission Accomplished

1
18
34
50
64
76
87
100
115
120
136
146
158
167
179

CHAPTER

Night Flight

Midnight was approaching relentlessly.

Above the Pan American Airways desk at
Idlewild Airport the clock hand had passed the halfhour and was starting the upswing. Connie Blair
glanced at the time briefly, concern touching her
brown eyes. Then she returned her attention to the
uniformed clerk who was trying to explain the mixup in reservations.
The best we can do now is put you on the tourist
flight to San Juan, leaving in fifteen minutes. It
arrives shortly after the flight on which you were
scheduledat 6:25 A.M., to be exact.
Very well, Connie decided quickly. She
glanced around at her waiting family, nodded
cheerily, then accepted her baggage checks and her
corrected ticket.
Theyll be loading shortly at Gate Six, the Pan
1

Am employee said.
Connie smiled and said Thank you. As she
turned away from the desk, the clerk glanced after
her in relief, mingled with admiration for her shining
blond hair and her trim, erect figure. He wished all
passengers faced reservation errors as equably as
this attractive young girl. Next, he murmured, as a
dark-skinned Puerto Rican pushed a ticket folder
toward him and embarked on a rush of questions in
broken English.
Meanwhile, Connie hurried over to the group of
familiar faces all turned her way. The entire Blair
family had come to New York to see her off,
because this was quite a trip Connie was about to
take, down to a small island in the Lesser Antilles,
with San Juan as only the first port of call.
Linking her arm through her mothers, she
explained quickly, Its all fixed up. They just
switched me to the tourist flight. I get there almost
as soon and I save a good deal of money besides.
Isnt that luck?
Relief touched her fathers lined, slender face,
and her mothers lips curved in a happy smile. Kit,
Connies twin sister, breathed deeply and grinned,
while Toby, her younger brother, exploded with,
Ill say. I was thinking we might all have to go
home and start over.
Since home was Meadowbrook, Pennsylvania, a
2

hundred and fifty miles away, it was a gloomy

prospect he had been contemplating. The entire
Blair family laughed, and Ruggles, the cocker
spaniel, whose leash Toby had wound safely around
his square little hand, wagged his tail appreciatively.
They stood, the group of them, like a snug little
island in the sea of hurrying people which made the
great International Airport hum with the activity of
high noon. Flights were called, passengers were
paged, luggage was hauled hither and yon, planes
arrived and departed for Europe, for California, for
places both glamorous and remote. Toby stood
wide-eyed, awed by the exciting hustle-bustle, but
Connies attention was fastened completely on her
family, her plump, rosy mother, her affectionately
quiet father, and her beloved sister who was looking
unusually earnest, almost frightened, because
Grenada, the tiny Caribbean island for which Connie
was bound, seemed uncomfortably far away.
What if the plane breaks down? Toby asked
unexpectedly, with youthful tactlessness.
It wont, Connie assured him, then patted her
mothers arm as she became aware of a ripple of
alarm crossing the smooth forehead. Now dont
worry about me. This is just another business trip,
remember. Ill be home, safe and sound, in a couple
of weeks.
Connies job, with Reid and Renshaw, a
3

Philadelphia advertising agency, had taken her

abroad before, to another island, Bermuda, where
she had helped solve a fascinating mystery.* But
even she had to admit that the prospect of this
journey was exceptionally thrilling. The cable from
Mr. Renshaw asking her to come had been an
exciting surprise, and as the time for leave-taking
approached, her heart began to pump like a
schoolgirls.
Then, before she had time for any real qualms,
she was at the gate, and everyone was kissing her
good-by and wishing her well. Alone, she found
herself walking across the floodlighted expanse of
ground to the monstrous bulk of the airplane. She
turned just once and waved, assailed by a feeling
that it was not she who was waving, not Connie
Blair, a small-town girl from Pennsylvania who,
until recently, had never been farther away from
home than the New Jersey seashore. Im like the
old woman in the nursery rhyme, she thought.
What was it she said? This canna be I!
An icy wind tugged at Connies coat as she
mounted the plane steps behind a Puerto Rican
woman carrying a small baby. The temperature had
been dropping all evening, and her father had
predicted it was apt to hit the zero mark. Connie
shivered, half with cold and half with anticipation. It
* The Green Island Mystery
4

seemed next to incredible that six hours from now

she would alight in a land where summertime lasted
the year round.
The great plane was crowded with dark-skinned,
home-going Puerto Ricans, many of whom had
found New York far from the city of riches of which
they had dreamed. Connie looked at their soft,
languid eyes and wondered how they had managed
to stand the cold and the disappointment which
many of them must have met. Of some sixty-six
passengers only a handful were business people like
herself.
She found a seat next to a window, settled herself,
and automatically fastened her safety belt, peering
out to see if she could get one last glimpse of her
family, but they had completely disappeared in the
night.
Is this seat occupied? asked a pleasant
masculine voice.
Connie turned quickly with a negative shake of
her head, to look up into the clear gray eyes of a
young man with a portfolio under his arm. His
tweed jacket, gray flannels, and crew cut seemed
hearteningly familiar in this group of foreigners, and
Connie smiled, liking the square line of his jaw and
the permanently tanned, almost weather-beaten, look
of his skin. She placed him, tentatively, as a New
5

Englander and moved her own brief case to her lap

in order to make more room.
Cant I put it up above for you? the young man
asked.
Thank you. Connie handed the leather portfolio
over and watched him arrange it carefully, so that it
could not be jolted out of place. She noted, however,
that he kept his own brief case on his knees, and
wondered if he intended to work through the small
hours of the morning, while the plane winged over
the Atlantic and most of the passengers tilted back
their chairs and tried to sleep.
As they taxied to the runway and the engines
quickened for take-off, a stewardess checked the
seat belts. The young man next to Connie turned to
her and grinned. Night flying is always exciting,
isnt it? he asked conversationally.
Oh, yes! Connie agreed, smiling back at him.
We may as well get acquainted, since were
going to be spending the next six hours together,
her companion said. My names Mike Ingersoll. I
come from Cape Cod, and Im heading for an island
down toward Trinidad. Sort of casing the joint for a
business deal.
Connie liked such forthrightness but his final
remark made her eyes widen slightly. Im Connie
Blair, she told him in return. I work in
Philadelphia for an advertising agency. Im meeting
6

one of my bosses, Mr. Renshaw, in Grenada. She

stopped short at the young mans look of surprise.
Funny, Mike confessed. I had you tagged for a
winter vacationist, not for a business gal.
Should I consider that a compliment? Connie
asked.
You bet! I think all career girls should look as
un-businesslike as possible. It makes them twice as
intriguing to the average American male.
Connie laughed, her sparkling brown eyes
crinkling in amusement. Thats an interesting point
of view, she admitted. Do you consider yourself
average?
Mike Ingersoll stretched his long legs and leaned
back, unfastening his seat belt as soon as they were
air-borne and the instruction signals had been
switched off. Very average, he replied. My life
follows the usual pattern. Small-town kid, public
schools, a year at prep, another at college, and then
the Navy. Now Ill probably never go back to
school. The time is past.
What did you do in the Navy? Connie asked
with interest.
I had a break there, Mike replied. I was a
frogman, if you know what I mean.
Aa diver? Connie questioned, and then, at
Mikes nod, said, That sounds far from average.
Tell me about it, wont you? Id be awfully
7

interested.
This friendly young man needed no second
invitation, and as he described his tour of duty in the
service Connie could see that diving was a real
passion, one of the major interests of his life.
She said as much, and he corroborated her
thought. Yes, he admitted, Im crazy about it. So
much so that its even become something of a
career. But now tell me about yourself. Ive been
doing all the talking.
Connie acquiesced. Well, at the moment Im on
a rather different assignment, she told Mike. Mr.
Renshaw and five other American businessmen are
interested in building a club on the island of
Grenadasomething like the Coral Beach Club in
Bermuda, but even more lavish and spectacular. Im
taking Mr. Renshaw the architects revised drawings
and the publicity plans. From there on in I guess Ill
be sort of a Girl Friday and take over any jobs that
need doing. In our business you never know.
Sounds like fun, Mike murmured. It also
sounds as though you have a pretty responsible job
for your age.
Or maybe Im older than I look, Connie replied
facetiously.
Youd have to be older than you look, Mike
retorted with quick gallantry, to be holding any job
at all.
8

The stewardess stopped at their seat and asked if

they would like some coffee. Mike turned to Connie,
who said, That sounds good, and her companion
nodded agreement. Me too, please.
The hot beverage was stimulating. Connie, who
had been feeling drowsy, became wide awake once
more, and she couldnt resist quizzing Mike about
his earlier statement that he was casing an island
on a business deal.
Are you a good listener? Mike asked. Its a
long story.
Connie glanced at her wrist watch. We have
more than four hours, she said happily, and
invitation sparkled in her eyes.
O.K., then. Mike crossed his legs and settled
himself more comfortably. I warn you in advance,
he said, his grin almost rueful, that the tale Im
about to tell sounds like an adventure yarn. The
funny part is that I believe its true.
It starts quite a while back, when I was in Yale,
that one year. There was a boy in my class, named
Pedro Alvarez, a Mexican, very slick-looking and
swarthy, with a certain style about him. He lived
right across the hall from me and I got to know him
quite well. His room was loaded with all kinds of
family photographs, some of them taken outside a
house the size of a small castle. It got around school
that his father was a pretty important fellow, some
9

sort of a Mexican grandee.

Connie couldnt imagine where this was leading,
but she nodded encouragingly, her blond hair
swinging gently, her expression alert and interested.
Pedro and I lost touch with each other after the
Navy snapped me up, Mike continued, but another
friend of mine told me he dropped out after his
second year. I thought about him once in a while
because hed asked me to visit him. I sure would
have liked that!
Mexico must be wonderful! Connie murmured.
Mike shrugged. I completely lost track of him
after I got out of the Navy. My dads in the salvage
business and I went in with him when he sold out on
the Cape and moved to New York to take a
partnership in a bigger enterprise. Then, to my
complete surprise, a few weeks ago Pedro turned up,
with the darnedest proposition you ever heard of.
Tell me if youre bored.
Bored? Connie exclaimed softly. Im
fascinated.
Wait until you hear the payoff, Mike told her.
Pedro invited me to lunch, acting very secretive,
and while we were eating he told me his father had
died, the big house had been sold, and that he
Pedrohad been given the job of going through the
library and disposing of some of the more valuable
books. I gather, Mike said, that the old man had
10

been living above his means and that Pedro was

trying to pick up a little loose change. Anyway, he
told me that an heirloom in his fathers family was
this one particular manuscript of some memoirs of a
Spanish priest who came to Mexico at the time of
Cortez.
He was apparently quite a guy, this priest, and
he wrote a heck of a good autobiography. Once
when he was returning to Spain aboard the lead ship
of a flotilla of three vessels he had quite an
experience. The second ship, which was laden with
Aztec golden treasures the Spaniards were carting
home as plunder, hit a reef off a dinky little island in
the Caribbean and sank quick as lightning, before
they could do any more than rescue the men. Of
course the priest claimed it was retribution, because
he considered that his countrymen were stealing
these artifacts of Aztec civilization and jolly well
deserved to lose the lot.
Maybe he was right, Connie put in
thoughtfully, then immediately urged, Go on!
The priests memoirs were published in Spain,
Mike said, and one of Pedros forebears came into
possession of the manuscript. Now this is the thing
thats interesting. The book didnt contain a map
diagraming the spot of the sinking, because maybe it
was too expensive to reproduce, but the manuscript
did. And Pedro had brought the manuscript and the
11

map along with him to New York.

Why? Connie asked, although she already
suspected the answer.
To sell it, Mike said. He has reason to believe,
and so have I, that the treasure ship has never been
salvaged to this day!
Connie could feel her heart beat faster. This was a
story! You bought it? she asked excitedly.
Not me. I dont have that kind of dough, replied
Mike promptly. But I couldnt resist sicking Pedro
on Dad, who is a gambler from way back, like most
of the men in the salvage game. Dad has a friend
whos curator of some kind of Spanish-American
museum, and together they went over the dope and
became convinced that the map was authentic and
that there might be a pot of gold at the end of the
rainbow after all. Anyway, Dad and a couple of his
pals put up the money, bought the map, and are
financing this reconnoitering trip for me. Wish me
luck. Who knows, we may all get rich!
To say nothing of the fact that such a find would
be of great archaeological interest to the entire
world, Connie added thoughtfully.
Now youre talking like Dads friend, the
curator. Mike grinned. Hed approve of you.
Clasping her hands in her lap, Connie drew a
deep breath. Ive never heard of anything more
exciting. Looking for sunken treasure! She stopped,
12

dreamy-eyed. Goodness, Mike, your job makes my

job seem pretty dull. But how are you going about
it? she wanted to know. Arent there all sorts of
sharks and things in the Caribbean? You arent
going toto dive?
If I can locate the spot I am, Mike told her.
You ought to see the fancy equipment Ive brought
alongoxygen helmet, spear gun, frog feet, the
works.
Connie shivered a little. It sounds dangerous.
Pooh, Mike said with a shrug. Sos crossing a
street.
Whats the name of the island? Connie wanted
to know.
Its one of those little volcanic ones that doesnt
even have a name, Mike replied. We call it Island
X just for the heck of it.
Island X, Connie repeated just above a whisper.
What a wonderful title that would make for a
mystery book.
Mike chuckled and Connie glanced at him,
confessing, Im incurably romantic, I guess.
Thats a nice way to be, Mike said approvingly.
I like people with enthusiasm and a love of the
colorful. The only people I cant stand are the ones
who are always bored.
Connie nodded. I agree. They had a lot in
common, she was thinking, she and this young
13

stranger. She was glad that they had met.

Speaking of fascinating names, she said after a
minute, I think Mr. Renshaw and his associates
have chosen a wonderful name for the club they
want to build. The Morne Rouge. Its appropriate
too, because the site is at the foot of the Morne
Rouge hills.
What does it mean? Mike asked.
Morne mean morning. I looked it up, Connie
admitted. And of course Rouge means red.
Red morning, Mike repeated. I dont get it.
Oh, dont be so literal, Connie said, laughing.
It just sounds good.
Then, because there was still a lot of time to
while away, she got her brief case from the rack and
showed him the plans for the sprawling pink
limestone buildings, to be nestled among the palm
trees on a three-mile beach beside the blue
Caribbean. The plans included an aerial map of the
entire island of Grenada, mountainous and tropical,
edged by curving roads which glimpsed the sea.
Its odd, isnt it, that were both carrying maps
of Caribbean islands, Mike commented. Want to
see mine?
Of course, Connie said. But isnt it top
secret?
Mike grinned. It should be, I suppose. But I trust
you.
14

Connie twisted in her seat and frowned. I dont

know that you should, she said. I dont know that
you should trust anybody.
Why?
Well, isnt it true that salvage belongs to the
person who first claims it? Connie asked. If
someone reached the spot even a day or two ahead
of you, wouldnt you be the loser?
Yes, Mike admitted, but theres small chance
of that.
He unzipped the portfolio in his lap and drew out
a piece of pink tracing paper. Connie glanced up and
down the aisle cautiously, because all night long
Puerto Ricans had been on the prowl, walking to and
fro to the water cooler, visiting with acquaintances,
or merely lurching from one end of the plane to the
other to pass the time. At the moment, however,
there was no one near their seat. In front of Connie a
woman was completely occupied trying to quiet a
crying baby, while in front of Mike an old man lay
back and snored. In the seats just behind, a young
couple slept on each others shoulders, and across
the aisle two rather disheveled Puerto Rican men
were engrossed in a card game.
Nevertheless, Connie drew the map toward her
guardedly and urged Mike to talk softly when he
explained the islands probable location in
relationship to others in the general area. None bore
15

names with which she was familiar, and she began

to feel that this young man by her side was about to
step right off the edge of the known world.
This is a tracing, of course. Where is the original
map? Back home, I hope.
Oh, you bet. Mike grinned. Im not that
foolhardy.
Then, quite without expecting it, because she had
not been checking the time, Connie felt the plane
begin its descent. It dropped smoothly at first, then a
trifle jerkily, and she and Mike gazed out the
window to glimpse a fairyland of lights twinkling
beneath a sky which was being traced by the first
pink lines of dawn.
Suddenly airsick, the woman in front of Connie
got up, looked around desperately, then thrust her
baby at the one female within reaching distance,
murmuring something apologetic in Spanish as she
scrambled hurriedly over the sleeping man next to
her, to disappear up the aisle.
Connie glanced down in astonishment at the
black-haired infant, blanket-wrapped like a mummy,
which she found in her arms, and Mike burst into
laughter. Hi, Mom! he said.
The plane was dropping even more rapidly now,
the No Smoking and Fasten Seat Belts signals
flashed on, and one wing began to dip sharply, as
though in salute to the approaching field. Connie
16

raised the baby and Mike leaned across and fastened

the buckle of her seat belt because both of her arms
were otherwise occupied.
What do I do if the mother doesnt come back?
she asked.
Just add one nio to your baggage declaration,
Mike proposed.
As a matter of fact, Connie actually alighted at
the San Juan airport with the infant in her arms. The
mother, still looking slightly green, came along
behind, leaning on the arm of the stewardess.
Kit should see me now, Connie thought, and
shared her amusement with Mike, who was carrying
their hand luggage. Then all of a sudden she realized
she felt weighed down by the camels-hair coat she
was wearing. Why, she cried, it must be ninety
degrees!
Not quite, Mike said, and pointed to a
thermometer as they were swept into the maelstrom
of passengers trying to claim their baggage and greet
their relatives and arrange for transportation to the
city or transfer to other planes. Connie relinquished
the baby gratefully to a beaming father, took her
brief case from Mike, and called a hasty good-by as
he was parted from her in the throng.

17

CHAPTER

Sam Lords Castle

The San Juan airport was big and busy, even at this
early morning hour. Somehow, it seemed to Connie
that the excitable chatter of a foreign language
added to the confusion, and that the red tape was
even worse than that encountered at airline offices in
the United States.
Her tickets were checked and rechecked, her bags
transferred from one counter to another, and Pan Am
consulted with the British West Indies Airlines to
confirm reservations for Antigua, where she would
shift to a B.W.I.A. plane. During intervals of waiting
she kept glancing around in the hope that she might
spot Mike Ingersoll, but he seemed to have
disappeared completely. Connie was disappointed
because she realized that, with all their talk of
islands, she had no idea where Mike was actually
going or even where, in relationship to any of the
18

Lesser Antilles with recognizable names, his Island

X was located.
Finally, everything was arranged for the
necessary island-hopping which Connie had to do
to reach Grenada. She checked her heavy coat at the
Pan American baggage room, grateful that she
wouldnt have to carry it with her through the
tropics, and considered with satisfaction the dark
cotton dress she had worn, which looked
comparatively wrinkle-free even after the all-night
trip.
It astonished her that she didnt feel particularly
sleepy. Excitement must be keeping me buoyed
up, she decided, as she went out to board her
connecting plane. In contrast to the crowded tourist
flight from New York this roomy DC-6 was almost
empty. She slipped into a seat near the door and
suddenly began to feel very much alone.
Breakfast was served as soon as they were in the
air, because the flight to the Leeward Island of
Antigua was to be brief. Connie accepted her tray
thankfully, balanced it on the small pillow placed on
her knees by the stewardess, and was sipping her
orange juice when, a few seats ahead, she saw a
familiar crew cut above the back of a seat.
Breakfast, sir? she heard the stewardess ask.
You bet!
There was no mistaking that New England
19

accent, nor the quick enthusiasm of the tone. Mike

Ingersoll! Connie called spontaneously, and his
head swiveled in her direction.
Mike moved back, delighted, and they
breakfasted together, feeling like old friends. With
all those odd names you were firing at me, I never
did find out where you were heading from Puerto
Rico, Connie remarked. I mean, where you take
off for your real trip.
Well, first Im going to Barbados, Mike
replied.
Barbados? Connie gasped. But so am I!
Mike shook his head. You said Grenada.
I know. But Im going to Barbados first, to get
some papers signed by a Mr. John Marchant.
Mike looked surprised. Marchant, did you say?
Yes, why?
Doesnt he manage a place called Sam Lords
Castle?
Connie nodded. Thats where Im staying.
Well, for the love of Pete! Mike Ingersoll
exclaimed. So am I!
Curiouser and curiouser, Connie decided aloud.
But I couldnt be more pleased. I was beginning to
feelbefore I discovered you were aboardjust a
little bit scared and alone.
I dont believe it, Mike said with a chuckle.
Not you!
20

Connie laughed. Thats a perfectly normal

reaction, for any girl, she insisted. But explain, if
you dont mind, why you should be stopping off in
Barbados.
Thats easy. Mike grinned. In the first place
Mr. Marchant, I understand, has a very fine
collection of furniture and documents from the days
of Sam Lord.
Then Sam Lord was a real person? I wondered.
Oh, very real! Mike replied. His name was
Samuel Hall Lord, and he was a really fabulous
character who came to Barbados from Great Britain
and got very rich as a privateer. He built a huge
mansion and gardens overlooking the sea, and they
say he used to tie lanterns to the palm trees on the
beach at night to attract passing ships. The ships
would head for shore, thinking it was a port, and
would frequently be wrecked on the reefs. Then Mr.
Lord would rescue the crew and attach the cargo.
Nice fella, eh?
Charming, agreed Connie with a raised
eyebrow. When did all this happen?
Well, Sam Lord built the castleby slave
laborsometime before 1830. Apparently it was
quite a show place, and still is. They say the plaster
ceilings are really something, done by an Italian
brought over for just that purpose. But Im getting
off the track. The reason for my interest in this
21

regency rascal is that it was from his estate Pedros

grandfather acquired the manuscript and the map.
Connie nodded and her lips formed a soundless
Oh.
So naturally, although weve done a fairly
scientific job in checking the priests diagram with
modern hydrographic maps, Id like to discuss our
findings with Mr. Marchant. For instance, he may
know the date when Sam Lord came into possession
of the manuscript. Naturally, my greatest concern is
that conceivably he could have salvaged the treasure
himself.
If he had time, you mean?
Thats right, Mike replied. Its all a question
of date. Dad and his friends think Lord got the
manuscript just a short time before his death, and
that its fairly certain he bought it for the map alone.
But whether he had time to make use of the map is
doubtful, perhaps even impossible. Thats something
Mr. Marchant may know definitely. I certainly hope
so. Mike grinned. Ill sleep easier nights.
How did Pedros grandfather happen to get the
manuscript from the Lord estate? Connie asked.
Bought it at auction, retorted Mike promptly.
Pedro still had the sales slip. Almost all Sam
Lords effects were soldthe antique furniture, the
books, the china and silver. Gosh, there must have
been heaps of stuff! Dad heard that Marchant has
22

been buying back the things that remain on the

island. But of course many of the items, like this
manuscript, must have found their way abroad.
Connie could picture in her minds eye the scene
of the auction, the Spanish grandee who loved rare
books, and who brought home to his own castle in
Mexico the find he had made in the remote British
island. The whole tale had a storybook quality which
made a cold thrill ripple down her spine.
Then Mike changed the subject abruptly. Look!
Theres Antigua off our left wing!
The plane curved downward, passed the airstrip,
which looked impossibly smalla mere path in the
middle of a fieldand came in for an effortless
landing. There was a half-hour wait between planes,
and then Connie and her companion were once more
winging over blue water, Barbados bound.
Almost immediately they were conscious of a
change in pace. The British operated on no splitsecond schedule. They did things in a very leisurely
fashion, as though it were quite unimportant whether
they arrived at an airport on time or an hour late.
Indeed, when they put down in Guadeloupe and
again in Martinique, both French islands, Connie
and Mike had plenty of time to wander around and
buy post cards and soft drinks. There was a great
deal of unloading and loading of the luggage
compartment. It seemed to Connie that everything
23

was repacked at least three times.

