The Spanish Hawk (1969) Read Free

a sense of guilt; it was almost as though he had come to confess to a crime rather than to report one committed by someone else, some person or persons unknown.
    There was a counter on the right of the entrance hall, with a couple of policemen behind it hammering laboriously away at typewriters and another one, with sergeant’s stripeson his sleeves, using a telephone. They were all black and looked well fed; they were wearing short-sleeved green shirts and green trousers, and they had leather belts with holstered revolvers and handcuffs attached to them. The fact that the island police was an armed force gave Fletcher no feeling of confidence at all; he had a grave suspicion of all armed police. Though if it came to the point, practically all the police in the world were armed except the British; and the way things were going, even they might be compelled to come to it before so very much longer. There was violence everywhere, and how else could you deal with the armed criminal than by taking up arms also?
    He went over to the counter and waited patiently while the sergeant finished his telephone conversation, and tried not to look like a criminal.
    “Yeah,” the sergeant said; “sure we’ll do that. That’s what we’re here for … No; no need to worry … Well, I can’t promise that; now how could I? We’re not supermen … You thought we were? That’s nice.” He chuckled cosily, enjoying the joke with whoever it was on the other end of the line, and there was still some of the smile remaining on his face when he put the telephone down and turned to deal with Fletcher.
    “Some guys,” he said, “they think we can work miracles. Get their car stolen in the morning; expect it back as good as new so’s they can drive out to Mariana Bay for the evening. Supermen!” He gave another chuckle, then cut it off abruptly. “Yes, sir; and what can we do for you?”
    “I want to report a sunken boat,” Fletcher said.
    The sergeant gave him a long, hard look. Then he said slowly, as if to get the matter entirely clear: “You want to report a sunken boat?”
    “And a killing.”
    “And a killing?” The sergeant was not smiling now. He looked as if he had never smiled in his life.
    “Five killings,” Fletcher said.
    The sergeant was frowning. The two typewriters had stopped clattering. The two other policemen had turned on their chairs and were looking at Fletcher.
    “Five?”
    “Yes,” Fletcher said. “Five men shot through the head.”
    The sergeant gave a sigh; the sigh of a man who feels that his patience is being sorely tried. “And where are these five men who’ve been shot through the head?”
    “In the sunken boat.”
    “You saw them?”
    “Yes.”
    “What were you doing when you saw them?”
    “Skin-diving.”
    “Where?”
    “To the east of the island; a few miles out. I was looking for an old ship that was torpedoed in the last war.”
    It was apparent that the sergeant knew about the ship. For the first time since the start of the conversation he ceased to give the impression of someone who believed that he was dealing with a lunatic.
    “Did you find the ship?”
    “Yes.”
    “And a boat, too?”
    “Yes. The boat was lying on the bottom with the ship, but it hadn’t been there long. The dead men were all in the cabin.”
    “But you don’t think they’d been drowned?”
    “Not unless somebody shot them afterwards.”
    “And you don’t think that’s likely?”
    “Do you?”
    “No,” the sergeant said; “I don’t.” He gave Fletcher another long, hard look, as though trying to make up his mind as to whether or not he was being told a cock-and-bull story; then he said: “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
    He came out from behind the counter and walked away down a corridor. Fletcher waited. The two other policemen had not yet started again on their typing; they were still looking at him. He knew that if he made any kind of move to leave the building they would be on to