The Spanish Hawk (1969) Read Free Page A

him like a flash. He made no move; he just stood there feeling uncomfortable and hoping that the sergeant would soon come back.
    In fact it was less than a minute that he had to wait. The sergeant returned accompanied by an older man with three stars on his shoulder straps. This man was thinner and his hair was beginning to go grey. He had a disillusioned air, as though he no longer expected anything good to come to him, and least of all from Fletcher. He introduced himself as Captain Green and began by getting Fletcher’s name for the record; which was something the sergeant had omitted to do.
    “I take it that you’re here on holiday, Mr. Fletcher?”
    “Not exactly,” Fletcher said. “I’m here to write a book.” He saw the captain’s head give a slight jerk and his eyes narrowed a shade, as though he had heard an incriminating admission. Perhaps it had been an unwise thing to say. “I’m lodging with Mr. and Mrs. Joby Thomas in Port Morgan.”
    “And you’ve found five dead men?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’d better come into this room over here and tell me all about it, if you don’t mind, Mr. Fletcher.”
    “I don’t mind,” Fletcher said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
    The sergeant came with them. It was a plain square room with a table and two chairs. Fletcher sat on one chair and the captain sat on the other, facing him across the table. The sergeant stood by the door. Fletcher felt more like a criminal under interrogation every minute.
    “Now,” Captain Green said, “let’s have it from the beginning. All of it.”
    Fletcher gave him all of it from the beginning. The captain listened intently, putting in a question now and then. Fletcher told him everything except the bit about taking photographs of the dead men and the boat. He could not have said why he omitted that part, but he did.
    When he had finished Captain Green sat for a while in silence, as if turning it all over in his own mind. Then he got up suddenly, pushing the chair noisily back and nearly oversetting it.
    “Wait here,” he said. It seemed to be one of the favoured orders. They all seemed to think that, given half a chance, Fletcher would run away and never come back. Which was rather ridiculous really, seeing that he had come there entirely voluntarily.
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll wait.” But in fact he was the one who was beginning to worry. He could not have explained why; it was just a feeling he had, a feeling that he was indeed becoming involved in something he might have been well advised not to become involved in; something which could have a far deeper significance than he or Joby had supposed. Maybe he ought to have paid moreheed to that first instinct to keep his mouth firmly shut. But it was too late now; he had opened it and the wheels had been set in motion.
    Captain Green left the sergeant to keep an eye on him and make sure that he really did wait there. Whether he accepted Fletcher’s word or not, he was taking no chances. The sergeant stayed by the door, saying nothing. Fletcher shifted uneasily on his chair and tried to think of something to say, because the silence was getting on his nerves. But nothing came up: the sergeant and he had nothing in common, nothing to discuss, except possibly the subject of mass homicide.
    Finally he cleared his throat and said: “Do you know where he’s gone?”
    “No,” the sergeant said.
    Which effectively put an end to that conversation.
    Some five or ten minutes had passed when the door opened again and Captain Green came in.
    He said: “Colonel Vincent would like to see you, Mr. Fletcher. If you’ll just come with me.”
    Fletcher, reflecting that he seemed to be making a rapid rise through the ranks of the police and that the information he had brought was undoubtedly being treated as a matter of importance, got up and followed Captain Green out of the room. The captain led the way along a corridor, up a flight of concrete stairs, and along another