But finally, an hour and a half late, the plane
approached the coast line of the serene, low-lying
island of Barbados, and very shortly Connie and
Mike found themselves driving along roads lined
with palms and casuarina trees toward the windswept St. Phillips coast where Sam Lords Castle
was located. They passed through fields of waving
sugar cane, ripe now and about to be harvested.
They passed the gates to old houses owned, once
upon a time, by wealthy planters, and everywhere
they passed children and burros, and women
carrying baskets on their heads. Under the blazing
blue sky everything looked clean and orderly and
very English, so much so that Connie was again
reminded of Bermuda. When they turned in between
the two square, sturdy gatehouses which flanked the
driveway leading up to the castle, she felt very
drowsy and relaxed.
The castle itself was indeed imposing, with a
sweeping flight of entrance steps and a crenelated
roof. Mr. Marchants assistant greeted them and
presented his employers apologies. He had urgent
business in Georgetown and would be away until
early evening but hoped to meet them upon his
return.
Connie was shown to a room with a high fourposter bed in which Sam Lord himself was supposed
24

to have slept. The windows looked out across a

broad lawn and over a fringe of palm trees to the
beach and the blue Atlantic beyond.
The surf, even from this distance, looked very
inviting, but for once Connie was too sleepy to
contemplate a swim. She pulled her dress over her
head and dropped across the bed, no longer
sustained by the excitement of the journey. In two
minutes she was sound asleep.
It was twilight when she awakened, and the
massive windows held the pink afterglow of the
sunset. The constant trade winds riffled the curtains
and somewhere in the distance a donkey brayed.
Connie turned on her back and sighed luxuriously,
feeling rested and refreshed.
She showered and dressed in a full-skirted cotton
that left her smooth young shoulders bare, tied back
her hair with a band of black velvet ribbon, and
slipped her feet into open-toed sandals that made her
feel very sophisticated because they had higher heels
than she had ever before worn.
Then she went out in the hall and down the
impressive mahogany staircase to the great, highceilinged rooms of the main floor.
Because twilight in the tropics is very short, it
was already dark and the lights in the chandeliers
picked up the warm tones of the beautiful antique
woods and the brasswork banding a carved chest
25

and embellishing a bow-front dresser. Great bowls

of hibiscus flamed against the gray walls of the
drawing room, and on the lawn and the wide porch
vacationists talked and laughed together in groups,
looking rather insignificant in such a palatial setting.
From a hallway Mike Ingersoll appeared,
scrubbed and shaved, in a clean shirt and a linen
jacket. He pursed his lips in a muted whistle when
he encountered Connie. Plainer than words his
glance said, Pretty keen.
Good evening, Connie murmured demurely.
Taking the cue, Mike mimicked, Good evening,
right back, then added, Will you dine with me?
Delighted, Connie replied absently. Have you
seen Mr. Marchant?
Nope. I dont think hes back yet.
Connie looked disappointed. Arent you getting
fidgety? If I were in your shoes, I could hardly
wait!
Miss Impetuous, Mike said with a grin. I
learned to be patient in the Navy. Besides, Im
completely confident that Mr. Marchant is going to
confirm my own feeling that the ship has never been
touched.
Faith is a beautiful thing, Connie murmured.
Are you hungry? Im simply starved.
At that very moment chimes rang to announce
dinner, and guests started to stroll in from the
26

gardens and from the various adjoining rooms. The

dining room was baronial in its splendor, with a
carved plaster ceiling supported by polished pillars
of Honduras mahogany.
Gilt-framed, facing mirrors completely lined the
walls. These mirrors lent an eerie quality to the
room which Connie couldnt quite identify until she
realized that all were clouded, reflecting only a
muted, wavy version of the light and the color.
Resilvered, they would have shone with a dazzling
splendor, but they were more interesting this way,
smoky with age.
Mike reacted to the atmosphere at once. Gosh, I
feel as though we should talk in whispers, he said
as he held Connies chair.
None of the other guests seemed to be similarly
affected, however. They chatted and laughed quite
freely as waiters in white coats served them with the
various courses: clear soup, flying fish, dasheen,
which was a lot like squash, and breadfruit, which
Connie tasted cautiously.
Why, its like mashed potatoes! she cried out
spontaneously.
Only not quite as good, was Mikes opinion.
Both of them, however, agreed that the flaming
bananas offered for dessert were really super.
They were just contemplating the possibility of
asking for second helpings when a tall, aristocratic27

looking gentleman, dressed in immaculate white,

entered the room. He glanced around, nodded, and
spoke to several other guests, then made his way to
their table.
He looked at Connie first. Miss Blair? he
asked. Im John Marchant. Welcome to Barbados!
So sorry to have been in Georgetown at the time of
your arrival. He turned to Mike. And this must be
Mr. Ingersoll. How nice that you two young people
have already met!
Mike had arisen, and after the amenities had been
concluded, Mr. Marchant suggested that they join
him for coffee in the small parlor off the drawing
room. He snapped his fingers to call a waiter, gave
the order crisply, and moved on to speak to a thin,
dark man with a decidedly British accent who was
dining alone several tables away.
There goes our second helping, whispered
Mike.
But Connies eyes were following the manager.
Hes nice, she pronounced. Good eyes and a
warm smile. Ill bet hes very intelligent too. Men
with high foreheads always are.
Mike reached up to touch his crew cut, pretending
to measure the distance from his hairline to his
eyebrows ruefully. Connie laughed at the
pantomime, then pushed back her chair. Come on,
she said. This is going to be fun.
28

When the manager of Sam Lords Castle joined

them he was accompanied by the dark Britisher,
whom he introduced as Mr. Russell. This gentleman
had a very long neck, a small head, and hooded eyes
which reminded Connie of a lizards. These eyes
were dark and penetrating, and they moved quickly
from face to face during the ensuing conversation, in
which he took a ready part.
Mr. Marchant launched on his favorite topic, Sam
Lord, almost immediately, and related tale after tale
of the infamous rascals life on Barbados. Mr.
Russell also seemed to know something of the
exploits of the former owner of Long Bay
Plantation, as the castle had then been called, and
both Connie and Mike listened with interest as they
sipped the hot black coffee which a waiter served.
Later Ill show you my library, and then the
dungeon, Mr. Marchant told them.
Yes, indeed, we must see the dungeon. When
they had a disagreement, thats where Sam Lord
occasionally locked up his wife, Mr. Russell
explained.
How do you happen to be so well informed
about this Barbados pirate, Mr.Mr.
Call me Bertie, do, the Englishman insisted
when Connie hesitated for a moment over his name.
She found the suggestion unduly ingratiating and
stiffened unconsciously. Thank you, but I think Ill
29

be able to remember Mr. Russell in the future, she

murmured in reply.
Then, with her question unanswered, she turned
back to Mr. Marchant, to whom Mike, with his usual
unbridled enthusiasm, was already telling the story
of why he had come to the islands, and what he
hoped to find. Connie bit her lip, wishing that he
would exercise just a trifle more caution. His
mission, she felt, was both delicate and risky. The
fewer people who knew about the treasure ship the
better. About one thing she was especially anxious,
that he might mention his possession of the map.
Interrupting Mikes soliloquy she sprang to her feet.
Oh, do lets see the dungeon now! she suggested.
With easy courtesy, which Connie suspected
concealed his amusement at her teenage
impetuousness, Mr. Marchant acquiesced. He got a
flashlight, which he called a torch, and then led
them belowstairs.
Here the atmosphere changed abruptly. The
dungeon, now used only as a storage room, was
dank and musty. The walls were rough stone, the
barred doors heavy with rust, and the uneven earthen
floor was treacherous for Connies high heels.
Blinking to adjust her eyes to the darkness, she
followed Mr. Marchant into the cave where Sam
Lord was said to have incarcerated his wife. Mike
came next and Mr. Russell brought up the rear.
30

31

Traveling as they were, single file, there was no

opportunity to caution Mike to be less candid about
his plans. It seemed to Connie that Mr. Russell
stayed close deliberately, so that they couldnt get a
word alone.
But of course she was imagining things! Shaking
away such an absurd suspicion she tried to keep her
attention centered on Mr. Marchants continuing
commentary on Sam Lord. Then, quite
unexpectedly, her heel caught in a length of chain
lying on the floor and she made a grab for security
as she stumbled.
Mike leaped forward, and his square, strong hand
caught and steadied her just as a heavy iron pot
which had been gathering dust on a shelf above his
head crashed to the floor. He glanced around,
startled as Mr. Russell darted out of the way, almost
tumbling backward in his haste.
Great Scott, cried Mr. Marchant, swinging the
beam of his torch at his three companions, that
thing could have hit one of you on the head!
It almost did, Connie commented promptly. If
you hadnt grabbed for me just when you did, Mike,
it could have knocked you out.
It could have killed you, Mr. Marchant said
crisply. Ill have to see that the servants are more
careful about how they store things down here.
Then he noticed that Connie looked decidedly
32

shaken. Lets get on back upstairs, he proposed.

Just as they reached the first-floor hall Connies
eye caught a movement on the pale-gray wall. Oh,
look! she cried. What a wonderful little creature!
Mike, come here!
A tiny lizard, looking like a crocodile seen
through the wrong end of a telescope, was watching
a fly a foot or so further along the wall. In its
absolute immobility it looked like a green jewel
pinned against the painted surface.
Watch, Mr. Marchant suggested. Hes waiting
for the fly to turn his back.
An instant later, with amazing swiftness, the
chameleon streaked across the intervening space and
the fly disappeared in his pouch.
They rarely miss, said Mr. Marchant as he and
Bertie Russell walked on. Come on now, he called
over his shoulder. Ill show you my library,
including those records of the Lord sale you were
asking about, Mr. Ingersoll.
Connie touched Mikes arm as they followed
their host. There was only time for a whispered
sentence, and even that might be overheard.
Chancing this, she murmured quickly, Doesnt Mr.
Russell remind you of that lizard?
As she glanced up at Mike and met his eyes she
tried to signal a warning, but her lips were smiling
and the message in her words fell on deaf ears.
33

CHAPTER

The Grenada Hop

Connies business with Mr. Marchant was

concluded in half an hour the next morning.
Immediately after breakfast he took her into his
office and signed the necessary papers. In the Morne
Rouge Club negotiations he was acting as an
intermediary for the group of Americans dealing
with the British, and Connie could tell by the quick
way in which his mind encompassed the legal
terminology that Mr. Renshaw, as usual, had picked
a clever and able man.
Her portfolio repacked, Connie was free until
noon, when she and Mike Ingersoll would once
more set forth for the airport to board the same
plane. Connie, of course, was bound for Grenada,
and Mike would go on from there to the next stop,
St. Lucia, from which island he would proceed by
any boat he could charter to the mysterious Island X.
34

At breakfast Connie had managed to repeat her

caution to Mike to keep his affairs as secret as
possible. Youre being a worrywart, he had told
her. Marchant and Russell are both right guys.
You cant be absolutely certain of any stranger,
Connie persisted. And when theres a lot of
moneyor a shipload of treasureinvolved,
anything can happen. It only takes one slip between
the cup and the lip, you know!
Youve read too many mystery stories, Mike
chided. But Ill be careful, honestly. Ive got to talk
turkey to Marchant, but otherwise Ill keep mum
about the map.
Changing to a bathing suit, Connie wandered
down across the lawns to the grove of palm and
casuarina trees and through that to the spreading
beach. Overhead, fat masses of white clouds were
driving before the southeast trade winds like the
ballooning sails of giant ships.
Connie could identify the reef on which Sam
Lord had wrecked so many innocent ships. The dark
indigo expanse of water beyond it was flecked with
loam. Even the green mirror of the sheltered lagoon
was rippled by the breeze, and up the beach the surf
pounded on the sand in a manner which reminded
her of the New Jersey coast.
She swam, diving through the breakers with a
skill learned in many summers at the seashore.
35

Several other guests from the hotel were also

bathing, so she was not alone. She walked for some
distance up the beach, looking at the curious coral
formations, then returned for one more dip before
changing. Vainly she glanced up toward the cliff on
which the castle stood, hoping that Mike would
appear. But apparently he was still closeted with Mr.
Marchant, verifying the details he had wanted to
check concerning the sale of the map and the date on
which Sam Lord probably had acquired it. She
hoped that he discovered nothing to confuse the
issue, because she liked Mike Ingersoll. He might be
too trusting and even, perhaps, too overconfident,
but on this adventurous journey of his she wished
him well.
When Connie again came out of the surf the
flying-fish boats were landinggreat, unwieldylooking wooden craft which set a course through the
breakers and ran right up on the beach. A dozen
natives hauled them still higher, and from
everywhere dark-skinned children and adults slipped
out from between the trees to inspect the silvery
catch.
It was like a picture out of the past. These could
have been the very slaves who strung lanterns along
this coast to simulate the lights of a port. These
could have been the people who crawled over the
scaffolding on the face of the square stone castle, in
36

the days when Sam Lord was building his personal

empire at Long Bay.
So ruthless was the character of the man that
Connie believed, if there had been a chance, the
infamous Sam would surely have found a way to
salvage the gold from the sunken treasure ship. If
only Mr. Marchant knew the truth! She hated to
think of Mike diving fruitlessly on his hazardous
quest. And she hated even more to think that he
might run into other dangers, bred of a greed that an
American boy of his caliber would not even suspect.
Deep in thought as she started back to the castle,
Connie took the wrong path through the grove of
palm and casuarina trees. It was several minutes
before she realized that the twisting lane led not to
the steps up the side of the cliff but toward a group
of Negro shanties huddled in an even denser grove
just out of sight of the beach.
At midmorning the shacks were all but deserted.
Most of the natives, Connie suspected, worked
either for the club or for the fishing fleet. One
ancient Negro woman, however, sat in front of a
cabin door. As Connie approached, deciding to ask
for directions, she glanced up with a toothless grin.
Fortune, missy, fortune?
The snow-white wool, the network of wrinkles,
and the sunken mouth proclaimed the womans
extreme age. In startling contrast was the brilliant
37

gleam of her eyes. As Connie hesitated, she urged

insistently, Mammy Bee very old, very wise.
More to humor the old lady than because she was
interested in superstition, Connie acquiesced. She
had some coins in her beach bag. Nodding, she
approached and asked with a smile, Do you read
palms? At the same time she held out her hand.
But the old woman shook her head and motioned
the girl inside the weather-beaten shack, through the
many crevices of which daylight filtered. Connie
entered a trifle reluctantly, although it was clean
enough. She noted with a feeling of revulsion the
dried skins of lizards, snakes, and toads hanging
from the roof, the circles and other symbols of
presumablyblack magic traced with a stick on the
earthen floor. She realized that these formed the
paraphernalia by which the ancient soothsayer
charmed or terrorized the credulous natives. Yet she
jumped as the trade winds rattled the pods of a tree
against the roof.
Wishing she hadnt come in, but feeling trapped,
Connie found herself being motioned toward a stool.
She sat down gingerly and tried to explain, I
havent got much time.
The old woman nodded. Moving quickly now,
she stooped and flung upon the embers in a brazier a
handful of powder which filled the hut with
aromatic smoke. Next, from a shadowy corner, she
38

produced a gourd-shaped bowl without handles and

filled it to the brim with water.
Then, with incredible ease considering her great
years, she sank to the floor in front of Connie and
clasped the bowl between her knees. I tell you what
I see in the water, she announced.
For a long time she bent over the bowl, gazing
intently at its contents. Silent, her gnarled hands
motionless, she seemed scarcely to breathe. Connie
began to feel uncomfortable, even a little frightened.
What preposterous mumbo jumbo was the old hag
cooking up in her mind?
I see, she began in a thin singsong which
seemed to come from a great distance, pickshers of
a place far away, another island. I see a young
gemmen and an airplaneand a boat, ver small
boat.
Connie started involuntarily. Did this woman
indeed have second sight? Then her common sense
told her that Mammy Bee could mean picture post
cards of any island, and that of course as a visiting
American girl she would, in all likelihood, be
involved with a boy, a plane, and probably even a
boat. Still, Connies heart beat a little faster and she
waited with interest for the fortunetellers next
words.
They were awhile in coming.
Then, very slowly, the ancient crone continued, I
39

see a lizard and a fly. The lizard, he want to eat de

fly, but no, he cant get to him. She looked puzzled.
De pretty lady keep him from gettin dat fly. Now
why she care, I wonder? I cant see.
The singsong voice died away. Then, in the tone
in which Mammy Bee had first offered to tell her
fortune, she announced, No good. I see no more.
Rising from the stool she poured the water into a
pitcher. The interview was ended. Connie got up and
took two shillings out of her bag.
Is this enough?
The old woman nodded. Thankee, thankee, she
said, bobbing her head. Then, as Connie reached the
door, she put a gnarled hand on her arm. Take care.
The lizard is very quick.
In spite of herself, Connie felt shaken. H-how do
I get to the castle? she remembered to ask, then
followed the soothsayers directions hurriedly,
fearing to be late. Somehow, in this strange
interlude, she had lost all sense of time.
She approached the castle at a dogtrot, to be met
by Mike, who hailed her from the porch to ask,
Why the rush?
What time is it? Connie asked in return.
Just eleven thirty, he called. You have half an
hour before the station wagon leaves. Grinning
down at her, he advised, Take it easy, Miss Blair!
With an effort, Connie curtailed her feeling of
40

nervous excitement and managed to smile back.

Did you have a successful morning? she wanted to
know.
Very. Im all in the clear.
You mean, there isnt a chance Sam Lord could
have beaten you to it? Connie asked just above a
whisper, first glancing around to be sure they were
alone.
Not a glimmer of a chance. The records Mr.
Marchant has show that the manuscript was acquired
just a fortnight before Sam Lords death. To
organize an expedition and make the trip from
Barbados in that length of time would have been
impossible, even if he had been in the best of
health.
Wonderful! Connies brown eyes sparkled. As
she hurried to her room to dress and finish packing
she briefly reviewed all of Mammy Bees peculiar
prognostications. Coincidence, she told herself,
just coincidence that a lizard should be mentioned.
You can read anything into that sort of mumbo
jumbo. Thats its charm.
On the broad steps of the veranda John Marchant
was waiting to see his guests off. Connie followed
the boy who was carrying her bag and watched it
stowed in the back of the station wagon beside an
identical navy blue Val-Pak which she knew
belonged to Mike.
41

Mike himself was belatedly paying his bill in the

lobby, counting out the Beewee currency with an
expression of uncertainty. Ill never get used to the
British West Indies dollar, she heard him confess.
Mikes ineptitude seemed endearingly American
to Connieor perhaps she had become unusually
fond of this new acquaintance in the hours they had
shared together. She had a twinge of sharp regret
that in a few more hours they would part, perhaps
forever.
Give my regards to Mr. Renshaw, Mr.
Marchant was saying. Tell him I wish him every
success with his project, and if my personal
supervision of any construction should become
necessary, Im only a few hours away by air.
Thank you. Ill certainly tell him. And thank you
for everything else. Connie smiled and shook hands
with her host, then turned to get into the station
wagon, which already held another passenger, Mr.
Bertie Russell, who was surrounded by a mound of
baggage on the back seat.
Mike shook Mr. Marchants hand heartily,
repeated his appreciation of his helpfulness, and
climbed in beside Connie. Up front rode the
chauffeur and another hotel guest, a Canadian
woman of middle years introduced casually by the
manager as Mrs. Carrie Meacham. The trip to the
airport was short and conversation between the
42

passengers was sporadic. Both Connie and Mike

were absorbed by the color of the countryside
through which they were passing. They wanted to
garner every possible impression and tuck away in
their minds the individual quality of Barbados,
because they were well aware that they might never
see the low-lying island again.
Mr. Russell was the most talkative of the four. He
seemed to be making a special effort to be affable,
and contributed several bits of information about the
business of harvesting sugar cane which indicated
that he had been in the islands before.
Connie wondered idly what his business was. Mr.
Russell spoke well, but his manner sometimes
seemed a trifle too oily. She didnt think she liked
him much.
When the car pulled up at the airport the
chauffeur solicitously opened the doors and helped
the ladies out. Wheres your brief case? Mike
asked Connie as she gathered up her purse, a
guidebook she was carrying, and a plastic raincoat.
I packed it, Connie told him. I didnt want to
run the risk of leaving it on a counter or something.
What with presenting tickets and passports and
everything else, Ive already lost my sunglasses,
somewhere along the line.
Between us, we have quite a bit of luggage.
Mike glanced at the two canvas carryalls, at
43

Connies typewriter case and overnight bag, and at

his own diving equipment, which always elicited
interested and curious glances from bystanders.
The zipper on my case got hopelessly stuck, he
told her as they walked over to check in at the
B.W.I.A. desk. Marchant and I worked on it for
twenty minutes, but finally we had to give up, so I
threw the darned thing away.
I hope youre carrying the map on your person,
Connie wanted to say, but just at that moment Mrs.
Meacham approached her. Goodness, the
Canadian woman complained, my planes half an
hour late again. Down in these islands they never
seem to be able to do things on time.
Since Mrs. Meacham was going on to Trinidad
the news didnt especially concern Connie, but she
took the time to be consoling, and only later learned
that the flight on which she and Mike were leaving
was also delayed. Indeed the entire airport seemed to
be in the most incredible confusion. Native taxi
drivers and porters were running to and fro shouting
Bajun, the local dialect, at one another. Passengers
were crowding the waiting room, ordering soft
drinks impatiently and eying the empty sky. Airline
officials were busy at the reservation desks, tagging
baggage and routing airmail sacks.
Only Connie and Mike seemed impervious to the
delay. Together, they sat at a small table and sipped
44

limeades, while Mike, to Connies delight, told her

just how much he had enjoyed meeting her and how
anxious he was to see her again.
That will be back in the United States, Connie
reminded him.
Of course, but luckily Philadelphias only an
hour and forty minutes from New York. Gosh, Im
glad you dont live in Kalamazoo or Dallas!
Connie laughed. Id like to give you my address,
because I can hardly wait to see how your trip to
Island X turns out.
Ill send you a wire! Mike promised. He
grinned at her confidently. Something like this:
Greetings from Captain Kidd.
Which means, of course, that youre in the
money. But supposing?
Sh! Mike put a warning finger to his lips. We
arent supposing anything but success.
Suddenly, quite without warning, a shudder
rippled across Connies shoulders. Mike seemed so
very young and cocksure to be trekking off to some
remote little island alone. Suppose he encountered
unfriendly natives, or suppose his diving equipment
failed, or suppose he caught malaria or something?
Mammy Bees strange vision in the magic water
flashed into her mind, and she was half tempted to
tell Mike about it, but just at that moment a plane
winged in and settled on the runway.
45

Come on, Mike said. Thats us.

However, the pair were to discover that the mere
arrival of their plane did not indicate a quick takeoff.
Baggage was unloaded, loaded, and then everything
was removed, reweighed, and redistributed again.
Crates of chickens and bags of potatoes evidently
had priority, Mike and Connie decided, because
when they finally boarded, following the in-transit
passengers, they found themselves sitting opposite
each other up front within sight of these particular
items, which were stored in a luggage compartment
right behind the pilot. Connie also identified her
Val-Pak and typewriter case with some relief,
though she couldnt imagine where they had stowed
her small overnight bag.
Probably right at the bottom, Mike reassured
her, along with my stuff. Thatll give them the fun
of unloading and loading again in Grenada. It seems
to be a game they like to play.
The grounded plane was uncomfortably hot, but
still the flight was delayed. Finally, the stewardess
called in a weary voice, Mr. Russell! Is there a Mr.
Russell aboard?
Connie glanced around in time to see their
erstwhile companion respond to the query.
Apparently he was being paged from within the
airport building, because he left the plane after a
brief exchange with the stewardess and disappeared
46

inside.
Again there was a wait. What do you suppose
that guy does for a living? Mike muttered to
Connie. He acts almighty important, somehow,
holding up a whole plane.
Connie shook her head. Ive wondered about
him too, she admitted, raising her voice above the
cheeping of the baby chicks. She was remembering
her first impression of the manthe hooded eyes
and long neck which reminded her so vividly of a
lizard.
Lizard! Again she recalled Mammy Bees
allusion, and she told Mike about her strange
encounter. He listened with a show of curiosity, but
he laughed off the notion that the womans words
might make some sense.
Theres a name for those people in the islands,
he told Connie. They call them obeah women, I
think, like the West Africans. Then he grinned.
Useless piece of information Number Ninety-nine.
Its something I picked up from Dads crony, the
curator.
Unexpectedly the door of the plane was closed,
the engines were started, and they taxied to the takeoff spot. Connie glanced around once more. Mr.
Russell had not returned. Well, that was that. Out of
sight, out of mind, so far as she was concerned. She
settled back and devoted her entire attention to Mike
47

Ingersoll as they rose and soared once more over the

cobalt-blue sea.
Grenada appeared below them all too quickly.
The isle of spice, as it was called in the Caribbean,
rose in volcanic splendor, a tropical paradise.
Connie, looking down from the angled plane, caught
a glimpse of white beaches, cloud-capped
mountains, and lush forests strewn with flaming
orange trees.
What are those called? she asked the
stewardess, who happened to be passing.
Those are the immortelle trees, the girl
explained readily. Arent they beautiful?
Exquisite, Connie agreed. The blossoms must
be as big as teacups, she said to Mike, and she
wondered whether they were really everlasting, as
the name implied.
All too soon they were on the ground once more,
and she was saying good-by to Mike, because, for a
wonder, the in-transit passengers were requested to
remain on the plane. At this point they were
apparently going to try to make up for lost time.
So long, he said boyishly. Dont forget to
write. You have my address.
And dont forget that telegram you promised!
Mike nodded. Cross my heart.
Then Connie followed the other Grenada
passengers across the baked ground to the entrance
48

marked Customs and waited for her bags, feeling

curiously bereft. Promises notwithstanding, she
wondered whether she would ever see Mike
Ingersoll again.
The checking of luggage was routine. The
inspectors hefted her typewriter case, chalk-marked
it, passed her overnight bag, which had arrived
safely, and opened the Val-Pak as though it were a
necessary nuisance.
Connie was standing at the door, waving a last
good-by to Mike, as they strapped it up again with a
snicker. As she turned back to the counter they
glanced first at her, then at each other, and both
broke into broad grins.

49

CHAPTER 4

Night Intruder

What struck those customs inspectors so funny?

Connie wondered idly as a taxi driver approached
her.
Santa Maria Hotel, miss?
Yes, please.
She watched as the Negro, dressed immaculately
in a white shirt and yachting cap, loaded her bags in
the rear of a small English car which sagged slightly
on one side, obviously having seen better days.
Ill be with you in just a minute, miss.
The minute, as Connie was learning to expect in
the islands, turned into ten. So far as she could see,
her driver was conducting no actual business,
merely passing the time of day with some cronies. It
was warm sitting in the small car in the
midafternoon sun, and she began to grow impatient.
Eventually, however, the driver returned with a
50

great show of haste. He started the cars motor with

a rush and lurched out of the sandy airport drive.
First trip to Grenada, miss?
Yes, Connie admitted, liking the mans soft,
modulated voice, which combined strangely with the
faintly English accent. There was an up inflection at
the end of each sentence, whether question or
statement, which she had noticed in the Barbadians
as well.
Youll like it, he assured her. It is the most
beautiful of the islands, you will see.
Have you been to many of the others? Connie
asked. Ive just come from Barbados.
I have never been off Grenada, the driver told
her, but it is quite the most beautiful, all agree.
With this decisive remark he opened a travelogue,
a lecture delivered in a soft singsong which was both
attractive and confusing, because Connie had to
listen very closely, as she would to a person
speaking in a foreign language, if she wanted to
catch every word. Apparently it was the custom for
taxi drivers to act as self-constituted guides, she
decided, as they began a twisting climb from the
level airstrip to the mountains she had glimpsed
from the plane.
Is it much of a trip to the Santa Maria? she
interrupted him to ask.
Yes, he assured her. The Santa Maria is
51

outside St. Georges, on the other side of the island.

That is about twenty miles.
It proved to be twenty miles of the most tortuous
road on which Connie had ever traveled. The narrow
macadam strip rose and dipped, twisted and turned
like a roller coaster in an American amusement park.
Uphill or downdale, the Negro drove at breakneck
speed completely at variance with his calm manner
of talking. Connie clung to the back seat by bracing
her feet against the upholstery in front and clutching
at the rim of the lowered window.
It seemed to her that the taxi had a life of its own.
Honking constantly, it sped along, coughing and
hiccupping occasionally as it scattered chickens,
children, and burros before its path. The road,
narrow and dangerous though it was, carried a
tremendous amount of traffic. Barefoot women,
wearing full cotton skirts, walked along carrying
baskets on their heads. Donkeys, panniered and
laden, moved in advance of their masters. Men
traveled singly or in groups on leisurely business,
and children, sucking tubes of sugar cane and
wearing little or no clothing, were everywhere,
playing or squabbling or just standing in the middle
of the road.
Like the chickens, the dogs, goats, and burros, the
children seemed to respond instinctively to the
honking of the taxi, moving aside just in time to
52

miss the wheels. Connies heart was in her mouth a

dozen times, but when she asked, Could we drive a
little slower? the driver became suddenly deaf. In
his taxi he was a king, omnipotent, and Connie
began to realize that the near misses gave him a
lordly pleasure he did not intend to relinquish for
anyone.
From high peaks to fertile valleys covered with
hibiscus, bougainvillea, and red flamboyant trees the
car rose and fell. Everywhere there were one-room
Negro shanties, and everywhere there were garments
drying on bushes. Never on the island did Connie
see a clothesline.
Careening through a cluster of earth-colored
houses that formed a sleepy town, Connie became
aware of the smell of nutmeg and mace, and from a
cliff above the sea she could glimpse a group of
fishermen hauling in a seining net filled with
dancing silver shapes.
It was all very picturesque and tropical, quite
different from the placid countryside of Barbados.
Sometimes the views of the sea were positively
breath-taking, but Connie was relieved when the red
roofs of St. Georges came into sight. From one of
the steep hills on which the town was built the driver
pointed out the hotel across the harbor.
Thats where were heading, the Santa Maria,
he told Connie, and plunged down a cobblestoned
53

street as though the taxi were amphibious and could

swim right across the bay.
Alighting at last, Connie swayed and swallowed,
feeling almost seasick. She hoped she could be
shown to her room before she encountered Mr.
Renshaw because she was sure she had turned a pale
and unattractive green.
Luckily, at this late afternoon hour, the lobby was
almost deserted. She registered, accepted the
suggestion that tea be sent to her room, and followed
a very young boy in a striped jacket who was toting
her assembled bags.
Her windows looked out over the curve of the
harbor, beyond which St. Georges rose like a toy
European city with dormer windows and wroughtiron balconies. Gradually regaining her equilibrium,
Connie flung her bag and raincoat on the bed and
bent to unstrap the Val-Pak, so that she could hang
out her dresses before they became too crushed.
Suddenly her eyes widened in astonishment and
dismay. Oh, no! she moaned aloud. Now the
reason for the customs inspectors amusement
became perfectly clear. The valise was filled with a
mans clothing! Mikes, of course.
Connie recognized the sports jacket folded neatly
on top as the one he had worn last evening. She
realized that their luggage, navy canvas with tan
trim, was identical, but the mix-up seemed
54

incredibly stupid, nevertheless. Picking up the

baggage tag she read her own name, Blair, printed
in legible blue crayon. The confusion must have
occurred at the Barbados airport when she and Mike
were so absorbed in one another that they hadnt
kept a constant eye on their bags.
Sinking back on her heels Connie began to laugh
at her own predicament. The blue chambray dress
she was wearing was rumpled from travel, far from
appropriate for dinner at a hotel, but there was no
help for it. She could scarcely appear in Mikes
linen jacket and slacks!
Just as she was about to close the bag a corner of
pink tissue caught her eye, and she lifted the edge of
the sports coat to discover that Mike had pasted his
map by the corners to a square of cardboard and
packed it between his clothes. Connie realized that
he probably had mounted it in order to preserve it,
but she felt a twinge of disapproval. This was no
paper to be treated lightly. She felt that in his
position she would have wanted to carry the chart
with her at all times.
At that moment there was a knock on the door,
and a pretty, dark-skinned maid in a gay cotton
turban brought in a tea tray. Connie was able to
arrange to have her dress pressed, and after a shower
she could face her present contretemps with a
certain amount of equanimity. The thing to do would
55

be to telephone the St. Lucia airport, where Mike

probably was fuming about the mix-up even now.
Just as she was about to lift the receiver of her
room telephone, which hung from an old-fashioned
brown oak box on the wall, the bell gave a feeble
b-b-ring.
Hello, Connie said brightly.
Hello, Connie. George Renshaw. Have a good
trip?
Wonderful!
Fine. Good to hear your voice. Meet me in the
lobby in ten minutes, can you?
Yes, indeed, Mr. Renshaw. Connie decided that
it would be better to break the news about the
missing bag in person, since she knew how anxious
he was to get the architects revised plans for the
Morne Rouge Club and the papers which Mr.
Marchant had signed. Even a days delay would be
an annoyance, but it couldnt be helped. Certainly
the mistake wasnt of her making. Regretfully, but
with no feeling of exceptional concern, Connie ran a
pocket comb through her hair, picked up her room
key, locked the door, and went downstairs.
The lobby was a great rectangular room which
opened on the patio dining room. Both overlooked
the harbor and the town, which twinkled like a jewel
far below. Mr. Renshaw was waiting for Connie. He
came toward her, tall and bronzed already from the
56

tropical sun, hand outstretched.

Youre the girl Ive been waiting for! he told
her in his easy drawl. They were on the best of
terms, this middle-aged man, copartner in the busy
advertising agency, and his bright, attractive young
employee. He was genuinely glad to see Connie, not
alone for the help she would give him in this
business project, but because he liked her and
enjoyed having her around.
Maybe you wont be so pleased to see me when
you hear my news, Connie said as she shook hands.
Mr. Renshaw looked startled. Something
wrong? He had turned her toward the dining patio
and was leading her to a table on the balcony.
I dont think its too serious, Connie said
soothingly, but apparently there was a luggage
error made at the Barbados airport, and I arrived
here with the wrong bag. I think in all likelihood
mine has gone on to St. Lucia.
Why St. Lucia? Mr. Renshaw asked at once.
It took a great deal of explaining to answer this
question,
and
entailed
describing
the
acquaintanceship struck up with Mike Ingersoll. Mr.
Renshaw was amused when he found that there was
an attractive young man in the picture, but he
quickly sobered when he discovered that the valise
contained not only all of Connies clothes except her
toilet articles and night things, but the architects
57

drawings and the signed business agreements as

well.
Good grief, this is darned inconvenient! he
exclaimed.
Concerned, Connie suggested, Cant we phone
the airport right away?
Mr. Renshaw looked at her in astonishment.
Phone? Are you kidding? Why, Connie, the phone
communication on the island is shaky in the
extreme, and the only interisland communication is
by cable. Very slow cable, I might add.
Connie clasped her hands. Oh, dear, she
groaned.
A gross understatement, George Renshaw
muttered, forcing a grin.
If I remember the schedule correctly, no plane
puts in here from St. Lucia for another four days.
We are in a fix, to say the least. Two of my partners
in this Morne Rouge enterprise have been staying
over especially to approve the revised drawings, and
besides that, I need their signature on the papers you
had Mr. Marchant sign.
Couldnt we, maybe, hire a plane, or would that
be too expensive? Connie suggested.
Hang the expense, Mr. Renshaw said
succinctly. After dinner, Ill check at the desk and
see whether thats a possibility. Of course itll
probably be a fortnight before I get an answer. Time
58

is not of the essence around here. Tomorrow is just

another day, and nobody understands the meaning of
the word hurry.
Except the taxi drivers, once they are behind the
wheel, commented Connie ruefully.
Mr. Renshaw laughed, relaxing a trifle. He could
tell by his young companions expression that she
was as much upset by the mistake as he. Stop
worrying, he advised her as he went off to consult
the clerk at the hotel desk. Well iron things out
somehowand none of it is your fault.
Thats all very good advice, Connie thought, as
he walked away, but the fact remained that even in
St. Lucia she might not catch up with the right bag.
Mike might be traced to a hotel, if he did not
discover the error in Customs, but by tomorrow
morning he might also have chartered a boat for the
final lap of his journey, and it might never have been
necessary for him to open this particular bag at all.
Since none of this conjecture was very cheerful,
and since looking for trouble seldom proved
sensible, she did not develop this line of thinking for
Mr. Renshaw when he returned to her side.
Ive sent a cable to the airport, he told her, so
that if they should be holding the bag theyll
continue to do so. Otherwise, Ive asked them to put
on a tracer, double-quick.
Connie nodded, but the missing bag somehow
59

seemed to get farther and farther away.

So far as chartering a plane goes, continued Mr.
Renshaw, frowning, were not exactly running in
luck. It seems the only ship available for private hire
is called the Goosewhy I dont know! Shes an
amphibian, the clerk tells me, and her pilot is not the
type who operates on any sort of a schedule. She
might put in here at dawn tomorrow morning or she
might not show up for a week.
Lovely, Connie said.
Oh, heck, well just have to hope for the best,
thats all, said Mr. Renshaw boyishly. Come on,
Connie. Ive got a car. Ill take you out to the Grand
Anse beach and show you a site for a club thats
going to make history in these islands. Waitll you
see!
Mr. Renshaws hired car chugged and puffed
ominously, but it navigated the winding roads with
astonishing ease. The beach was miles long, broad
and beautiful, and Connie could easily see why her
boss was so enthusiastic. Nestled at the foot of the
mountains in a grove of coconut palms, she could
imagine the low-lying pink-walled club as the
architect had sketched it, spacious, comfortable, and
luxurious beyond anything these islanders could
even dream.
They drove back to the Santa Maria slowly
through the starlit night, Mr. Renshaw talking
60

companionably about his extensive plans. With the

attitude of a well-adjusted man accepting the
inevitable, he had put the baggage problem out of
his mind until it was necessary to face it once more
in the morning.
Not so Connie. She slept restlessly and was
downstairs at seven, pacing the verandas and
scanning the sky in search of the Goose. But no
plane appeared, either before or after breakfast, and
the day dragged on with Mr. Renshaw and Connie
getting no closer to a solution to their problem, and
with no encouraging word from the St. Lucia
airport, which had been their secret hope.
Mr. Renshaw tried to conceal his disappointment,
but Connie knew only too well that the
inconvenience to him was very great. He dictated
some letters home in the afternoon, then went off to
dinner at a private house with the repeated advice
not to worry. In spite of herself, however, Connie
was beginning to feel frantic. She could see that her
employers patience was wearing thin.
She dined alone, at eight, which was the local
custom, and watched the brief twilight turn to night.
Then, just as the city lights winked on, she heard a
murmur among the waiters and the hum of an
airplane engine.
The Goose is in! someone cried.
Leaping to her feet, Connie raced to the edge of
61

the balcony. Coasting calmly along the indigo water

on its way into the harbor was indeed a small plane.
Youre sure its the Goose? she asked a bus
boy breathlessly.
Oh, yes, the lad answered. Theres no
mistaking her.
Connie thought quickly. Mr. Renshaw might or
might not be aware of the planes arrival. She
decided to take a taxi and hurry down to the
Careenage to waylay the pilot herself. But on her
way past the desk the telephone rang and the clerk
called, Miss Blair!
It was George Renshaw. The Goose is in! he
told her joyously. Im on my way to see the pilot.
Ill try to arrange for transportation first thing in the
morning. O.K.?
You bet, Connie responded. She returned to her
interrupted dinner, then went upstairs to her room,
intending to finish typing the letters Mr. Renshaw
had dictated earlier.
Opening the door she reached for the light switch,
then remembered that the primitive electrical
arrangements at the Santa Maria were always out of
order and felt her way across the room to turn on the
bridge lamp.
Suddenly she was aware of a feeling that she was
not alone. It wasnt that she could actually hear
breathing or movement, but she could sense it.
62

Connie stiffened, every nerve alert, in time to see a

shadowy figure hurl itself through the open,
unscreened window to the flower beds eight feet
below.

63

CHAPTER 5

The Escape

Stop!
Connies command came like a rifle crack, but
almost simultaneously the marauder landed in the
spongy earth, cultivated only that morning by the
hotel gardener.
Instinctively wanting to know who had dared
enter her room, Connie ran to the window,
stumbling in the darkness over Mike Ingersolls
valise which lay open in the middle of the floor.
Open! It had been closed and standing well back
in a corner before dinner. Connies throat grew tight
and her mind clicked with the speed of a camera
shutter.
The map!
This was what she had feared, this unknown but
imminent threat. This was what she had tried to
warn Mike against, innocent Mike with his boyish,
64

endearing ways and his guileless trust in people.

Quick as a flash, acting with the courage which was
as natural to Connie as breathing, she leaped over
the window sill and landed on all fours in the flower
bed.
She was in the garden on the side of the hotel
away from all the activity of kitchens or of the
entrance court. Only a footpath passed here to spiral
down a rocky slope to a cove several hundred yards
below.
In this cove, as she could see from her window in
the daytime, native boatmen waited in dilapidated
small craft to row hotel guests across the harbor to
the St. Georges Careenage. It was a picturesque
voyage, and a cheaper way of reaching town than a
taxi, which had to follow the winding road around
the bay.
Down this path a mans bent figure was running.
Connie kicked off her high-heeled shoes impatiently
and sped after the intruder. Not for a long time had
she appreciated the training received when she had
played right wing on Meadowbrook Highs hockey
team. Connie was quick! She was sure she could
catch the thief if he was heading for the shore.
It never occurred to her to be frightened, although
she hadnt the slightest idea what she could do
should she reach her quarry. That she was not a
match physically for any man was certain, but she
65

was so infuriated that she was reckless. Like a hare

she leaped over the ground, oblivious to the fact that
stones were cutting the tender soles of her feet.
For several minutes she seemed to be gaining on
the man, who was running clumsily, skidding on the
stones and small pebbles which sugared the slope.
Then, quite without warning, she lost him. He
rounded a bend in the path and simply disappeared.
Frustrated, Connie stopped short, listening. A
crashing in the underbrush below told her that the
intruder had taken a short cut, but in the darkness
she could not find it.
There was nothing to do but continue along the
regular footpath, thereby losing precious seconds.
Plunging downward through the darkness she fell
and cut her knee, but stumbled to her feet again and
hurried on.
The lap-lap of oars, which reached her ears as she
rounded the final bend, told Connie that the thief
was on the water. She raced to the wharf, but a rowboat was already a hundred yards offshore, heading
for St. Georges.
All the other small boats which plied back and
forth across the harbor in the daytime were pulled up
on shore, with the oars removed. As her quarry
became smaller and smaller in the distance, Connie
was afraid that she would have to admit defeat.
Then, some distance up the beach, she spied a
66

native shack with a light, and in front of it a man

was just about to beach a boat.
Hailing the man, Connie raced along the beach.
She had a Beewee dollar tucked in the pocket of her
dress, because she had been intending to buy some
stamps at the hotel desk. This she waved temptingly.
For you, if youll get me to the Careenage
fast! she gasped.
The man was old and bent but he looked strong.
She saw the gleam of avarice and appreciation that
came into his eyes as he shoved the boat back into
the water and helped her scramble aboard. A shilling
was the routine fare across the bay. This was four
times as much as he could usually earn for such a
row. So what matter that the hour was late and he
was tired? He fell to the oars with a will and the
strength Connie had suspected became apparent.
The man she was chasing was not quite so adept,
because the distance between them began to
decrease. While Connie caught her breath and
splashed water on her cut knee, the old man rowed
steadily and the boat shot through the quiet black
water as though it were being pulled by invisible
hands.
The boatman didnt question her errand, nor,
indeed, did he talk at all. For this she was grateful. It
gave her a chance to think.
By now Connie was firmly convinced that the
67

intruder had come for one thing onlythe map. And

how she could face Mike again if she lost his most
precious possession she didnt know. Of course
there was the original, back in New York, which
could be photostated, or traced and sent on, but such
an operation would take time. Besides, with the map
in anothers possession there was no time to lose,
because salvage, as she well knew, belonged to the
person first to claim it.
Faster! she was tempted to urge, but she knew
that the old man was doing his utmost. Im trying
to catch that boat ahead, she told him instead,
leaning forward and straining to see the face of the
man she was chasing, so that she could recognize
him in a crowd. But the fishermans hat he wore
completely concealed his face. Connie could tell that
he was panting. She hoped he was badly winded,
because her chances of catching him would be just
that much greater. She also hoped that there would
be policemen patrolling the Careenage. Because she
was bound to need help!
They passed under the great hulk of a freighter,
anchored at the pier. The spicy odor of nutmeg was
increasingly apparent as they neared the barges lined
up near the shore.
Then, ahead, Connie heard the scrape of a hull
against the concrete abutment of the Careenage.
Hurry! she urged now, in spite of herself. Hurry,
68

69

please!
At this time of night the street in front of the post
office and government offices, where small craft
landed, was all but deserted. One of the great,
ungainly island buses, which had wooden
superstructures mounted on a truck chassis,
lumbered by, but there were few pedestrians. Not a
constable was in sight.
Connie remembered with regret that she had
heard that crime was almost nonexistent on
Grenada. She wished, at this moment, that both the
islanders and Mike were less trusting. Then she
wouldnt be acting as a one-girl police force, nor be
compelled to tackle the thief alone.
With thanks to the helpful boatman which were
brief but obviously sincere, Connie leaped from the
bow to the Careenage, half a block behind her
quarry. A passing car hid the man from sight for a
moment, but then she saw him scramble up one of
the hilly streets which were little more than alleys,
and she ran across the open space by the public
buildings and followed him, feeling that it was
imperative to keep him at least in sight.
Although she moved cat-quiet in her bare feet, the
man apparently was aware that he was being
followed, because he glanced around, saw Connies
light dress and fair head against the lights of the
harbor, and ducked into a side street which led to an
70

ancient church built precariously on the side of the

hill. The stone wall which surrounded the church
was high enough to give him shelter, and he
disappeared behind it, crouching so that his head
could not be seen over the top.
Connie gritted her teeth and followed, chancing
the fact that he might turn and attack her. She got
ready to scream, knowing that the town was thickly
populated, and that she had a carrying voice. But she
reckoned correctly that the mans one wish was to
get clean away, and once inside the churchyard she
saw him cut across the graveyard beside it and
swing himself to the top of the far wall.
The moonlight picked out his silhouette, but his
face was again turned from her. She saw that he was
rather slim and tallish, dressed in khaki pants and
sneakers.
Twisting between the headstones, white in the
moonlight but casting weird shadows on the grass,
Connie followed and scrambled over the wall almost
at his heels. Beyond was a cobblestoned, almost
perpendicular hill ending in a flight of perhaps fifty
stone steps which led to a ridge above. Up this the
man was straining, keeping well to the side of the
road in the shadow of some overhanging trees.
Connie followed, realizing that after the row
across the bay the mans energy must be all but
spent. She was beginning to feel that her own
71

youthful hardiness might win out.

The uphill going was exhausting. With the backs
of her legs aching from the climb, Connie was
forced to slow to a walk. But then, as she could see,
so was the man ahead. Once she was again on the
level, she had an excellent chance of overtaking
him.
She reckoned, however, without his apparent
knowledge of the city, because at the top of the
street he turned left into the great market square,
where a dozen buses were parked and where the
deserted stalls of the market place itself offered
excellent cover. By the time she too had turned the
corner, he was out of sight, and although she ran
from bus to bus peering at the few sleepy occupants,
none other than Africans or East Indians, homeward
bound to the outlying parishes, seemed to be aboard.
Frantically Connie inquired of the bus drivers
whether they had seen a man in a fishing cap. She
realized that she didnt even know whether he was
black or white, and she was also aware that the
fishing hat was an easy item to discard.
Gradually it began to occur to her that in her bare
feet, with her blond hair wind-tossed and her dress
rumpled, she must make a curious figure. Peaceful
as Grenada was reputed to be, perhaps it was unwise
for a young girl to appear on the streets of the town
at night alone. But it was difficult to face the fact
72

that her cause was lost, and she searched the market
place thoroughly before she was willing to give up.
Finally, however, there was nothing else to do but
admit defeat. She made her way once more across
the square and awakened a dozing taxi driver in
front of the St. James Hotel.
Please take me to the Santa Maria, she said,
climbing wearily into the back seat.
When they turned into the hotel drive Connie
asked the driver to stop and slipped around the
corner of the building to the spot below her bedroom
window where she had kicked off her shoes.
Retrieving them, she entered the lobby with as much
aplomb as she could muster, after asking the driver
to wait while she got some money. If either of these
proceedings surprised the man he did not show it.
Fortunately, Connie decided, the islanders she had
met thus far seemed quite a taciturn lot.
There was a message at the desk which the night
clerk handed to her after the taxi driver had been
paid off.
Connie Mr. Renshaw had scrawled on a
piece of hotel stationery. Be ready to board the
Goose at eight tomorrow morning. See you at sevenfifteen breakfast. All is well.
Connies lip curled ruefully. All was far from
well, as she knew to her sorrow. How could she ever
face Mike!
73

Exhaustedly she again climbed the stairs to her

bedroom, turned on the light and shut and locked the
door. Once more she viewed the opened suitcase,
heartsick. She felt as though she were at fault, as
though she had let Mike down.
For why hadnt she thought of sneak thievery?
Why hadnt she taken the map from the suitcase the
moment she discovered it was there? Dropping to
her knees she felt under the sports coat, where the
square of cardboard containing the map had been
packed.
Suddenly her eyes widened and her mouth
dropped open in complete astonishment. Scarcely
able to believe that it could be so, Connie drew out
the map, intact.
It was the one possibility she had overlooked
that she could have surprised the thief in the very act
of opening the traveling bag. Such incredible good
fortune was inconceivable. Yet it was true!
Sitting on the floor, cross-legged, Connie kept
staring at the pink tissue tracing as though she were
contemplating a thing of rare and fascinating beauty.
Relief swept over her in recurrent waves. Now she
could greet Mike joyously, not as the bearer of bad
tidings. Her exhaustion vanished as she
contemplated the morrow, and she glanced at her
wrist watch. It was nearly midnight, and she had to
be up before seven. Heavens, she must shower and
74

get to bed!
But first she took the map into the bathroom and
turned on the hot-water tap in the sink. Carefully she
steamed the tissue away from the cardboard, waved
it in the breeze until it was quite dry, then folded it
with tender care.
The cardboard she discarded, and the map she put
into her pocketbook, in the zippered compartment
which also held her passport and her travelers
checks. She kept the purse in the bathroom with her
when she showered, and put it under her pillow
when she went to bed.

75

CHAPTER

Island X

It rained during the night, a tropical downpour

which cleansed the foliage and made it sparkle
under the morning sun. Connie awakened refreshed,
and was already at the breakfast table squeezing
lime juice on her papaya melon when Mr. Renshaw
appeared.
He was in high good humor, having just received
a cable from the Vigie Airport at St. Lucia. They
had traced Mr. Ingersoll and knew exactly where he
could be found. Apparently he had been able to
make arrangements at once to go on to his special
island, which was known in the vicinity,
appropriately enough, as Petite Cul-de-Sac. The
cable stated that he had left St. Lucia by native
steamer, and his safe arrival was verified. It just
remained for the pilot of the Goose to put Connie
down on the proper beach.
76

While Mr. Renshaw signed the letters that Connie

had managed to type, the dining doom began to fill
with guests dressed in traveling clothes. There was a
flight scheduled for Barbados and Trinidad, and a
number of the tourists who were spending their
vacations island-hopping around the Caribbean had
arisen early in order to make the plane.
As Connie preceded Mr. Renshaw out of the
dining room, a man got up from a table where he
had been breakfasting alone. Well, hello, Miss
Blair! he said.
Connie turned, astonished to hear her name.
Whywhy, Mr. Russell, she stammered in
surprise. How did you ever get here?
It was a natural question, because she knew that
there had been no flights from Barbados since her
own arrival, but it popped out so spontaneously that
both men laughed.
I came in last night by way of the famousor
infamousGoose, Mr. Russell explained in his
clipped British accent. Not on a broomstick, I can
assure you.
Connie laughed in her turn and introduced Mr.
Russell, explaining that they had met at Sam Lords
Castle.
Then you know John Marchant? Mr. Renshaw
asked.
Yes, although our acquaintance is brief.
77

A fine man.
Indeed, yes, agreed Mr. Russell.
Chatting, they moved out to the lobby.
While Connie bought stamps at the desk, folded
her letters, and sealed the envelopes, the two men
stood and talked. Then she said to her employer,
Ill be right back, Mr. Renshaw. I want to go to my
room for Mikes bag.
Mike? Mr. Russell asked quizzically. Isnt that
the young man? Then he stopped as though he
did not wish to appear overcurious.
My luggage became confused with Mr.
Ingersolls at the Barbados airport, Connie
explained. We were carrying identical blue canvas
Val-Paks, so its an understandable mistake, but it
has been very inconvenient.
I should certainly think so, Mr. Russell agreed.
Ive arranged for the Goose to act as deus ex
machina, said Mr. Renshaw with a grin. By
dinnertime, Connie, youll be back, safe and sound,
with all my papers and all your clothes. Think of it!
Connie knew that he was teasing her because she
was, by now, beginning to look more than a little
rumpled. Last nights chase hadnt improved the
situation, and there had been no time in the interim
to have her dress washed or pressed. Of course Mr.
Renshaw knew nothing about her evenings
adventure, nor did Connie intend to tell him. She
78

had a feeling that he would take a dim view of her

expedition, no matter what the stakes.
Excuse me, Connie said, glancing at her watch.
She returned to her room and sent a bellboy down
with Mikes bag, then powdered her nose, applied
fresh lipstick, and followed.
By now the two men had separated. Mr. Russell
was at the desk, talking to the clerk, and Mr.
Renshaw was standing on the hotel steps
contemplating the magnificent view of the harbor.
A huddle of small black taxis were pulled in near
the steps, and there was the usual confusion of
leave-taking, with passengers for the Trinidad flight
paying their bills and collecting their paraphernalia.
Suddenly there was a great honking and
screaming in the sky, and everyone glanced up to
see a flock of big birds winging overhead.
Look,
Connie!
Mr.
Renshaw
said
unnecessarily.
What are they? Connie wanted to know. The
birds were enormous, resembling the pelicans which
she had seen in Florida a short time ago when she
was solving The Brown Satchel Mystery. But unlike
pelicans, they had no pouch under their long bills.
Theyre called booby birds, one of the taxi
drivers offered.
Must be some variety of gannet, Mr. Renshaw
decided, as he returned his attention to Connie.
79

Here. Youd better be off. Your taxis waiting. I

had the bag put in the back.
Connie waved good-by hastily and her driver
careened down the curving drive at the usual
breakneck pace. On the way to St. Georges they
were slowed down, however, by a road-building
gang, consisting mainly of women carrying great
flat boxes of macadam chips on their heads. They
ambled on bare feet, leisurely, at least a dozen of
them, supervised by a couple of men in a tractor
which looked like a prehistoric monster, huffing and
puffing in the middle of the road.
In a few minutes there was quite a queue of taxis
waiting to get through, the passengers impatient, the
drivers unconcerned.
Eventually, however, Connie arrived at the spot
on the Careenage in front of which the Goose was
anchored. She reached in her purse to pay off the
driver, checked once again the safety of the pink
tissue tracing, and waited while he opened the rear
door of the car.
Hum, the driver grunted a moment later. You
say you had a bag, miss.
Of course, Connie replied impatiently. Then,
startled, she glanced into the luggage compartment.
It was completely empty!
Annoyance and disbelief warred in her eyes. She
felt like jumping up and down and screaming.
80

Didnt Mr. Renshaw give you a baga blue

canvas one? she asked the man, who looked at her
stupidly.
Mr. Who?
The man who was standing on the steps with
me. You remember!
The driver pushed back the topee he was wearing
and scratched his head. Seems to me there was a
bag. I dont recall rightly, though.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! Connie wanted to shout.
She controlled herself with the most difficult effort.
It could be, the driver suggested, that the
suitcase got put in another cab.
As this unsatisfactory conversation was taking
place, the pilot of the Goose, a lean, slight man with
a V-shaped scar over one eye, was climbing out of
the cockpit to greet his passenger. A lopsided grin
spread over his face as he noted that Connie was a
very pretty girl, and his narrow eyes sized her up
appreciatively.
Then, seeing the expression on her face, he
whistled softly. Something wrong?
Everythings wrong! Connie told him
furiously.
Oh, come now! the pilot chided.
There was a blue canvas bag in the back of this
car, Connie told him testily. That bag is the major
reason for this trip. This was not quite true but it
81

was close. Now the bags not there. Probably it was

put in another taxi and by now its halfway across
the mountains on its way to the Pearls Airport.
Well, now, murmured the pilot soothingly. He
looked concerned.
But Connie could have cried. She didnt know
what to do. If she went back to the hotel or decided
on the twenty-three-mile trip to the airport either
course might end in disappointment. And Mr.
Renshaw was counting on her to bring back his
papers at the earliest possible moment. She bit her
lip and thought. Should she just abandon Mikes
luggage and go ahead as scheduled?
The alternatives played a tug of war in her mind.
Connies anxiety to return Mikes belongings was
great but her sense of loyalty and obligation to Mr.
Renshaw was greater.
Well have to forget the bag and send it on
later, she decided after a minutes thought. Im
ready when you are.
The pilot nodded. Lets go, he said promptly,
and the taxi driver climbed languidly back into his
car and spurted away.
Now, for the first time, Connie really looked at
the navigator of the Goose. The scar gave him a
somewhat sinister appearance, which was
heightened by the contrast between the V-shaped
welt and the dark tan of his skin. Yet Mr. Renshaw
82

had met the pilot and approved the trip. Certainly he

would never let her go off alone with a questionable
character. Connie stifled her feeling of reluctance
and made ready to board the plane.
At that moment brakes squealed piercingly on the
Careenage right at her back. Another taxi had pulled
up, and out of it leaped Bertie Russell, looking
decidedly harried.
Hold up, there! he called. Miss Blair, Ive got
your bag!
Relief swept over Connie in a cooling wave.
Wonderful! she cried, and could have hugged the
Englishman, peculiar-looking as he was. All her
former feeling of revulsion was forgotten. Although
his lizardlike appearance hadnt changed a bit since
breakfast, he seemed positively attractive as he
pulled the suitcase out of the taxi behind him and
came forward with a smile.
Some sort of mistake among the drivers, he
explained briskly. One of those things, you know.
Dont I know! murmured Connie feelingly.
And now Im obliged to ask you a favor, added
Mr. Russell.
Connie didnt hesitate. Anything at all I can do.
I find that my business plans in Grenada must be
postponed until I can go on to Martinique. There is
no scheduled flight, so I am hoping to persuade
Walter here to take me on as an extra passenger.
83

Then he can drop me off after he takes you to your

destination. If that is agreeable, of course, Miss
Blair.
Anything the lady says, Walter, whose name
Connie had not known, agreed with a shrug.
Martiniques only about forty minutes from Culde-Sac. Shouldnt be too hard.
You could take Mr. Russell over and then come
back and pick me up? Connie questioned.
Sure. No problem.
Righto. Mr. Russell collected a small traveling
bag from the back of the taxi and handed it to the
pilot. Along with Mikes blue canvas suitcase he
stowed it in the luggage compartment of the plane.
Five minutes later, with Walter at the controls in
front and Bertie Russell strapped into the seat beside
her, Connie found herself coasting out of the harbor
and rising like a bird to circle over the Santa Maria
Hotel and head out over the Grenadines toward the
Leeward Islands. She was so grateful for the return
of Mikes Val-Pak that she was unusually cordial to
her companion and made conversation concerning
the Caribbean and this unexpected trip.
She found that she liked riding in a small plane
far better than in a big airliner. She felt a new
affinity for the sea and sky, which seemed bigger
and more deeply blue than ever, except in the
distance where cumulus clouds were building up.
84

Thats the Blue Peter, Walter announced after

a while, pointing out a ship which he said was a
government schooner far below. A mere dot on the
endless expanse of the sea, Connie thought it looked
far less safe than the plane in which she was riding,
then smiled at her own opinion. It all depends, she
thought, on your point of view.
The clouds ahead were no longer white and puffy,
she noticed. They were beginning to race along
ominously, grayish now, hiding the sun. The blue
water below changed to black, and looked oily and
treacherous.
Walter turned and called over his shoulder.
Little rough weather up ahead. Hope you dont
mind a few bumps.
To be on the safe side, Connie tightened her seat
belt, but Mr. Russell seemed unconcerned. A few
air pockets wont hurt us, will they? he said as
though he were speaking to a child. Well be out in
clear weather again in a flash.
As he spoke, the plane slipped right into the
nearest cloud and the world was lost in gray,
swirling fog. For a few minutes the plane rode quite
steadily, but suddenly Connie felt as though she
were in a falling elevator which jerked, now and
then, to a jarring stop.
As her stomach rose to her throat she grabbed for
support. Never before had she been frightened in an
85

airplane, but she didnt like this one bit.

Thats all right, Mr. Russell said comfortingly.
Hang on.
He put an arm across the back of her seat while
Connie tried to regain her equilibrium. The plane
struck another pocket, and another.
Were flying over some little volcanic islands,
shouted the pilot above the roar of the motor, acting
as though this explained everything. Just a few
minutes more and well be clear.
Then came an even greater drop, and a wing
tipped unnervingly. Connie swallowed, trying to tell
herself that it was ridiculous to be alarmed. She tried
to think of some way to still her fear, but panic isnt
easy to overcome. There were a series of sharp,
quick jerks, then they seemed to be flying level.
Beginning to breathe more easily, she forced herself
to settle back.
Quite without warning the plane entered the
deepest air pocket of all. The elevator descent was
truly terrifying, and Connie felt the plane slide off to
the right as she banged her head against a strut.
Automatically she reached out to save herself
from unknown danger and possible destruction, but
her head hit something again, and this time it was
not the plane that was slipping, but Connie herself.
Slipping, slipping . . .
86

CHAPTER

Wild-goose Chase

Righto, Bertie Russell was saying nervously as he

bent to retrieve Connies pocketbook from the floor.
Bit of a jolt, that. Why, I do believe you blanked
out for a minute, Miss Blair!
Ill say I did! Connie retorted, rubbing her head
ruefully. She clutched her purse as though it were a
life preserver. Thank you, Mr. Russell, she
murmured belatedly.
Unfortunate, the way these little planes can
jounce about when they strike a bit of weather.
Well be all right now, though. See, blue sky ahead.
Connie didnt feel conversational. Her head ached
across the back, the pain shooting down her neck to
her shoulders, as though she had sustained a really
terrific blow. Even her throat ached, whether from
fright or as part of the other, larger hurt she couldnt
tell. Nodding, she tried to concentrate on the patch
87

of blue sky and regain her equilibrium.

Mr. Russell was leaning forward, talking to the
pilot. I say, old chap, that last was really a bad one.
Miss Blair got quite knocked about, you know.
The pilot turned, glanced at Connie in surprise,
then saw the distress in her expression and said,
Well be down in about five minutes now. The
weathers fine below.
It was indeed. As the small plane coasted across
the water toward a small island beach it seemed to
be riding in a bubble of blue. Connie got a grip on
herself, insisted to the men that there was nothing
wrong with her that a couple of aspirin wouldnt
cure, and allowed herself to be helped ashore
solicitously.
This was truly a primitive island! A cluster of
native shacks stood in a fringe of palms beyond the
beach and a rickety jeep, obviously a war relic,
jounced over a rutted beach road to greet the plane,
but otherwise there was nothing to be seen.
The pilot of the Goose hailed the jeep driver with
easy familiarity. Got a passenger for you, he
called. Youre to take this young lady to Mrs.
Lytles, then pick her up so you can have her back
here by he glanced at his watchby two
oclock.
Yessir, yessir, the Negro murmured
obsequiously.
88

That will give you time for lunch, Walter told

Connie. And better lie down for a bit, if your
heads really bothering you.
Ill be all right, Connie promised with a weak
smile. She hoped she didnt look as shaky as she
felt.
While the jeep driver loaded Mikes bag into his
obsolete vehicle she walked across the sand very
carefully, feeling as though the top of her head
might bounce off and roll away. It took real effort to
turn and wave good-by to the men in the plane with
a semblance of cheerfulness. The prospect of jolting
over rough dirt roads for several miles was one she
didnt relish. Her only hope was that Mrs. Lytles
boarding-house was not too far away.
In this, at least, Connie was lucky. When she
inquired about the distance, the driver assured her
that her destination was just up the beach. Unlike
the Grenadians, he drove with extreme care, very
slowly. Connie decided that the jeep must be a thing
of great value on this unfrequented coral island, and
that he was treating it like a fine watch, with proper
respect.
Mrs. Lytles hostelry proved to be equally as
ramshackle as the island taxi. A roughly constructed,
weather-beaten frame building, it looked as though
it could be used as a stage set for a West Indian
melodrama. Connie regarded it with disappointment.
89

She had visualized a far more exciting setting for

Mikes great adventure. Nevertheless, she was glad
to get there, and only hoped that there was an aspirin
in the house.
The approach was along a single cart track, and
the jeeps rackety motor was a noisy announcement
of their arrival. A blowzy, black-haired woman with
a nose like a parrots beak came out to the front
porch, wiping her hands on her apron, and from
around the corner of the house bolted a young man
clad in a pair of frayed tennis shoes and khaki
shorts.
Mike!
Connie
called,
her
headache
momentarily forgotten.
Connie Blair!
Had she been an angel dropped providentially
from heaven Mike could have shown no greater
astonishment. He even pointed up the comparison
by asking, nonplused, Where did you fall from?
At the same time he held out both hands to help
her down from the jeep, and, to Connies
astonishment, kissed her lightly on the forehead.
She looked up at him with amused eyes. Havent
you missed anything?
Mike glanced behind her to the islander, who was
lifting the Val-Pak from behind the seat.
My bag!
Now Mike hugged Connie frankly, lifting her off
90

her feet in his enthusiasm. I was expecting to have

to wait a week, until the Blue Peter or some native
schooner came by. How on earth? Halting, he
snapped his fingers. Of course. Our bags were
exactly alike!
Why, Dr. Watson! Connie exclaimed, grinning.
Then she became aware of her aching head again. I
hate to be a nuisance, but do you think you could
find me some aspirins? I got a rather nasty crack on
the head when our plane hit an air pocket awhile
back.
But of course! Mike took her to the house, after
they repeated arrangements with the driver to be
sure he understood the time at which he was to
return. After introducing Connie to the rather
slatternly Mrs. Lytle, Mike brought her a glass of
water and two aspirins.
Connie swallowed them gratefully, brushing
away a few drops of water that fell on her dress. She
noticed that a streak of black crossed the front of the
skirt. I look as though Id slept in my clothes, she
apologized. Heavens, will I be glad to get into a
clean dress!
Mike looked nonplused. What? he started.
Dont tell me your bag?
Dont you have it here? Connie cried out in
consternation, realizing what his surprise implied.
Slowly Mike shook his head while Connies heart
91

fell. Her head was actually throbbing now. She

leaned back weakly in her chair. But I thought, of
course, that it was just a mix-up. I was sure . . .
Her voice trailed off. Mike knew that she was on
the verge of tears. And no wonder, he thought,
recognizing dimly the difficulties she must have
encountered in reaching him.
Of all the wild-goose chases! he muttered
aloud.
It was this chance remark that saved the day.
Connies lips trembled in a smile. Very apt, she
said with an attempted chuckle. The Goose is the
name of the plane I just came in on. Then she
pulled herself up by the arms of her chair. But,
Mike, where do you suppose my suitcase can be?
While they discussed this unanswerable question,
the aspirin began to take effect. As Connies head
stopped pounding she found that she could once
more gather courage to look ahead. Now it was the
airlines dilemma, but it didnt make the prospect of
reporting back to Mr. Renshaw any more appealing.
Where could her traveling bag be?
When I found that the luggage tags were labeled
Blair on your bag, I thought, of course, you had
mine, Connie explained.
Mike thoroughly understood her reasoning.
When I landed in St. Lucia, he told Connie in turn,
all my belongings were accounted for except the
92

one Val-Pak. The British West Indies people

thought it probably would turn up in San Juan, and
they promised to get it on to me, somehow. It seems
they keep a little emergency plane for just such
expeditions. I wasnt especially anxious, only
impatient, because of the map.
The map! Connie gasped. Goodness, I almost
forgot! She opened her purse, saying as she did so,
I put it in here for safekeeping, because I had a
very peculiar experience last night in Grenada.
Then she stopped short, frowning. Whywhy
Her eyes, when she looked up, were dark and
troubled. It was right in this compartment, she
said slowly but with intense conviction, right
here when I got on the plane. Then, like a
firecracker exploding in her brain, came the answer.
Bertie Russell, she moaned.
Jumping to her feet in indignation, Connie faced
Mike. Ive been an idiot! she stormed. Ive been
a complete, utter, unmitigated fool.
Never! Mike retorted gallantly, but Connie paid
no attention. Ill bet he knows where my bag is!
she announced firmly. Of course he does. And of
course he has the map, right now!
The scene in the plane came back to her, vividly.
Bertie Russells arm across the back of the seat, his
extreme solicitude, the golden opportunity offered
by the frequency of the air pockets. No chance bump
93

against the side of the plane had been responsible for

her momentary unconsciousness. No, indeed! She
knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that Russell
had hit her on the back of the head.
It was a chance to have taken, but he had to
gamble. It was a chance, too, that she would have
heeded the warning of the night prowler and hidden
the all-important map in her purse.
Suppose you start over and give me the full
treatment, Mike suggested, just as Mrs. Lytles
frowzy head pushed aside the bead curtain which
served as a dining-room door.
Lunch,
the
boardinghouse
proprietor
announced, interrupting. She said it flatly, without
invitation. Her pale-blue eyes were expressionless
and disinterested, and she looked at Connie as
though even the advent of a pretty girl who had
dropped from the skies to her island was no special
cause for surprise.
Bread and cheese, a plate of native fruit, and two
dishes of soup were laid on a table by a window.
The crockery was chipped and a few flies were
buzzing about, but the fruit had been washed and the
cotton tablecloth was clean.
Mike seated Connie with a flourish. Welcome to
my castle, he whispered. Im the only prince at the
moment, but I understand were expecting another
by the end of the week.
94

Connie grinned at his nonsense, but returned

quickly to the request he had made a few minutes
before. She wanted to tell him all about the
marauder she had surprised in her bedroom at the
Santa Maria and about the fruitless chase.
Mike listened with intense interest. It sure looks
as if the guy were after the map, he admitted.
And the guy, as you call him, has got to be
Bertie Russell, Connie reminded him.
Right from the beginning, she remembered now,
she had felt a mistrust of the lizardlike Englishman.
She recalled her first glimpse of Russell, dining
alone in the elegance of Sam Lords Castle, and her
instinctive mistrust.
Mike, she said slowly.
Yes?
Do you remember, in Barbados, when we went
down to look at the dungeon, and the iron kettle fell
from the shelf?
Sure.
Ill bet it didnt fall! That kettle was pushed, and
Bertie Russell shoved it deliberately. He knew, by
then, that you were after the treasure, that you were
on your way to this island. Connie was thinking out
loud. The parts of this jigsaw puzzle were beginning
to fall in line.
But why should he care? Still incredulous,
Mike scratched his head.
95

Connie pounded the table impatiently with her

fist. Oh, youyou baby! she scolded. Dont you
see? Hes an opportunist, a fortune hunter. After you
spilled the whole story while we were having afterdinner coffee, he decided to steal the map and do the
job. If acquiring the map involved getting rid of you,
so much the better. It decreased the hazard, so far as
he was concerned.
Mikes eyes met Connies earnestly. You could
be right, he agreed.
Ive got to be right, Connie insisted. Its the
only thing that makes sense.
They were speaking in an undertone, by
unspoken agreement. Neither wanted Mrs. Lytle to
overhear the conversation. Come to think of it,
Russell was walking behind both of us when we
went along the passage to the dungeon. Yes, by
gosh, he could have given that pot a push! Mike
said.
But Connies nimble brain had traveled onward.
Mike, she mused, remember that chameleon and
the fly. Remember how quickly he captured it and
ate it?
Mike nodded.
Thats just what Mr. Russell is trying to do with
youdestroy you, by any means at all.
Then Connie became quiet for a few minutes,
seeing in her minds eye another pictureMammy
96

97

Bee reading the water, warning her in the strange,

ancient, singsong voice of the lizard and the fly. But
Mammy Bees lizard had not been the victor. Why
was it? Connie tried to recall.
Then, as clearly as though she were again sitting
on the stool in the obeah womans shack, she heard
the reason. De pretty lady keep him from gettin
dat fly.
Was she, Connie Blair, the pretty lady? If so, it
seemed that the next move was hers.
Decisively she pushed back her soup plate.
Mike, she said, weve got to get that map back!
Mike was sitting with his head in his hands. This
isnt your funeral, he said glumly. The thing
youve got to get back is your own Val-Pak.
Otherwise, youll very likely be out of a job.
Nonsense, Connie retorted. Mr. Renshaw isnt
that kind of person. Besides, in catching Bertie
Russell well probably find my suitcase too.
Because its obvious he stole my bag, thinking it
was yours.
Mike shook his head as though he wanted to clear
his brain. Come again, he suggested.
Connie explained willingly. I think the mix-up
in the tags must have been a mistake, she said.
Then I think Bertie swiped the bag that said
Ingersoll, and was just as disappointed as can be to
find it full of my clothes. Where it is now, however,
98

I wouldnt have the slightest idea. Maybe when we

get Bertie we can find out.
And how do you propose to get Bertie? Mike
wanted to know.
Not by sitting in Mrs. Lytles boardinghouse,
decided Connie. Bertie was bound for Martinique,
and so are we!

99

CHAPTER

Martinique Incident

When the Goose put in again at Island X, as Connie

and Mike persisted in calling it, two passengers
instead of one were waiting on the beach.
Mike, freshly shaven and scrubbed, looked very
natty in clean lightweight summer clothes which
were in sharp contrast to Connies rumpled cotton
dress.
I look frightful! she complained.
You look good to me, Mike assured her.
But Connie knew he was only being polite. She
was especially infuriated by the theft of her
wardrobe. The map and the Morne Rouge Club
plans were theoretically more important, of course,
but in the tropics a girl needs a change of clothes!
Walter greeted Mike a trifle dubiously, and when
Connie told him that they wanted to be flown to
Martinique he scratched his head and pondered.
100

You kids planning to elope or something? he

wanted to know.
Connie blushed and shook her head vigorously,
but Mike threw back his head and burst out
laughing. Not this time.
Weve just got business to attend to, Connie
said primly. But Walter still looked dubious.
Aware that the pilot of the Goose found it
impossible to connect business with a girl as lovely
as Connie Blair, Mike tried another tack. Were on
the trail of a piece of lost luggage, he told Walter
confidentially. Its very important, because it
contains a lot of papers and plans belonging to this
young ladys boss, Mr. Renshaw. See?
The name Renshaw proved to be an open-sesame.
Apparently his importance was already being felt in
the islands, and of course Walter had met the
advertising executive when he arranged for Connies
transportation to Petite Cul-de-Sac.
O.K., the pilot agreed. Ill take you on. But
then I got another appointment. I cant hang around
and wait until youre ready to come back.
This disturbed Connie. When is the first
scheduled flight from Martinique to Grenada? Do
you know?
Yup, Walter said, tomorrow morning.
B.W.I.A.
That was good enough for Connie. She felt that
101

this was no time to split hairs. How Mike would find

his way back to Island X would be his own problem.
Without the map there was no point to his being
there, anyway.
Immediately after the take-off, however, another
contingency occurred to her. How do we know,
she whispered to Mike, that Walter put Bertie
Russell down at Martinique, after all? That might
only have been a dodge. He might have landed at
Guadeloupe, or Dominicaor anywhere!
Well, we can always ask Walter, Mike
suggested in an undertone.
Suiting action to words he leaned forward, but
Connie grabbed his arm. Dont! she hissed.
Walter might be an accomplice, for all we know.
How complicated can this get? Mike
questioned truculently. If its dangerous to ask a
direct question, how do you propose to find out?
Connie couldnt say, at the moment. She sat
buried in thought as they climbed higher and higher
into the blue sky. Only after the plane had leveled
off did she loosen her seat belt and edge forward to
rest her arms on the back of the seat next to Walter.
Nice flying weather, now, she offered
conversationally.
Yup, Walter said.
Bumpy this morning, though.
Yup.
102

He certainly wasnt a loquacious character,

Connie decided. Maybe he didnt like to shout over
the noise of the motor, but she didnt intend to give
up easily.
I got quite a bump on the head, she mentioned.
I can still feel it. She touched the egg-shaped
protuberance on the base of her skull with tentative
fingers. It was tender and sore.
Walter glanced around. Dont see how you
could have hit your head there, he commented. On
the side, more likely. Funny thing.
Connie hoped he meant funny-peculiar. I
thought so too, she agreed. How well do you
know Mr. Russell? she asked, after a moment, in
the same conversational tone.
Dont know him at all, the pilot said promptly.
British, of course. The British dont say much. Not
like the Americans.
Connie turned and winked slyly at Mike, catching
the implied criticism. He certainly seems to like to
hop around the islands, she mentioned idly,
pretending to stifle a yawn. Then, quite loudly, she
added, Gosh, Mike, two days ago he was in
Barbados, yesterday in Grenada, and this morning
he was on his way to Guadeloupe.
Mike opened his mouth to correct her, but she
signaled him with her eyes to be silent. At the same
instant Walter said, half to his passenger and half to
103

himself, Martinique, not Guadeloupe.

It was the confirmation Connie had been angling
for, and was so completely spontaneous that she felt
no doubt that it was the truth. Oh, really? Why,
then we may see him. Or is Martinique a very big
place?
Big enough, Walter replied. Fort-de-France
thats the capitalis quite a city. He thought a
minute, then added, Very French.
Even after that warning, neither Connie nor Mike
was quite prepared for the Mediterranean look of
Fort-de-France as they approached it from the sea.
The island, from a distance, was extremely
beautiful, and the capital seemed to have elegance
and character as it rose on hills beyond a big square
park which Walter called the Savane.
The plane taxied in to the sea wall, off which an
assortment of schooners were riding at anchor. To
the right, Connie could see the ruins of an ancient
fort with trees growing inside the walls, and directly
ahead, in the middle of the Savane, under an
assembly of royal palms a hundred feet high, stood a
statue of the Empress Josephine, whose birthplace
Martinique had been.
All this was duly pointed out by Walter, who was
unaware that Connie and Mike were quite
disinterested in the tourist attractions. Connie was
eying the crowded streets with a feeling of
104

desperation. How would it ever be possible to trace

Bertie Russell in such a metropolis?
Alone, the pair stood like waifs and watched the
traffic stream past them. The horns of cars, jeeps,
and ex-Army trucks sounded incessantly, with the
petulant, whinnying sounds horns make when
batteries are run down. Dogs yapped, cocks crowed
frenetically from back yards, children shouted and
screamed, men argued, and everywhere there was
noise and heat and a pervading, peculiarly French
smell.
I feel completely lost, Connie admitted.
Maybe we shouldnt have come.
It was the most natural thing in the world to say,
and it also proved to be clever. With the
assertiveness of the American male which was
Mikes birthright, he took charge. First, he said,
lets question the taxi drivers. He pointed out a
group of beetlelike cars parked in the shade of the
trees.
Do you speak any French? Connie asked.
A little. Schoolbook French, of course. But
maybe I can get by.
Taking Connies hand, he led her across the
crowded thoroughfare toward the huddle of cabs and
chose to approach a sharp-looking young Negro in
white buckskin shoes who was apparently the front
man for the group.
105

Monsieur, pardon. Il nya pas Mike started

hesitantly.
The fellow readjusted the gum he was chewing
and said expressionlessly, You can speak English.
With a sigh of relief Mike grinned at Connie.
Then he took a dollar bill from his pocket and
offered it to the driver. Were looking for an
Englishman who arrived this morning on the
Goose. He indicated the plane just taking off in the
distance. Hes thin, dark, with heavy eyelids and a
long neck. Do you think you could find out if any of
your boys had him as a fare?
I can try, the man said.
He turned and gathered in his cohorts, addressing
them rapidly in French. There was a great deal of
discussion back and forth, and Connie stood by
feeling certain that everyone was chattering
uselessly, but after some time the fellow in the white
shoes returned to Mike.
Louis took the man to the Tascher house on the
hill, then to a caf on the Avenue Duparquet, he
said. There he was dismissed.
Thank you, Mike said gravely.
Does the driver know whether the gentleman
registered at any hotel? Connie asked.
Again there was a lengthy consultation, following
which Connie and Mike were informed that the man
had not stopped at a hotel during the time he had
106

engaged the driver. There are only two places at

which visitors generally stop, however, their gobetween said. One is the Vieux Moulin, right above
the city here, and the other is the Lido, on the coast
road. It should be easy to check there.
Mike thanked him again and asked if he could
give them an English-speaking driver, while Connie
made a note of the names.
Gilbert speaks a leetle English, the man said,
and led them to a plump, yellow-skinned man with a
crisp mustache.
A leetle English, Connie and Mike discovered
within a few minutes, was precisely what Gilbert
spoke. His vocabulary consisted of Allo, Yes,
Bahs (which was evidently intended to mean
boss), and You bet! which could mean anything
at all.
Martinique taxi drivers had apparently gone to
school in Grenada, or, Mike suggested, they were
trying to imitate their Parisian cousins in their
method of attack. They shouted invectives at one
another, hurled their cars into the middle of a
crossroad with horns honking, and took all curves on
two wheels.
Because it seemed the most logical, if least likely,
method of approach, Connie and Mike decided to try
hotels first. At the Vieux Moulin, a crumbling
edifice camouflaged in flaming bougainvillea, they
107

found no trace of Russell but were able to engage

rooms for the night. At the Lido, a rambling
waterside hotel approached by a flight of two
hundred steps, the proprietress seemed wary, but
professed to find Mikes halting French impossible
to understand. Climbing wearily back down to their
waiting cab, Connie suggested, Well, shall we
tackle the Tascher house on the hill, whatever that
is?
Best next bet, Mike agreed. He was beginning
to feel hot and discouraged.
Le maison de M. Tascher, Mike directed
laboriously.
You bet! caroled Gilbert, but he looked a trifle
disturbed.
He started the engine and the cab lurched out
once more into the main road, narrowly avoiding a
speeding bus. Everyone within three miles honked
wildly at one another thereupon, but with a reckless
joie de vivre rather than any ill feeling.
The ride back to Fort-de-France was breathtaking but brief. Suddenly, just outside the town
proper, Gilbert turned his car sharply up a steep hill.
There were no sidewalks. Houses were half hidden
by walls and ornamental gates. Once grand, they
looked neglected to Connie.
Its a sad sort of place, isnt it? she murmured
to Mike.
108

Just then, Gilbert turned into a drive and pulled

up at a dirty white house with a porte-cochere. A
sign hung beside the door and Connie read:
Pompes Funbres: service la nuit. She was about
to ask Mike to translate, but before she had the
opportunity, the door opened and a Frenchman
wearing very short shorts and a bush shirt that
looked as though it had been designed for a woman
came out on the steps.
Bonjour, monsieur, mademoiselle! he cried in a
fatalistic voice, then asked Mike in French, What
can I do for you?
We are looking for a Mr. Russell, an
Englishman, Mike explained slowly and carefully
in his high school French. We understand that he is
to be found here.
M. Taschers neat black eyebrows raised
quizzically. Cest trange! he remarked.
It is indeed strange, Mike murmured to Connie,
his eyes narrowing. But we know he was brought
here, he continued, breaking from English into his
laborious French once more.
M. Tascher shrugged and stepped aside, holding
the door. Entrez, he invited them.
Connie preceded Mike into a big square room,
almost devoid of furnishings. Chairs were ranged
along the side walls, but otherwise there were few
tables, no sofas or lamps.
109

She felt vaguely uncomfortable, almost

frightened, but somehow the invitation to come in
made her hopeful. Perhaps, through some fluke of
fortune, they were at last on Russells trail.
Of course, what they would do if they ever came
face to face with their quarry neither Connie nor
Mike had discussed. Hold him and yell for a
gendarme, Connie thought vaguely. Then appeal to
the mayor, or some other high government official,
and tell their story straight out.
Busy with conjecture, she waited while Mike and
the slight man in shorts conducted an arduous
conversation, Mike persevering with his inferior
French because there was nothing else to do.
He wants to know if you want to come with us,
her companion said finally. He says you will not
enjoy it, whatever that means.
Enjoy catching up with Bertie? He doesnt
know! Connies eyes began to sparkle with the
very thought.
The jeune femme will come with us, Mike said
to M. Tascher, who shrugged characteristically and
opened a door leading into a long hall.
Mike followed him with apparent boldness and
Connie trotted along behind, wondering what it was
all about. The house had an eerie quality she
couldnt quite tag. She had heard rumors of
Communist dens in Martinique and she hoped they
110

werent being foolhardy, walking into some sort of

trap.
The hall turned left. At the end was a heavy door,
and before this M. Tascher paused. Allons-y! he
said with a shrug of despair, flung open the door,
and stepped aside.
Over Mikes shoulder Connie could see a bare
whitewashed room in which were several
rectangular tables. Two of the tables were covered
with sheets. Then Mike stepped back with a gasp,
almost falling against her. Simultaneously they
realized that they were in an undertaking
establishment.
Pompes Funbres. Of course!
Stifling an almost hysterical desire to giggle,
Connie waited in the hall while Mike, with
astonishing tact, went through a routine inspection
of the corpses. Later, he told her he was so
flabbergasted that he didnt know what else to do.
Russell was not among them, nor did he expect
him to be, but Mike was so far involved with the
Frenchman, because of their strange doubleentendre conversation, that he felt he must go on
with the show.
Back in the taxi, Connie and Mike were almost
speechless with amazement. Why Russell had come
to the Tascher house they had not learned, but
certainly it seemed obvious that M. Tascher knew
111

nothing of him.
Unless, Connie said thoughtfully, it was a
dodge.
Mike shook his head. That was no dodge. The
man radiated sincerity.
Nobody speaking a foreign language ever seemed
to radiate sincerity for Connie. She always suspected
them because she couldnt understand them. They
seemed devious and unreasonably difficult.
However, she accepted Mikes judgment in this
instance. Next stop, she suggested, the telegraph
office. Ill have to send a cable to Mr. Renshaw, so
he wont worry when I dont show up.
It was not easy to compose a cable that would
cover all the circumstances. Connie stood at the desk
for ten minutes, rewriting her message again and
again to get it into the fewest possible words.
Finally, however, she rejoined Mike, who had
dismissed Gilbert meanwhile.
There is only one caf on the Avenue
Duparquet, he told Connie, and thats just two
blocks away.
They had to walk single file along the narrow
sidewalk, beside which ran an open sewer. Shop
fronts nudged one another, some elegant and filled
with expensive French perfumes, others cheap and
dingy. The caf was an unprepossessing place, built
right on the street, and they entered it timidly.
112

Inside, it seemed very dark in contrast to the brilliant

afternoon sunlight which flooded the street. Both
Connie and Mike stood blinking.
From a courtyard beyond came a Frenchman in a
white chefs apron. What can I do for you? he
asked in English.
Mike again took charge. We are looking for an
Englishman by the name of Mr. Russell, he
explained politely.
The chef stood looking at Mike without speaking.
We understand that he stopped by here today,
Mike continued.
The Frenchman shrugged. Many Englishmen
dine here, he admitted.
This Mr. Russell, Mike explained, is slender,
dark, middle-aged, with a thin neck and heavy
eyelids. Would you happen to remember him?
The chef looked surprised. Yes, as a matter of
fact, I do, he said promptly. He went out rather
hastily, by the courtyard gate, just as you two
arrived.
Pressing some Martinique money, which Mike
had acquired in change for his five-dollar bill from
the taxi driver, into the chefs hand, Mike mumbled
his thanks and followed Connie at a run across the
courtyard. The gate opened readily, but the alley
beyond was empty. You go one way and Ill go the
other, Connie proposed. Then Ill meet you back
113

in front of the caf.

But Mike refused to let Connie go off alone. He
thought it was foolhardy and dangerous. They
wasted precious seconds arguing the point, then
raced along the alley to the right and came out on a
crowded cross street. There was no sign of Bertie
Russell in the throng, and although they spent the
next half-hour wandering up one street and down
another they saw not a single Britisher, let alone the
particular man they were seeking.
Hot and tired, Connie finally gave up. Hes no
fool, she told Mike. Now that he knows were on
his trail hell be extra careful. Biting her lip in
vexation, she wailed, Oh, Mike, when we were so
close!

114

CHAPTER

In the Cathedral

Come on, Mike proposed to Connie, Ill buy you

a limeade or something else thats cold and
soothing. You look as though youd lost your last
enemy.
Mikes nonsense always brought a smile to
Connies lips, but this time her amusement was
tremulous and very close to tears.
They sat in a corner caf, sipping their limeades
through straws and watching the passing scene with
a sense of hopelessness. Then, as she cooled off a
trifle, Connies natural resilience came to her aid.
Im not going another step, Mike Ingersoll, she
announced firmly, until I get myself some clean
clothes.
Mike looked moodily at a shop across the small
square on which the caf faced. To their left rose the
fretwork spire of a cathedral, but directly opposite
115

were the windows of a store which seemed to be a

Martinique version of a department store. It did not
look adequate but it looked possible to Connie.
Certainly I can find something, she told herself
aloud, even if its only a sleeveless cotton blouse
and a dirndl skirt. Do you mind waiting? she asked
Mike superfluously.
Nope. But I think Ill go browse around the
cathedral while youre shopping. It looks sort of
Byzantine, doesnt it?
Connie nodded. More importantly, it looks
cool.
O.K. Look me up there when youre through,
Mike suggested. And dont hurry. At this point
theres no rush.
The two young people parted in the dusty square.
Mike watched until Connie was safely inside the
stores revolving door, then ambled slowly across to
the imposing steps of the great church, marveling at
its size and dignity. Inside, as he had suspected, it
was dim and cool, and quite empty. He wandered
down the side aisles, looking at the carved wooden
statues which decorated each niche. They were
works of art, especially the statue of a sturdy nun,
painted in soft, faded, realistic colors. Connie should
see these, Mike decided. Thered be no harm in
combining with their real mission a little
sightseeing.
116

After a while he came back to the entrance doors

and looked across the street toward the shop, but
Connie had not yet appeared. He stood on the steps a
few minutes, hopefully, then decided that girls
always took longer than expected, and returned to
the welcome darkness of the interior.
This time, having noted the fine woodcarving of
the reredos behind the altar, he started down the
center aisle, wanting to see it more closely.
Dark, somber pews fanned out on either side, and
the flooring was an intricately patterned tile in deep
jewel tones. Examining this unusual tile, broken in
spots from years of wear, Mike walked softly, with
unconscious reverence. A coin glinted on the
pavement, dropped unwittingly by some worshiper,
and he bent to pick it up, intending to put it in the
poor box at the door, along with a contribution of his
own. He did not stoop as a woman might, but
crouched with the natural grace of an athlete, like a
sprinter readying for the starting gun.
Suddenly he felt a sharp, shocking, stab like a
red-hot poker in his right shoulder, and pain
rocketed to his brain.
Instinctively he dropped to his knees, crouching
close to the floor now, and grabbed the spot. He felt
something warm and hard, the handle of a knife!
Twisting his head he could see, some distance
behind him, the silhouetted figure of a man. The
117

mans back was toward him, and he was running

straight back down the aisle, then he turned at the
last of the pews and disappeared through one of the
open side doors.
Pain signals to Mikes brain were coming more
quickly now, in blinding flashes, but still he tried to
rise and pursue his assailant. At the same time,
clutching the knife handle, he attempted to pull the
weapon loose.
Then a wave of faintness swept over him and he
began to stagger. The blinding flashes of pain
seemed to be wedded to the sunlight toward which
he was groping. Steady, boy! he tried to tell
himself, grabbing at the last shred of his ebbing
strength.
Steady . . . youre going to need help . . . easy,
Mike, this may not be as bad as you think. He
crashed into the side of a pew, which sent him
reeling forward, fell again to his knees and stayed
there, swaying.
Outside, his all but paralyzed brain told him.
Outside . . . youve got to get outside. In here
Connie may not find you for half an hour . . . but
there are people outside . . . people . . . Connie . . .
oh, Connie, Connie, please!
With a final, almost superhuman effort, Mike
pulled himself up by the arm of the pew and started
forward again toward the dazzling rectangle of
118

sunshine beyond the center door.

Time, now, seemed to stand still. It was an hour,
a day, a year before he could take the necessary
number of steps. Connie, he kept murmuring.
Connie!
Then, like a stricken runner, he stumbled forward
through the great door to the crashing, tumbling
sunlight which fell on him like stones from a
catapult, sending him falling, screaming, falling
again, endlessly, into a bottomless black canyon of
nothing.
He landed on the steps, face down.

119

CHAPTER 10

Where Is Bertie?

Cutting diagonally across the street from the

clothing store, Connie was too late to intercept the
fleeing man who had attempted murder in the dark
cathedral. She was just in time to see Mike totter out
into the sunlight and collapse on the shallow stone
steps.
At first she stood stock-still, speechless, unable to
believe her eyes. Then she found herself running,
oblivious to traffic, the paper bags she was carrying
banging against her knees.
Mike!
The handle of the knife in his shoulder, the
spreading stain of red filled her with panic and a
kind of terror she had never before known.
Dropping on her knees beside him, she knew he
was unconscious, perhaps even dead!
Connies scream had attracted the attention of a
120

121

dozen passers-by. Native women balancing baskets

on their turbaned heads, a dark-skinned delivery boy
riding a bicycle, and two shirt-sleeved businessmen
all stopped, looked, then hurried over to crowd
around the stricken man.
Le couteau! one of the women moaned,
pointing to the knife handle. Le couteau!
Quick as a flash, not knowing whether she was
doing right or wrong, Connie bent and pulled the
weapon out.
The bloody blade made her feel faint and sick,
but it also whipped her into action. Get me a taxi,
she commanded. Ive got to get this man to a
hospital immediately.
The French-speaking islanders stared down at her
blankly, and again Connie felt the overwhelming
helplessness of a person unable to communicate
with other human beings because of a language
barrier.
Taxi! she repeated, shouting the word.
Light dawned on the faces of the businessmen.
Toxi! they decided, pronouncing it quite
differently. Fiacre! they interpreted.
Then, out of the past, out of her insufficient high
school French, Connie managed to dredge the word
hpital. She pronounced it badly, but she kept
repeating it until the men understood.
Now she began to get some action. A taxi driver
122

was alerted, regardless of the fact that he was

carrying a fare, and several of the men in the
growing crowd managed to lift Mike into the back
seat. Kneeling beside him, Connie tried to cushion
his body against the jarring of the roughly paved
streets.
Quick! she told the driver. Vite, vite!
Vite! Vite! honked the taxi horn. Vite-vite!
Never again would Connie hear a horn in the island
that didnt seem to say these words. She felt as
though the trip were endless, as though the people of
Martinique had deliberately placed their hospital in
the least approachable spot. But finally they came to
a stop before a door, and a white-uniformed
attendant appearedan infirmier, they called him
then a nurse and a doctor, and Mike was borne on a
stretcher down a long hall into a room which
smelled of antiseptics but which Connie distrusted
profoundly because again she was an outcast, a
foreigner, and everyone was jabbering in a language
she couldnt understand.
Connie stood in the hall, looking down at her own
bloodstained dress, and wondering what to do next.
Then her natural common sense told her to use this
waiting time to some advantage and find a place
where she could at least wash up.
Another attendant directed her to a bathroom, and
she sponged off the front of her dress with cold
123

water, then washed her face and hands. There was

something about this normal, commonplace
performance that cleansed her mind of its turmoil,
and she went back to a bench outside the operatingroom door with at least a semblance of calm.
By the greatest good fortune she had clung to the
paper bags until she had entered the taxi, and at the
hospital the driver had brought them inside. They
awaited her now, filled with fresh clothing, which
she needed more than ever after this new holocaust.
Sitting on the bench, waiting for some word from
behind the closed door opposite, Connie glanced at
her wrist watch. The hands stood at precisely six
oclock. What an afternoonwhat a day!she had
lived through. Crowded enough for a lifetime,
Connie thought.
That it was Bertie Russell who had attacked Mike
she had no doubt. Who else in Martinique would
bear him ill will? Who else might conceivably have
seen him enter the cathedral, alone?
The lengths to which a truly greedy person would
go appalled Connie. As she sat, with tightly clasped
hands, waiting for the door to open, she decided that
Bertie Russell was one criminal she would enjoy
seeing brought to justice.
If only Mike were not too seriously injured! If
only the knife blade had contacted no vital spot!
Forcing herself to think about it, Connie realized
124

that the blade had not been imbedded far in the

yielding flesh. Either Bertie Russells aim had been
bad or something had happened to save Mike from
the full force of the blow. She wondered exactly
what had happened, there, in the dim, peaceful
vastness of the cathedral. She shivered, thinking that
it was a peculiar unlikely place in which to commit a
crime.
After about fifteen minutes the operating-room
door opened and a doctor came out, smiling. Your
husband will be all right, he told Connie, his head
bobbing up and down happily.
Oh, he isnt my husband! Connie gasped. Hes
just aa friend.
The doctor shrugged, undaunted. Your fianc,
then? he questioned, but there was assertiveness in
his voice. His all-the-world-loves-a-lover attitude
was irresistibly French.
Connie blushed, but she didnt correct him again,
feeling that it would be useless. Besides, just at that
moment an attendant wheeled Mike out on a
movable bed.
He was fully conscious and his eyes lighted when
he saw Connie. With a feeble grin he said, Well,
Im a fine one, passing out on you that way!
Your shoulder? Connie asked quickly,
ignoring such a foolish apology. Is itis it going to
be bad?
125

No, indeed! Mike assured her. It takes more

than a scratch to scratch an Ingersoll. His eyes
twinkled with their accustomed humor, and he
added ruefully, Theyve got some sort of notion,
though, that theyd like to keep me here overnight.
Just to be on the safe side, the doctor told
Connie. A mere formality, really. He spoke
excellent English, but like a Britisher rather than an
American.
A good idea, Connie agreed. She didnt much
relish an evening alone at the Vieux Moulin, but she
wanted to see Mike properly cared for, and followed
along when they wheeled him down the hall toward
a room at the end of an adjoining corridor.
The room was pleasant enough, though shabby
and far from immaculately clean. It overlooked the
Savane and the harbor beyond, and as Connie went
over to draw the muslin curtains against the setting
sun she gave a start of dismay.
Look, Mike! she cried. The Goose is just
taking off!
Mike raised himself on his good elbow and
followed the direction of Connies pointing finger.
There, sure enough, was the now-familiar plane
wheeling upward into the vivid sky.
Darn! he said. Ill bet that stinkers on his
way.
On his way!
126

Later, riding back to the Vieux Moulin alone,

Connie pondered the full significance of this remark.
On his way to Island X, or must there be other
arrangements made at other ports of call before
Russell could actually bring his search to a climax?
She wished that, like the obeah woman on Barbados,
she were gifted with second sight!
At the hotel she bathed, dressed in clean clothes,
and dined alone, then telephoned the airport and
made two reservations on the British West Indies
flight in the morning, one for Mike to St. Lucia, the
other to Grenada for herself.
She spent an uneventful evening, reading an old
magazine to pass away the time, and went to bed
early. Her dreams, however, were haunted by
visions of Bertie Russell. He loomed, a tremendous
monster, with the body of a lizard and his own
peculiar hooded eyes, and was about to grab her and
destroy her when Mike came riding up in a Viking
ship and slew the dragonBertie!like a veritable
St. George.
It was all mixed up and nonsensical, but Connie
arose in the morning feeling as though she had been
on a nightmare treadmill. She had a light breakfast
and took a cab at once to the hospital.
Mike was walking up and down the hall like a
caged animal, looking extremely impatient. Aside
from the fact that his right arm was in a sling he
127

seemed to be none the worse for wear.

He told her that the hospital authorities had
reported the stabbing incident to the police. Two
officers had questioned him the night before. Mike
had not named Bertie Russell as his assailant,
because then he would have had to reveal the motive
behind the attack. Since his recollection of the
incident was so vague, Mike had convinced the
police that there was little they could do.
Connie agreed with Mike that the fewer persons
who knew about the missing map the betterat
least at the present time. Quickly she explained the
arrangements she had made with the airline. Fine,
Mike said. He glanced at the clock above the desk.
Ill pay my bill right away. Then lets get out of
here.
They drove to the airport slowly. The driver, for
once, seemed sufficiently impressed by the sling
Mike was wearing to keep his speed moderate.
Nevertheless, Connie could tell by the thin line of
Mikes mouth that he was in considerable
discomfort.
Are you sure, she asked, that youre going to
be all right?
Id feel better, Mike admitted reluctantly, if I
could see an English doctor. Somehow I wasnt too
impressed by the chap who took care of me. As a
matter of fact, he suggested himself that there was a
128

man on Grenada whom I might consult in a day or

two. If I can change the reservation, I think I might
fly on there with you.
A good idea, Connie agreed. In any event,
youll have to rest up for a while. Or at least not go
deep-sea diving, she added when Mike seemed
about to disagree.
Personally, she was delighted to have his
companionship, although she knew, as the wound
healed, he would be bound to grow restless. And in
spite of her determination not to give up, Connie
could not foresee the next move in this strange game
they were playing with Mikes ruthless adversary.
At the moment, so far as he was concerned, Mike
had to admit that the jig seemed to be up.
Russell, presumably, was in possession of his
tracing of the map. By now he might be on Island X
himself, although how he could ascertain the
existence of the treasure ship neither Mike nor
Connie could guess. They could not remember that
he had been traveling with any diving equipment,
and any other method of probing the waters off the
reef indicated in the priests diagram seemed
completely useless.
Connie and Mike discussed this angle as they
waited for their plane. You may still have a
chance! Connie said. Why dont you cable your
dad to send you another copy of the map right
129

now?
You mean from here?
Certainly. I wouldnt waste a minute, Connie
insisted. By the time your shoulder is healed, an
airmail letter could be in your possession.
And by then Russell may have pulled his coup,
Mike said gloomily.
Thats a chance youve got to take.
O.K., Mike said. Ill take your advice. He
went over to the desk and brought back a blank, and
together they composed a cablegram, stressing the
point that speed was extremely urgent. By the time
they boarded the plane for Grenada the message was
on its way to New York.
The old man will sure wonder whats up. Mike
chuckled. Hell think Ive been gosh-darned
careless, or hell be sure Ive hit on something too
hot to handle. Wouldnt be a bit surprised if he flew
down here himself.
And it might be a good idea! Connie smiled.
You worry me, barging around these strange little
islands alone.
Look whos talking! Mike retorted.
Connie shrugged her shoulders and wouldnt look
at him.
Hi, Mom!
She flushed, dimples appearing as she found it
impossible to stifle a grin. I dont care! she
130

protested. I dont mean youre a babe in arms or

anything like that, Mike, but it is dangerous! Bertie
Russell isnt playing for peanuts, you may be sure of
that.
Mike glanced at his sling ruefully. Ive learned
my lesson, he confessed.
In Grenada he had the taxi driver drop him off at
the hospital in St. Georges, while Connie went
directly on to the Santa Maria, trying to adjust her
mind to a consideration of Mr. Renshaws problems
rather than Mike Ingersolls. She felt that she was
leading a double life, through no choice of her own,
but she knew that her first responsibility lay with her
boss, and not with Mike and his romantic project, no
matter how fascinating it might be.
As she drove along the Careenage toward the
hills on the far side of the harbor she tried to think of
some tactful way to tell Mr. Renshaw that her trip
had been, quite literally, a wild-goose chase, and
that she still hadnt recaptured her lost luggage.
Patient though he might be, Connie knew that Mr.
Renshaw would be more than a little upset.
The revised plans and the other papers were allimportant, and the delay to date had been grievous.
Connie bit her lip in consternation. She dreaded
facing her boss with the bad news.
The palms of her hands felt cold and damp and
her heart beat very quickly. She became
131

uncomfortably aware that if she hadnt met Mike

Ingersoll on the plane to San Juan none of this might
have happened. Misfortune was dogging his
footsteps, and her own had been too closely matched
with his.
When the taxi drew up before the hotel steps she
took a deep breath and gathered what remained of
her courage. Facts were facts. Whether she liked it
or not they had to be faced.
She paid the driver and turned to enter the lobby,
only to see George Renshaw walking toward her
with a smile of welcome on his tanned, attractively
mature face. She managed a feeble smile in return,
but her eyes were full of concern. This was going to
be even more difficult than she had anticipated.
Connie! Mr. Renshaw cried. Welcome home. I
need you.
Mr. Renshaw, Connie plunged, I have
something very disappointing to tell you. After
everythingall that expensive chasing around and
everything, I havent got the bag.
Of course you havent! George Renshaw
replied with a chuckle. I have it.
You? Connie couldnt believe her ears.
Her big, handsome boss nodded boyishly. Isnt
that the darnedest thing you ever heard? It came in
by B.W.I.A. from Barbados last night, along with a
note from Marchant, who said it turned up in an
132

island taxi, and luckily the driver happened to be

honest and took it back to the airport, quite baffled
as to where it had come from, and how.
Connie could have guessed the answer to these
two questions, but she skipped going into an
involved explanation at the moment. It was enough
that the bag had been found.
You dont know how I hated to come back
empty-handed, she told Mr. Renshaw with a sigh of
intense relief. This is the best news I ever expect to
have.
Mr. Renshaw patted her shoulder in fatherly
fashion. Your conscientiousness is a wonderful
quality, Connie, he told her. Now let bygones be
bygones. Bring your notebook to the second-floor
terrace right after lunch. I want to get to work!
All afternoon Connie took dictation. There were
instructions to foremen, to carpenters, to plumbers
and electricians. A thousand and one details
connected with the building of the Morne Rouge
Club occupied Mr. Renshaws attention. He wanted
to be sure, before he left Grenada, that the stage was
set to get the actual construction under way.
At Mr. Renshaws insistence, however, Connie
didnt transcribe the dictation that night, although
she would have done so quite willingly. He insisted
that morning was soon enough, and therefore
Connie took the evening off and spent it with Mike,
133

who was feeling a reaction to his injury, and was

quite willing to sit quietly in a terrace lounge chair
and stare moodily out over the black water.
The next morning, when Connie came down to
breakfast in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a creamcolored shirt, prepared to be comfortable even
though she planned to spend the morning at her
typewriter, the Goose was riding in the harbor and
Mike was nowhere to be seen.
He turned up as she was having her second cup of
coffee, with the news that he had hurried down to
intercept Walter, but that the pilot of the Goose
apparently was off doing errands in the town. The
news along the water front, however, was
provocative. From one of the many loungers, Mike
had learned that the Goose was just in from
Carriacou, a small island lying off Grenada, where a
single passenger had been discharged. Mikes
informant, who seemed to have acquired a fund of
information from Walter, claimed that he did not
know the passengers name, but that it was an
Englishman answering, roughly, to the description
Mike gave of his personal Enemy Number One.
Very interesting! Connie said.
Of course it may not be Russell at all, Mike
admitted, but Ill be anxious to talk to Walter when
he turns up.
And when may that be? Connie wanted to
134

know.
Mike lifted his shoulders. This guy I was talking
to said he thought the Goose was due to lay over
until tomorrow, so I thought Id come back here for
some breakfast, then amble down again after a
while.
Even as he spoke, however, there was a familiar
hum in the air. Connie and Mike both dashed out to
the terrace, just in time to see the Goose zoom along
the water and rise rapidly into the air. She flew
almost directly over the spot on which they were
standing, then took off in the general direction of
Trinidad.
Well, Mike admitted in discouragement, I
guess I ran into a guy who talked big, but who didnt
know from nothing, as we say back home.

135

CHAPTER

11

The Black Beach

Take my car, George Renshaw suggested to

Connie after lunch, and go off sightseeing for a few
hours. For Petes sake, its Saturday afternoon!
Youve done enough work for today.
His eyes twinkled down at his pretty young
assistant, and he added in a joking stage whisper,
And why dont you take along that nice young man
you introduced me to? Hes been hanging around
the hotel all morning, looking like a Gloomy Gus.
Connie laughed. He has things to gloom about,
she told Mr. Renshaw. When you arent so busy,
Ill tell you quite a story, but right now you have
that appointment with Mr. Harbin, remember? She
checked her notebook. Hes calling for you at one
oclock.
Mr. Renshaw whistled softly and dropped the car
keys in Connies lap. Id better scram, he
136

murmured with the youthful informality that

endeared him to her. Have fun.
In a big chair in the lobby Mike was lounging
with his feet stuck out in front of him and his knees
unbent. His eyes stared morosely out over the placid
sea and his brow was furrowed. He looked more
impatient than unhappy, however. Connie came up
behind him and covered his eyes with her hands.
Guess!
Mike pulled her hands away and brought her
around to face him. Want to go exploring? she
asked, and waved the keys under his nose. That is,
if youll trust me to drive one of these little English
cars.
Ill trust you to drive, Mike replied, but can I
trust you to stay on the left side of the road?
You can keep reminding me.
Wherell we go?
Ive checked on points of interest in Grenada,
Connie said. It seems that theres a nutmeg factory,
a cliff where the Caribs leaped, and a black beach.
I vote for the black beach, Mike said at once.
Ive seen a cliff before and the nutmeg factory can
wait.
Connies eyes lighted. Good! Thats my choice
too. Come on, then.
Determined to take Mikes mind off his troubles,
she chattered gaily about trivialities as they started
137

off, but before they had gone half a mile she realized
that driving a car in Grenada was quite different
from driving one at home. It called for
concentration, a firm hand on the horn, and a fast
foot on the brake.
Her advance impression of the islands of the
Lesser Antilles, Connie told Mike laughingly,
couldnt have been wronger.
Mine too, Mike admitted. What did you
expect?
Oh, a sort of tropical wilderness, Connie said,
with nobody for miles and miles. More room!
Grinning, Mike agreed, It sure is crowded.
Very seldom were they out of sight of a native
hut, and when stretches of tropical vegetation did
screen them from any habitation, the busy traffic
along the road testified to the fact that there were
plenty of people within call.
Burros, goats, sheep, cows, chickens, all
responded with slow good nature to the accepted
island signal, the beep-beep of the automobile horn.
They moved to the side of the road automatically,
without even turning their heads, except when
Connie slowed down. Then they looked surprised.
This is the only place in the world where Ive
ever seen chickens pay any attention to a honk,
Mike commented.
Either theyre brighter chickens than we have at
138

home or theyre better trained, Connie responded.

Theyve been conditioned from birth, Mike
decided. Otherwise, theyd run straight toward the
car, like American chickens. Goodness, without
even knowing it, the Grenadians have probably
developed a superior breed.
Connie laughed. Mike was excellent company
when he relaxed and forgot his troubles, though she
realized, with her sure feminine instinct, that they
couldnt be buried very deep in his mind. Still, she
intended to stay off the subject of the stolen map and
its accompanying problems for the entire afternoon,
if possible. She felt that they had both been under an
unusual strain and needed a little time off to play.
They discussed the strange birds and trees, the
lush tropical vegetation so new to them both, and the
remarkable lack of real hardship in the islands, even
though there was poverty.
It must be wonderful to go out and pick your
dinner off a tree, Mike said. These people never
have to worry about being hungry. Think of that!
But Connie was thinking more about the road
along which she was driving. She didnt want to
miss the turn which led toward the Grande Anse
beach, because she was eager to show Mike the site
for the Morne Rouge Club.
Arriving there, she waxed enthusiastic, and the
two spent a pleasant half-hour contemplating the
139

location, the view, and the prosperity such a club

would bring to this part of the island. Then, sunwarmed and relaxed, they drove on.
The road twisted and narrowed, led through a
sprawling, dilapidated farmyard, the only one they
had seen on Grenada, and became little more than a
cart track as it wound through a grove of trees
toward the famous beach.
They parked in the shade of some palms, then
walked to a curving strip of sand buffeted by a
towering surf.
Why, it really is black! Connie exclaimed,
scooping some of the stuff up in her hand and letting
it run through her fingers. The sand was indeed as
black as coal, and the consistency of coarse sugar,
flecked with diamondlike particles which made it
sparkle in the sun.
I wonder why? Connie murmured.
Mike shook his head. This is a volcanic island,
of course. Might have something to do with it.
From where they stood they could see a
lighthouse high on a promontory at their right,
overlooking the sea. Want to climb up? Mike
proposed.
Connie nodded. If it wont hurt your shoulder.
My shoulder feels much better, Mike assured
her. The doc here redressed it and gave me a shot
of penicillin, just in case.
140

Retracing their steps, they went back through the

grove of trees and found a path up the hill, and after
a ten-minute climb they reached the top.
From there the view was magnificent. A thousand
feet below lay the Caribbean, sapphire blue and
flecked with delicate whitecaps, where the trade
winds ruffled the surface of the sea.
With one accord Connie and Mike sank to the
grass at the edge of the cliff and rested, saying very
little, just soaking up the peace and beauty of the
scene. This is a spot Ill always remember, Connie
thought. This place, this afternoon, and Mike. It
was an interlude, a quiet moment in time, and she
felt that she wanted to hold on to it, to capture it
forever, like a golden nugget, to keep and turn and
admire.
The wind blew her hair back from her ears and
powdered her straight nose with new freckles. Mike
lay on the grass and looked up at her, squinting
against the sun. She was a golden girl, with her
taffy-colored hair and sun-tanned skin, wearing a
creamy shirt and copper-colored shorts that made
her seem all of a piece.
Connie smiled down at him. Happyfor a little
while?
Very, Mike said.
Im glad.
Im glad youre glad, said Mike.
141

Connie wrinkled her nose. Nonsense

conversation, she murmured.
No, Mike protested. Its nice conversation.
Everythings nice when Im with you.
Even chasing after Bertie Russell? Even that.
Smiling, she hugged her knees with her arms and
avoided the conquest of Mikes eyes. Her heartbeat
quickened though she looked out to sea, liking this
direct young man very much, but unwilling, quite
yet, to allow herself to fall in love. There was so
much to be done, so many things to see, and she was
young, too young for
Come on! Connie cried, leaping to her feet.
Lets go up in the lighthouse itself.
If we can, Mike said, allowing himself to be
persuaded.
He sauntered after her, nursing his sore shoulder a
bit, amused by Connies enthusiasm. The girls he
had known before were pallid by comparison, poor
things who wanted only to sit and be admired.
The lighthouse keeper was standing in the
doorway of the adjacent house. By all means, go
right ahead up, he told Connie and Mike. So long
as youve got good legs, theres nothing to stop you.
And its a fine day. Try the binoculars once you get
there. You should be able to see Carriacou, and
maybe even the Grenadines.
At Connies insistence, Mike took the stairs
142

slowly, but finally they reached the top and gazed

out over a tremendous sweep of sea and sky to the
outer islands, like dots in the distance, inkstains on
the smooth sheet of the water, scattered and
minuscule.
Pointing, Mike said, According to what I
remember from the map, that should be Carriacou.
Connie shaded her eyes with her hands and
squinted in the direction his finger indicated, but the
light danced confusingly on the water and she could
make out only a flickering shadow.
I cant see a thing, she complained. Werent
there supposed to be some binoculars?
Mike glanced around, found them lying on a
table, and handed them to Connie. These people
have the most casual faith in everyones honesty,
he remarked.
Connie smiled and agreed. She liked this trait in
the islanders. Raising the glasses, she adjusted the
focus. Oh, now I can see it, plain as day. I can see a
fishing smack, too, far in the distance, but coming
toward us. Look.
Mike looked. Theyre good glasses, he
commented. Isnt it interesting, the way they rig
their boats down here, with a square sail? Boy, that
fellows really kiting along! he added, following
the progress of the small boat.
After a few minutes he handed the glasses back to
143

Connie. Look at that boat. Its on a starboard tack

now, and really traveling. Cutting like a knife
through the water. I sure wish I were aboard.
Connie grinned. Id like to be going toward
Carriacou, not coming from it. She accepted the
binoculars and adjusted them again, then searched
the sparkling water for the pinpoint which had been
the fishing smack.
It was closer now, and as she watched, the
boatman came about and started on a port tack
directly toward the headland on which the
lighthouse stood.
From a fleck in the distance the scudding craft
grew in size and became clearly visible. The boat
was round-bottomed and the sail was a dirty white.
Connie and Mike exchanged the glasses several
times, until they could make out two men, one at the
tiller, the other sitting oddly erect in the stern.
It was this strange posture which made Connie
study the second man. Out for a sail on such a
beautiful day she felt that he should have been
lounging, enjoying himself to the full. But somehow
the figure gave the impression of impatience, not of
pleasure. She twirled the focusing wheel of the
binoculars, trying to bring the image closer because
she was interested.
Then suddenly Connie gasped and took a step
forward. Mike!
144

Turning from his inspection of the great light

itself, Mike murmured, Huh?
Mike, I do believe Mike, it is! Its Bertie
Russell, in that boat!
Hey, whos kidding who?
Honestly. Look!
Mike raised the glasses, picked out the boat, and
stared intently. Why, he said in astonishment,
why, Ill be darned!
It is, isnt it? Connie exclaimed.
It sure as heck is! Mike agreed. Theyre
coming about again. Theyre heading for the
harbor! He lowered the binoculars, put them on the
table by his side, and grabbed Connies hand.
Come on! he cried in sudden glee. Weve got
a swell chance to beat them to St. Georges. What
are we waiting for?

145

CHAPTER

12

A Bus Named Paradise

Connie raced down the lighthouse stairs after Mike

as though she had wings attached to her feet, but
when she reached the bottom she was so dizzy that
she stumbled, weaving, toward the car.
The lighthouse keeper looked after the young
couple and shook his head. Crazy Americans, he
mumbled, and relighted his pipe.
At this same instant Mike was asking Connie,
How many miles do you suppose it is to St.
Georges?
Connie could only guess. Maybe eight or ten.
Mike bit his lip. We may be able to make it.
That boat will have to tack at least twice more
before she can navigate the harbor. He opened the
car door and held it for Connie. Get in, girl, and
step on the gas!
Connie did as she was told. Like a mountain goat
146

the little car leaped over the uneven ground,

bumping along to the narrow macadam road that led
to town. All we need is to blow a tire, she
muttered between clenched teeth. Mike, are you
sure this is really wise?
Im not at all sure, Mike replied with a chuckle,
and Im not sure, either, how Im going to tackle
Bertie with one good arm, but Im sure as heck
going to try!
Im going to find a policeman, Connie assured
her companion. Youve taken one too many
chances already. Why, you almost got killed!
Even though she was dubious, she was excited.
Dodging pedestrians, burros, and buses, Connie
tooted her horn with the same wild abandon she had
previously deplored, and barged bravely ahead.
Atta girl! Mike congratulated her. Cradling his
useless arm with his good hand he leaned forward
and urged her on.
It was a wild ride. If Grenada had a speed limit,
Connie had never heard of it. She pushed the
accelerator to the floor and kept a sharp eye on the
road, watching animals and people scatter with an
alacrity she hadnt supposed they possessed.
It seemed hours before they reached the strip
along the Grande Anse beach which marked the
halfway point, but Mike looked at his watch and
said:
147

Ten minutes. Not bad!

Thus spurred onward, Connie outdid herself in
the next few miles, but then, around a curve, brakes
screaming, she pulled in behind a line of cars. The
construction crew! Theyre still at it! she stormed.
Wouldnt you think theyd have Saturday afternoon
off?
I guess theyve never heard of the long week
end, here in the islands, Mike replied. Work is
work, whenever you can get it. Just try to be calm.
But he wasnt calm himself. He was almost as
impatient as Connie, though he tried to hide it.
There are a few people who know its a holiday.
He pointed to a bus up ahead. Look.
In one of the big, top-heavy open-air vehicles
which served the Grenadians for transportation a
contingent of villagers were obviously on their way
to town. Some were dressed in their Sunday best but
others were in costume, and many wore elaborate
masks.
This is the beginning of Carnival! Connie
remembered. That makes it just dandy. St.
Georges will be crowded to overflowing. Oh, Mike,
well never make it!
But even as she spoke, the cars began to inch
ahead and a man with a red flag lazily waved the
line on.
Now, however, traffic really thickened. There
148

were so many vehicles coming from the opposite

direction that Connie couldnt possibly pass the bus.
Every few minutes the great unwieldy truck would
stop to take on or discharge passengers and Connie
would pull up behind it, fuming, but unable to make
any headway at all.
Mike began to glance at his watch uncertainly.
All we can hope for is that the wind didnt hold in
the harbors mouth. That would hold em up!
Its a slim hope, Connie said. Her hair was still
blowing and the treetops were tossing smartly.
Mike, we just seem to run head on into bad luck.
Not this time! Mike assured her. This time
were going to get that guy! His chin stuck out, and
his gray eyes looked menacing. Connie could see
that he meant business and it frightened her because
she felt, with his wounded shoulder, he was at a
distinct disadvantage.
The road around the Careenage was crowded, but
it was broad, and Connie, honking insistently, raced
past the long line of cars. Maybe Ill get put in jail
instead of Bertie Russell, she suggested with a
nervous giggle.
Dont worry about that now, Mike told her.
Just keep your foot on that gas pedal!
He was out of the car and at the dock where all
small boats moored before Connie had even come to
a stop. She parked the car hastily, grabbed the keys,
149

and followed him, scanning the harbor for the

fishing smack, but there were no sails whatever in
sight.
Mike, however, was already talking with a
fisherman who was holding a small boat off the
pilings. You put a man ashore just now, Connie
heard him say. Where did he go. Do you know?
The fisherman shrugged and gestured vaguely in
the direction of the street which led to the market
square. He seemed to be either extremely stupid or
was being cleverly unwilling to commit himself.
In any event, it was apparent both to Mike and
Connie that they would only waste time in
questioning him further. Tossing the man a coin,
Mike turned away.
Too late again, he muttered, and there was such
discouragement in this admission, after his previous
hopefulness, that Connies heart went out to him.
She began to think fast.
Wait! she cried out. Ive got an idea. Russell
doesnt know youre on this island, Mike. He cant.
And he wont especially care whether Ive managed
to get back here or not. He may not be too careful to
keep hidden. But weve got to make sure that we see
him first!
And just how do you propose to do that? Mike
wanted to know. With your yellow hair and my
crew cut we stand out like two sore thumbs in this
150

town.
Well buy masks, Connie told him. It will be
easy. She hurried him along the climbing street,
looking into the shop windows intently. Full head
masks, cover-up jobs. Then my shorts wont be
conspicuous. Well be just another couple in fancy
dress.
Carnival Masks and Costumes! Mike spotted
the sign before Connie did. Here! he exclaimed.
They went from the sunlight into the dark interior
of the store and chose masks hastily, Mikes a fierce
fox snout, Connies a pop-eyed travesty of a little
boys head. They looked so ridiculous that they
laughed at one another.
Can you see? Connie wanted to know.
Sure, Mike said. Cant you? If youre blind,
theres no use trying to play Cops and Robbers.
The proprietor of the store, sleepy-eyed and slowmoving, looked askance at this enigmatic
conversation. When Connie and Mike had left, he
turned to his wife and said, Crazy Americans!
For a few minutes after regaining the street
Connie felt absurdly conspicuous, and Mike came
right out with, Gosh, I feel silly! But they both
found that it was easy, thus masked, to mingle with
the crowds in the market square. One out of every
four or five people were similarly disguised, and
many wore elaborate or ridiculous costumes as well.
151

Connies prediction proved right. They could see

without being seen. Walking a little apart, so that
they would not be too obviously a couple, they
started around the market square.
The confusion, by four oclock in the afternoon,
had become terrific. A great space had been cleared
for dancing, because a jump-up, as the islanders
called it, was scheduled for tonight. Steel bands
were assembling for an evening contest, and in the
market place vendors from the country were packing
up their wares. Buses were arriving from the
outlying parishes and disgorging new crowds of
Carnival merrymakers, while others were leaving
filled with Saturday shoppers and their bags and
baskets. Why Bertie Russell would want to become
part of this hubbub Connie couldnt possibly
imagine.
She consulted Mike. Why wouldnt Bertie be
heading straight for Island X?
Mike thought for a minute, then replied,
Probably because he needs one of two things,
diving equipment for himself or a man who can dive
for him. Neither are easy to come by, in these
islands, Ill bet.
Would a novice like Bertie Russell dare to dive
for the sunken ship? Connie asked after a while.
We dont know that he is a novice, Mike
reminded her.
152

Connie nodded. Youre right, of course. But

weve got to assume something, havent we?
Im beginning to assume that this is another
wild-goose chase, Mike said glumly. I read
somewhere that there are seven hundred people per
square mile on this island. What chance do you
think we have of spotting him in this mob?
Walking along, both Connie and Mike were
keeping a sharp but fruitless watch. There was no
sign of their quarry, nor did they seem likely to
apprehend him in this teeming market place.
Remember the story of the village idiot and the
lost mule? Connie asked after a while. We could
do what he didand he found the mule!
What was that? Mike asked.
He played Where would I go if I were a mule?
and it worked, Connie replied. Assuming Bertie
Russell isnt a professional diver, what would he be
doing on Grenada?
Hed be looking for a diver to hire, Mike said.
Just as he was doing on Carriacou, I presume.
All right. How would you go about it?
Id make inquiries.
Where? Connie asked.
Gosh, I dont know. Mike sounded puzzled.
Maybe the smart thing to do would be to look in
the newspaper. There is one, isnt there?
Connie nodded. A weekly. She drew him into a
153

corner shop where there were magazines for sale

and asked the clerk if there was a newspaper
available, lifting her mask but keeping her head
carefully turned away from the door.
We are sold out, the woman informed her, but
I may have a copy in the back if you would like to
look at it.
Connie thanked her and waited, while Mike
retreated to a dim corner, ripped off his fox head,
and mopped his perspiring face. Together, then, they
perused the provincial newssheet, which was replete
with misspellings and with ads for patent medicines
and cigarettes with unfamiliar names like Fenox and
Trumpeter. There was a classified section on the
back page, and here Mike found a clue.
Look, he whispered, and pointed out a two-line
notice. Over Mikes shoulder Connie read:
Therolde Hunte, professional diver. Boat for hire.
Reasonable. Apply Grenville.
Mr. Hunte isnt exactly explicit, is he? Connie
murmured.
Hes saving money, Mike quipped. He had to
get it into two lines.
Whos Grenville, do you suppose?
Mike shrugged. In a hundred thousand people,
he should be a cinch to find.
But Connie had turned thoughtful. She walked
over to the counter and smiled winsomely at the
154

clerk, pointing out the advertisement they had been

studying. Grenville? she asked.
Thats the nutmeg town on the windward side of
the island, the clerk replied promptly and
intelligently. You should go through the factory
there, she added, tagging Connie as a tourist. It is
said to be very interesting.
Thank you, Connie said. And thank you for
letting us see the paper. She returned to Mike,
helped him replace his rubber head, and pulled her
own mask down over her tousled hair.
Outside once more, Mike said, Well, shall we go
back to the car and head for Grenville? Its a
chance.
A long one, Connie murmured. Still
We ought to have either a guide or a map of the
island, Mike mused. These roads are tricky and
they wind in and out endlessly. We could get good
and lost.
Connie agreed with this. There was a map of
some sort on that counter, she remembered. Ill go
buy it. You wait here.
But she had no sooner entered the door once more
than Mike came racing after her. Forget the map.
Quick! he whispered. I just saw Russell cross the
square.
Her heart in her throat, Connie followed the
young man in the fox-head mask. Darting in and out
155

among the pedestrians, they came to a basket shop

across from the crowded bus terminal. Mike drew
Connie back into the shadow of an awning. There
he is! See him?
Where?
Ducking between that pushcart and the bus
named Paradise. Mike pointed cautiously and
Connie gasped, Mike, it is!
Just at that moment Bertie swung himself up into
one of the crowded cross seats of the bus, which at
the same instant lurched forward and started to
move away.
As luck would have it, the vehicle moved not
toward Mike and Connie, but in the opposite
direction, and the snarled traffic seemed to open and
swallow it in a twinkling, while they watched
helplessly.
The car! Mike cried out. Weve got to
follow!
The car, Connie reminded him, is at least half
a mile away, down on the Careenage. A taxi! A taxi
is the only thing.
But in a spot where taxi drivers usually loitered,
trying to pick up a fare, there was not one in sight,
and with devastating speed the bus labeled Paradise
moved toward some unknown goal.
At least we can find out where Paradise isif
its a town. Connie started to dodge in and out
156

among the pedestrians at a run, heading toward the

bus parked next to the space just vacated.
Mike could do nothing but follow. He arrived in
time to hear her ask the driver breathlessly,
Paradisewhere is it?
The man behind the wheel, who wore an old cloth
cap and a bright yellow shirt with bathing girls
printed lavishly all over it, pointed languidly to the
departing bus. Up ahead. Just pulled out.
Where is it heading? Connie wanted to know.
St. Andrews.
How do we get there? Mike rapped out the
question with machine-gun speed.
The man raised his eyebrows at such haste.
Climb aboard, he suggested lazily. Im traveling
the same route.
Shall we? Mike asked Connie, who nodded
quickly. She swung herself up and edged along a
seat already occupied by several children and a
native woman carrying a live chicken in her arms.
Mike crowded in alongside, just behind the
driver. This bus is named Comet, he mentioned as
they got under way. I hope that means its fast!

157

CHAPTER

13

Fire! Fire!

If Comet had any intention of living up to its name

its initial maneuver was unfortunate. As the driver
accelerated and started off with the lurch which
seemed to be standard procedure, its back fender
scraped ominously against the bus parked on its
right and there immediately followed a sound of
metal ripping.
At once pandemonium broke loose. Comets
driver screamed invectives at the injured bus and all
of the passengers got up and started yelling. A
policeman appeared from somewhere in the traffic
jam ahead and gave directions which were drowned
in the general noise.
Connie and Mike, sweating under their ridiculous
masks, were overwhelmed by a sense of complete
frustration.
Finally Mike ripped his mask off. I cant stand
158

this thing a minute longer, he announced. And,

anyway, by now Bertie Russell is a mile away.
Dejectedly Connie followed suit. Do you think
wed better try again for a taxi? she asked, trying to
camouflage her discouragement for Mikes sake.
But just then Comet began to back and fill,
working itself loose to the tune of cheers and shouts
from the passengers. After a couple of false starts,
the bus hurtled through the crowded square and
edged into the line of traffic in which Paradise had
long since disappeared.
Maybe when we get out of town well make
better time, Connie suggested comfortingly.
Mike mumbled something unintelligible in reply.
One-handed, he was doing his best to hang on to the
extreme outside edge of the wooden plank which
served as a seat. The entire top-heavy structure
swayed on the truck chassis dangerously whenever
the bus shot forward, and then rattled and jarred in
all its seams when it again pulled to a stop.
Connie seemed impervious to such defects.
Maybe this bus goes through Grenville, she
suggested to Mike. Maybe thats where Russell is
heading.
Maybe, Mike agreed glumly.
We could ask, Connie suggested, and leaned
forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. I beg
your pardon, she shouted above the motors roar.
159

With complete unconcern for the wheel in his

hands, the driver turned his head. Dont do that!
Mike yelled too late, as they skidded off the
macadam and, weaving back on again, missed a tree
by inches. But Connie was already asking, Does
this bus go to Grenville? and a dozen passengers
were helping the bus driver assure her that it did.
A girl as pretty and as blond as Connie was
bound to create a sensation on any Grenada bus,
because white people rarely rode on them. But what
made her really spectacular was the fact that she was
wearing shorts. The women nudged each other and
pointed her out with a great deal of giggling and the
few men passengers looked indignant. Women in
the islands wore skirts and skirts only. They
considered these American tourists extremely odd.
Connie and Mike, however, were quite
unconscious of the scrutiny to which they were
being subjected. Their minds were firmly fixed on
catching Bertie Russell, and their only interest was
the speed at which Comet could travel, and the
possibility of overtaking the bus named Paradise.
They were well out of St. Georges now,
approaching the first range of mountains which
traversed the island from north to south. With
sudden impatience, Mike pulled some Beewee
money out of his pocket and handed it to the driver.
Here, Connie heard him say, Ill double this if
160

you can catch that Paradise bus up ahead.

The driver looked both astonished and delighted.
He proceeded to count the money with one hand
while driving with the other, and Connie and Mike
found themselves launched on a really epic ride.
Comet attacked the hills with the enthusiasm of a
catapult, screeching around curves and snorting and
puffing valiantly on every upgrade.
From the central range of mountains, cross ridges
ran to the sea, both toward the east and the west. The
bus would no sooner gain a summit than it would
plunge into a steaming, fertile valley, then bravely
attack a vertical slope again.
Passengers in the rear, who wanted to get off at
some hamlet, began to shout and storm, but the
driver ignored them. The money, more than he had
seen in months, made him consider this American a
beneficent god, and he drove like a man possessed.
His only desire was to catch up with Paradise, for by
doing so, he could become rich.
Connie and Mike clung together in a state
wavering between excitement and utter terror. When
he could make himself heard, Mike kept shouting
encouragement to the driver. Every word was
effective. They advanced to the top of Mt.
Catherine, a 2500-foot peak, as though jet-propelled,
and dropped into the next valley like a bomb.
Mike, well all be killed! Connie cried at one
161

point, but in response Mike only shouted, Hold

on!
Comet swung around a curve at a breakneck pace,
and there, in a sheltered pocket of land far below,
they caught their first glimpse of the bus named
Paradise.
Bravo! Mike called at the top of his lungs.
Bravo! echoed the driver with happy abandon.
Some weird imp seemed to have entered the mans
blood stream. He acted as though never in his life
had he had more fun.
Overhead, in the cavern of green through which
they now plunged, immortelle trees flamed with
bright-orange flowers and birds screamed busily.
Bananas hung in ripening clumps and breadfruit
waved gently in the air, but none of this did Connie
see. She was clutching the back of the seat in front
of her, hanging on like grim death, and trying to
decide whether Mike Ingersoll had completely lost
his mind.
Mike himself seemed as fey as the driver, on
whose shirt the bathing girls began to swim dizzily
in Connies eyes. He was a man who had been
frustrated too often and tried too far. This was a
chase he was bound to win, and his normal caution
had been routed by a frenzied courage.
Moment by moment the hubbub in the back of the
bus became more intense. Had the passengers not
162

been so busy hanging on, Connie felt sure that they

would have crawled right over her shoulders to take
possession of this unruly vehicle which was flinging
itself about like a mad thing.
But the risk was too great. They simply clutched
at any support and prayed for their lives, while the
driver appeared to be doing his best to shake them
off at every curve.
The bus was weaving downhill now. At intervals,
on a turn, Connie and Mike would catch a glimpse
of Paradise, a few curves ahead, and in the distance
they could see the huddle of terra-cotta roof tops
which doubtless marked Grenville, the nutmeg
town.
As they approached the hamlet the road leveled
out and ran along the sea, over which the sun hung
like an orange balloon, spent and drifting
imperceptibly downward.
Snorting, Comet gained on its quarry, and in the
middle of the village pulled up right behind
Paradise, which was parked in front of the nutmeg
factory.
There! cried the driver, beaming as Mike
handed him the promised fee. Connie and most of
the passengers were already scrambling down from
the sides of the bus.
But the battle was only half won. At that instant,
as though on signal, from the doors of the factory
163

poured half a hundred workers, mostly women and

girls, all chattering and giggling, full of Carnival
spirit and anxious to get home.
They crowded into the bus ahead, calling to
others still inside the building to hurry, and the
overflow drifted back to Comet, completely
blocking Connie and Mikes view.
Together, however, they fought their way forward
and managed to hoist themselves up on the very last
seat of the bus named Paradise just as the driver,
honking busily, pulled away.
A dozen women cried out, There isnt room!
but Connie and Mike, by this time, were impervious
to rules of conduct. Politeness was something they
had to ignore in the heat of pursuit.
Standing, they craned forward to see over the
turbaned and straw-hatted heads of the nutmeg
workers. Was Bertie Russell still aboard, or had he
decamped in the midst of the confusion, to search
out Therolde Hunte?
Look, Mike! In the seat behind the driver
Connie spotted a narrow, balding head. Elation
swept her, but at the same time she recognized that
the chase was not over. What was their next move to
be?
The decision, as it happened, was taken out of her
hands. Before the driver of Paradise had even shifted
gears there was a great shout from behind them and
164

the passengers all turned to discover that Comet had

burst into flames.
To Connie and Mike it came as an almost
inevitable climax to their wild ride over the
mountains. Overheated, pushed beyond endurance,
steam had been hissing from the radiator for miles.
But the uproar the fire was bound to create, in an
island where any kind of excitement is welcomed,
was something they couldnt foretell.
This was as good as Carnival!
This was fun!
There was no question of proceeding and
abandoning the afflicted bus. Such a spectacular
performance deserved a cheering squad. As the
factory doors were braced open and a bucket brigade
began to form, the workers scrambled down from
Paradise in a joyous throng. The driver pulled on his
brakes, turned off the ignition, and hurried along
with them, leaving his vehicle blocking all traffic on
the narrow road.
It was at this instant, inevitably, that Bertie
Russell spotted Connie and Mike!
Left alone on the bus, the three of them were the
only people in Grenville not completely captivated
by the fire. They could have been on a desert island,
so isolated did they feel, yet they were separated
from one another only by eight rows of wooden
planks.
165

For a long moment no one moved or spoke.

Connie and Mike stared at Russell and he stared
back at them, his strange, hooded eyes as intent as a
snakes. He might, she thought, have been seeing a
pair of ghosts. He might have been implanted in a
nightmare. So disbelieving was his expression that
Connie had an instant of wonderment. Was she
waking or sleeping herself?
Then, with a shudder, Bertie Russell seemed to
draw his lean body together. Without a word,
without a backward glance, he leaped from the far
side of the bus to the dusty road and started to run.

166

CHAPTER 14

The Waterfall

This action of Berties was so utterly childish, so

completely unexpected that both Connie and Mike
stood rooted to the spot, unable to credit the
evidence of their own eyes.
Increasing their feeling of incredulity was the fact
that not another soul in Grenville was in the least
interested in the running white man. The attention of
everyonemen, women, children, and dogswas
focused upon the fire.
Hey, that guy can really sprint! Mike said
suddenly. Like a flash he swung himself down from
the bus by his one good arm and took off after
Russell along the empty road.
Connie hesitated a moment longer. If only she
could find a policeman! What could Mike, with his
one good arm, hope to accomplish in a hand-to-hand
fight? Besides, Russell had not hesitated to stoop to
167

criminal assault in Martinique, and there was no

reason to suppose he had reformed in the meantime.
He might pull a knife or a gun!
Frantically Connie looked behind her, searching
the crowd around the flaming bus for a pith helmet,
the policemans badge of office in Grenada, but
there was no such headgear apparent. As always,
when they were most needed, every policeman on
the island seemed to have disappeared.
Forced to a decision, Connie waited no longer.
With a leap that sent her staggering to the center of
the road she started swiftly after Mike.
The village, which was no more than a dozen
houses clustered around the nutmeg factory, was
behind them in a matter of minutes. The road
immediately left the shore again and twisted
upward. With it twisted Bertie Russell, then Mike,
with Connie gaining ground in the rear.
The sun had now dropped well below the gigantic
flamboyant trees which arched over the road.
Although the rocky coast was bright with daylight,
Russell and his pursuers were enclosed in a sort of
preternatural twilight as they panted along. But the
air was still close and hot in this tunnel of green. Not
for another hour would the true twilight bring the
coolness of evening.
A very old man, bent and gnarled as the stick on
which he was leaning, appeared far ahead, leading a
168

burro laden with sugar cane bound like faggots to

his back.
Bertie, seeing him, turned off the road and leaped
like a mountain goat along the stones of a creek bed,
disappearing within seconds in the jungle
undergrowth.
The old man stopped and stared, openmouthed, as
Mike and Connie followed, sliding and slipping
from boulder to boulder.
Mike! Connie cried out once. Watch your
shoulder! Then she saved her breath for the hazards
of the chase.
The stream, used by washerwomen in the
mornings, ascended rapidly, curling and curving to
its source far up the mountain. Over it poui trees
dropped their brilliant yellow flowers and along its
banks grew mahogany and palm, mango and papaw
and breadfruit trees in a tropical tangle all but
impenetrable.
Russell, Connie soon realized, seemed to have a
purpose. He did not cut foolishly into the jungle, but
followed the creek bed itself, splashing through the
cold, shallow water just out of sight but within
earshot.
Mike, struggling after him, was breathing heavily.
He was out of condition, Connie knew, because of
the wound in his shoulder, which probably was
throbbing uncomfortably. She hoped he would do
169

himself no permanent harm.

At his heels by now, she was doing her level best
to keep up. Glad that she happened to be wearing
shorts, no matter what the Grenadians might think of
them, she splashed through the water in her
sneakers, grateful for its icy swirl against her legs.
Up, up, up, they climbed, only the snapping of
twigs and the screaming of disturbed birds marking
their progress. Connies breath was coming in short,
painful jerks and Mike was stumbling forward, up to
his knees now in water, propelled more by his will
than by his reluctant feet.
Gradually Connie became conscious of a rushing
roar, which increased in intensity until the breaking
of twigs ahead could no longer be heard. It was a
sound of such force that it drowned out the sound of
Mikes labored breathing, even the screaming of the
startled birds.
Then, almost instinctively, she knew what it was.
A waterfall!
Still not within sight, there was nothing else that
could produce such a sound. Somewhere very close
water must be falling with terrific force from a great
height. Was it this toward which Bertie Russell was
straining? Did he hope, through its covering noise,
to elude them? Connies active brain tried to foresee
the answer even as her feet carried her impatiently
toward the spot.
170

Then, around a sudden bend, they saw ita great

white column of water streaming over a fifty-foot
cliff to bubble and boil in a pool at their feet.
Connie and Mike both stopped, appalled. Bertie
Russell had disappeared!
But he was ahead just a few seconds ago. I saw
him! Mike insisted.
Connie touched his arm, stopping in sudden
alarm. How had the man vanished so completely?
She glanced from left to right, suspicious of a trick.
But there was no sound that could compete with
the tremendous roar of the water. No birdcall, no
sighing of the trees, no rustle of leaves nor snapping
of twigs here could give the culprit away.
And he was gone! He was gone as completely as
though he had never existed. Connies eyes scaled
the heights of the waterfall as though he could have
flown upward. There was no other means of egress
from this sheltered spot except a slope to the right,
which was grass-covered and unexpectedly gentle,
and against which Russells fleeing figure would
have been clearly visible.
Without speaking, Connie and Mike explored the
possibilities and came to the same conclusion.
Russell would not have had time to elude them that
way. He would scarcely have had time even to climb
a tree!
With one accord they both looked up, searching
171

the leafy branches over their heads for some clue,

some sign of movement, but there was nothing
only the encroaching darkness blotting out the
scattered patches of indigo-blue sky.
Moving closer to Mike so that her shoulder would
touch his uninjured arm, Connie told him, Theres
only one place he can be.
Where?
Under the waterfall.
Mike turned to Connie in admiration. By Jove,
Ill bet youre right! Then his eyes returned to the
great cascade of white water, straining to see
through to the ledge of rock behind it. What a
perfect hiding place!
And what a perfect place from which to attack!
Connie added. Then she murmured, thinking aloud,
A knifeor a sharp rock
Pulling Connie back into the shelter of some
overhanging vines, where the shadows were deep
and black, Mike considered the possibility just
suggested. Yes, Russell had found a fortress as well
as a hiding place.
The alabaster cataract had formed a deep pool at
the base of the rock. There was no hope of
swimming through it. The force of the water would
make even the strongest man groggy. On the left of
this heavy stream was a sheer cliff wall, impossible
to scale. The only entrance to the narrow ledge
172

behind the falls was from the right. Here, because of

the jutting ledge of rock high above, there was a
space through which a brave or foolhardy man
might dodge, to gain a precarious sanctuary.
Anyone attempting to follow would be in plain
sight, but the first man in would be well hidden, if
Connies conclusion was right.
And it had to be right!
Together, in low voices, they discussed it. There
was nowhere else that Bertie could have
disappeared. But how they were to rout him from his
drenching wet cave neither Connie nor Mike could
imagine.
If I could use both arms Id take a chance on a
surprise tackle, Mike complained.
But it wouldnt be a surprise, Connie insisted.
No, this is a case for brains, not brawn.
Crouching together, resting, in the shadows
which were rapidly deepening, they made a plan.
That water is cold, icy cold from the mountain,
Connie murmured. Hell only be able to stand it a
certain length of time without freezing, because he
must be under a sort of shower bath, even though
hes escaping the full force of the falls.
Yeah, so he comes out some time tonight. Then
what? The fellows quick as a cat, and he seems to
know this terrain like the back of his hand.
Its when he comes out that weve got to capture
173

him, Connie decided. And we can!

How? Mike sounded dubious. Itll be dark as
pitch.
Not when the moon comes up. Its a wonderful
moon. I noticed last night. Big and full and white.
So?
Ive got an idea. Connie talked rapidly for a
few minutes, diagraming a proposition.
But Mike kept shaking his head. No, he
insisted. Nope, I wont leave you here alone.
Youve got to, Connie retorted, just as
emphatically. Its the only way!
They argued for a full ten minutes, keeping a
watchful eye on the waterfall at the same time.
Finally, reluctantly, Mike gave in. He had no
alternate proposition that was safer. O.K., he
agreed at long last. You win.
Now, with all the realism they could muster,
Connie and Mike began to play-act. They thrashed
around in the tangle of undergrowth loudly, then
came out into the open and pretended to continue the
search.
Before dark, however, appearing baffled and
discouraged, they headed once more downstream
but only until they were just out of sight around the
bend. Then Connie doubled quietly back, and Mike
fought his way through the forest by a circuitous
route to the cliff overlooking the falls.
174

It was doubtful, in both their minds, that Bertie

Russell could hear or see any of these machinations,
because the curtain of water was dense and the roar
was great. However, they wanted to take no chances.
It was all right to let him think they were still in the
vicinity, but their exact whereabouts must be kept a
secret if the ruse was to succeed.
Now began a long watch, and the fact that they
were apart from one another and getting hungry
made it seem doubly long. Darkness came quickly
on the heels of twilight, but as Connie crouched on
the damp ground behind a screen of leaves, it
seemed to her that the moon would never climb
above the mountainous trees.
At last, however, it arrived, sailing upward until it
was directly overhead. The forest rested silently in
its aluminum sheen. The great rosettes of leaves of
the parasitic plants seemed to be a thousand lips
opened to catch its rays. Around Connie there were
little sounds of the insect world arising from the
lacquered blackness of the shadows. The
surrounding jungle became a giant filigree of
luminous highlights etched by the moons white
rays.
And still there was no movement from behind the
waterfall!
He must be getting really cold by now, Connie
thought. Really cold! If hes there.
175

If. The small seed of doubt began to grow in the

darkness, because she was alone and because her
courage was ebbing with the passing hours. She
fixed her eyes and her mind on a long, thin creeper
swaying in the moonlight above the waterfall and
wondered whether it was moving under Mikes
hand, a sort of signal. She wondered whether, with
his useless arm, he had managed to climb the
precipice at all.
The creeper continued to sway back and forth like
a seaweed stem in a gentle current. From the top of a
high tree it hung directly down into the ravine.
Gradually the motion calmed Connies nerves and
she became increasingly alert.
Soon, soon now . . .
Ten minutes passed, fifteen. Connie was getting
stiff and sore, but still she waited, watching.
Then, like a shadow moving, a mans figure was
etched by the moonlight against the wet, shining
cliff.
She was right! Shed been right all along. Oh,
Mike, she urged silently, Mike, now!
There was a thud, a splash, and then a second
splash. Mikes aim had been good. The rock fell
surely, straight down like a plummet, and Bertie
Russell toppled into the water after it, falling
sideways, away from the deep pool at the falls base.
This was luck, because Connie had no wish to
176

177

drown the man, and she doubted that she would

have been able to pull him out alone. But from
where he lay it was possible to drag him,
unconscious, to the bank. Quickly she rolled him
over, then tied his hands behind his back with the
narrow leather belt she had been wearing with her
shorts.
Mike! Mike! Ive got him. Caroling the
wonderful news above the sound of the water, she
got to her feet in excitement and waved to Mike at
the top of the cliff.
By the time he reached her, Bertie was beginning
to stir, but by that time Connie had been through his
pockets and had found a piece of pink tissue in a
waterproof cigarette case.
This she handed proudly to Mike.
And Mike, filled with relief and gratitude, and an
even more exciting emotion, took Connie into his
arms and kissed her on the lips.

178

CHAPTER 15

Mission Accomplished

They marched the criminal down the creek bed,

prodding him along when he lagged. Bertie was
soaking wet and shivering, a chastened figure of a
desperado, but, remembering the attack in
Martinique, neither Connie nor Mike could feel any
sympathy for him.
At the main road they turned toward Grenville,
but before they reached the village one of the taxi
drivers from the hotel, on his way back from a trip
to the airport, caught the strange trio in the
headlights of his car.
Recognizing Connies blond hair, he pulled up
beside her and asked a routine question in a voice
which betrayed his complete incredulity. Taxi,
miss?
Connie was too footsore and weary to appreciate
the absurdity of the remark. She just felt surprised
179

and grateful that some help had come along. Their

luck indeed had changed!
Explaining, between the two of them, that they
had captured a dangerous criminal, Mike and
Connie asked the taxi drivers advice. What did one
do on Grenada in such a case? Take the man to the
chief of police?
The taxi driver shook his head. We do not have
much crime on Grenada, he explained. When
something important happens, or an off-islander is
involved in some sort of mischief, the thing to do is
to go straight to the Governor.
Mike demurred, but Connie felt that quibbling at
this point would be a mistake. All right. Drive us to
the Governors house, she said.
So with Bertie Russell trussed securely and seated
between them, they arrived at Government House,
which was lighted as though for a party.
His Excellency must be entertaining at dinner,
their driver vouchsafed.
Connie glanced down at her stained and watersoaked shorts and at Mikes torn and dirty slacks.
We dont look very pretty, she admitted. But
then, neither does Bertie! Come on, Mike. Weve
got to see this through.
They made an odd picture as they waited before
the great doorthe attractive, disheveled girl, the
sun-tanned American young man with his arm in a
180

sling, and the drenched, sullen Britisher with his

small, hooded eyes so filled with hatred.
Yet the butler, sensing that something important
was afoot, did not hesitate to announce them to the
Governor and his party, who were taking afterdinner coffee in the drawing room.
Connie Blair? From the terrace Connie could
hear George Renshaws voice raised in surprise. A
flood tide of relief swept through her, and when she
saw the familiar broad shoulders of her boss behind
the less impressive ones of the Governor, she could
have flown into his arms.
Here was the luckiest break of all in a day full of
lucky breaksthat Mr. Renshaw should, on this of
all nights, have been dining with the Governor. Here
was someone who could substantiate the story she
had to tell, who knew her to be honest and reliable,
and who was aware of part of the plot at least.
After the hasty introductions were over, Connie
found herself organizing the facts and presenting
them, as succinctly as possible, to the Governor and
Mr. Renshaw.
Mike helped her explain the background of the
salvage venture, and the interest of the American
museum in the Aztec artifacts.
Connie drew out the pink tracing paper which
contained the map and explained how she had just
retrieved it from Bertie Russells cigarette case, and
181

then they began to piece together the story with an

explanation of the traveling-bag mix-up and the
subsequent chase through the islands after the man
who had tried to murder Mike.
Confusion gave way to belief in the Governors
eyes. These two young people were so obviously
honest, and the man who sat slumped sullenly in a
chair with his hands still tied behind his back had
nothing whatever to say for himself.
Bertie Russell, you say your name is? the
Governor asked. Wait a minute! He retired to his
library and emerged, a little while later, with a
document in his hand.
Here, he said, is a dossier on a certain Frank
Collymore, a confidence man wanted in England.
He passed the paper to Mr. Renshaw. Wouldnt
you say the photograph checks?
George Renshaw raised his eyebrows and
nodded. Indubitably, he said.
Russell is, of course, an alias, the Governor
continued. This man is traveling with forged
credentials. He is quite obviously an unscrupulous
chap who will stop at nothing to gain his ends. I can
only thank you bothhe bowedfor a real
service to the Crown.
Connie responded graciously, but Mike looked a
trifle skeptical as he touched his injured shoulder.
She could tell that he was thinking he had,
182

apparently, almost died for Dear Old England. And

he didnt consider it his dish of tea.
There are a couple of things Id like to clear up,
he suggested, if we can persuade Russell to talk.
We can persuade him! said the Governor with
authority.
Indeed Russell, once recognizing that the jig was
up, seemed almost anxious to talk.
What I want to know, Mike said, is how you
knew I was carrying a map in my possession. It was
never mentioned, unless Marchant spilled the
beans.
Marchant had nothing to do with it, Bertie said
with a sneer. I suspected you had a map, right
away, because I had one too. A duplicate of yours,
of course. The guy who sold it to me was a doublecrossing crook!
His name? Mike asked.
Pedro Alvarez. Posed as a son of a Mexican
grandee.
That part is true, Mike said. I went to school
with him. Then he asked, Where did you meet
him? In England?
No, Bertie replied. In New York. He told,
then, the story of his contact with the Mexican lad,
and his purchase of a photostatic copy of the map.
The deal here had been a trifle different from
Mikes, because he had bought the original, but
183

Pedro had handed Russell a pretty convincing story

about the necessity for keeping the manuscript in his
own possession, even though he was willing to sell
the right to look for the gold.
Gosh, he could have sold it a dozen times over,
Mike said in concern.
I dont think he did, though, Bertie Russell
replied. I think he needed just so much cash, and
when he got it, he scrammed. As a matter of fact, I
know he headed back to Mexico the day after he
made my sale. I checked his story with the airline
and he was definitely booked.
Even so, Connie murmured to Mike, youd
better get back to Island X without any further
delay.
Ill have you flown down on my plane, the
Governor offered. First thing in the morning if you
like.
Connie breathed a sigh of relief. The sooner the
better! She wouldnt rest easily until Mike had
staked his claim.
But at the moment there were several other things
she wanted to know. One of them concerned the
near accident in the dungeon at Sam Lords.
Sure, I pushed that pot, Russell said in a
braggadocio manner. I didnt want any fresh
American kid cutting in on my time.
Youd kill a manjust for some ancient relics?
184

Connie was truly horrified as she read the

affirmative answer in Russells black, beady eyes.
Maybe theyre ancient relics to you and your
buddy, sister, but theyre money to me. Theyre
golden, arent they, according to this Spanish priest?
Gold keeps, even in sea water, and it melts down
real easy, Im told.
The answers to Connies other questions quickly
became plain. Russell, in trying to steal Mikes ValPak, had been himself victimized by the mistake of
the tags by Customs officials. He had, then, made an
attempt to correct his bad luck, but Connie had
surprised him in her bedroom at the Santa Maria
before he discovered the map. There remained but
one thing to do, and Russell did it, alone with
Connie in the Goose, the rough weather off Island X
playing into his hands. He hit Connie on the back of
the neck with the side of his hand, and, as she
momentarily blacked out, finally got possession of
the important pink slip of paper which Mike needed
to beat him to the treasure ship.
All these things had been easy enough to deduce,
but Connie was interested in their confirmation. And
one thing she couldnt guesswhy Russell had
made his mysterious call at the establishment of the
Martinique undertaker?
This he seemed reluctant to answer, but finally
admitted that it was not M. Tascher but one of his
185

servants upon whom he had called. The servant was

in league with a gang who would take the gold off
Berties hands for cash, and since Bertie could not
make a sale legally in his own country, this angle
had been an important part of his salvage scheme.
It remained only to find a diver, and as Connie
had suspected, Russell had been on his way to look
up Hunte, who lived about a mile out on the far side
of Grenville, along the very road they had traveled
not an hour ago.
But how did you find out about the waterfall?
Connie asked curiously. Had you been there
before?
Sure, Bertie admitted. I spent nearly a year on
this island once, when it became necessary for me to
keep out of England. I used to swim in that pool, so
I knew about the ledge against the rock.
It was Connie who guessed his hiding place!
Mike put in, admiration in his voice. It was Connie,
all along, who did the brainwork. I just went along
for the ride.
Nothing of the sort! Connie protested, but
nevertheless she was grateful for Mikes praise.
When she finally got to bed, some hours later, she
remembered his words and smiled as she fell asleep.
The next morning, just before Mike took off in
the Governors plane for Petite Cul-de-Sac, she
breakfasted with him, along with Mr. Renshaw, and
186

had a final opportunity to wish him well.

Youll let me know, wont you, she begged
prettily, as soon as you locate the treasure ship
youll let me know right away?
If I locate it, Mike corrected. Its still a
gamble.
But Connie shook her head, insisting, Youll
find it, Mike. I feel it in my bones!
Why are you so sure? Mike asked her, and
there was something in his tone of voice that
reminded Connie of the obeah woman on Barbados
who had predicted, so correctly, that she would keep
the lizard from getting the fly. Take care, she had
warned. The lizard is very quick.
Connie shuddered. The lizard had indeed been
quick, but not quick enough, and now it was the
flys turn.
Why? Mike was repeating.
I dont know, Connie told him. Maybe its a
matter of faith.
Six days later, just as Connie and Mr. Renshaw
were packing to leave Grenada, came a cryptic
cablegram.
Mission accomplished. Leaving for New York
today to return with Dad. It was signed, simply,
Mike.
It was six months later, however, before Connie
187

saw with her own eyes the remarkable Aztec

treasure dredged from the bottom of the sea. Then,
on Mikes right, she was the guest of honor at a
dinner preceding its exhibit at a famous museum in
New York. Mikes father was there, and the curator,
and many other dignitaries, who all hovered around
her and pressed upon her their congratulations. But
none of them meant as much as Mikes.
He toasted her with his eyes, all evening, and, just
before the curator arose to speak, he raised his water
goblet and said with a smile that was full of
affection, To Connie Blair, the most wonderful girl
I have ever met!

188