Sinners in Paradise E-Book

Max Afford

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 213

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Sinners in Paradise by Max Afford is a tantalizing mystery that will captivate fans of thrilling crime fiction. Set against the glamorous yet shadowy backdrop of a tropical paradise, this gripping novel follows a series of chilling murders that disrupt the serene island life. When a prominent figure is found dead under mysterious circumstances, detective Sam Morgan is called in to solve the case. As he delves into the island's dark underbelly, he uncovers a web of greed, corruption, and hidden sins among the island's elite. Can Morgan unearth the truth before more lives are lost, or will the sins of paradise prove too deadly to unravel? Prepare for a suspenseful ride filled with unexpected twists and gripping drama.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Sinners in Paradise

PART ONE. DECISION

PART TWO. DILEMMA

PART THREE. DEATH

PART FOUR. DISCOVERY

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Sinners in Paradise

By: Max Afford

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published 1947

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

All rights reserved.

PART ONE. DECISION

"You know, Robert," said Jane Morte reflectively, "I think there's something very odd about this ship."

Her husband, stretched out on a gaily coloured mattress on the sports deck, turned lazily.

"Odd, my dear?"

"Definitely. Don't you agree?"

Morte sat up, thin hands clasped about his knees. "I suppose you're still thinking of that poor invalid?"

"Surely," persisted Jane, "you must be curious about her?"

Robert shook his head. "Not me! I'm on holiday. I'm finished with mysteries."

"Ah!" Jane pounced on the word. "Then you do admit that Miss Harland is a mystery?"

Morte shrugged. Rising, he crossed to the ship's rail. From this elevated position he could see the folds of softly hissing foam, curving back in long furrows from the prow of the Medusa.

How different, he mused, from the setting of their first sight of Miss Harland, twenty-four hours ago.

August had ushered in a winter of blue skies and warm sunshine, but with the first days of September the weather had changed. Then came the rains, deluging and buffeting the city, converting the streets to shining mirrors and laying a leaden dullness over the waters of the harbour. It said much for the M.V. Medusa that even on such a day she contrived to look like a newly painted toy as she lay at anchor in Darling Harbour. A ten-thousand-ton freighter, fitted with every possible comfort, she was taking twelve selected passengers. At their first view of the ship, so clean, so trim, so obviously disdainful of the weeping skies she was so soon to leave, any qualms Robert may have held about this sudden enterprise vanished.

His publisher, Hammond, was there to wish them farewell. A personal friend of the Medusa's skipper, Hammond had been able to arrange almost last-minute bookings for the Mortes. Robert and Jane were early arrivals; it was almost an hour before the first of the other passengers made their appearance.

Then a long black car, luxurious to the point of ostentation, nosed its way to the wharf gates. A uniformed chauffeur alighted and held open the door. First to appear was a young man, broad of shoulder, lithe of step, and belted into a camel-hair overcoat. Raising an umbrella, the stranger assisted his companion from the car. This was a woman, befurred and bejewelled, a woman whose heavily made-up face merely emphasised her middle age. She walked stiffly on high-heeled shoes, clinging tightly to her companion's arm as they negotiated the gangplank. As they moved along the deck, Jane had turned to Hammond.

"Do you know those people?"

"Only by hearsay," the publisher had replied. "Mrs. Harriet Sheerlove and her nephew. Canadians—filthy with money and doing a world tour." Then, noting the expression on Jane's face, he added, "They won't worry you, Mrs. Morte." Robert remembered he had the impression Hammond was about to add something more; instead, he seemed to swing off at a tangent. "Captain Robertson tells me we're waiting for Miss Harland and Dr. Kingsley. This woman's a convalescent, I believe. Some months ago she was mixed up in a rather nasty car accident. It's played the very devil with her nerves. The skipper tells me she's taken the private suite with the glass sun-balcony."

It was then that the second car made its appearance. Leaning on the rail, closing his eyes against the glitter of the sun, Robert could recall every detail of their first glimpse of Leila Harland.

Leaning on the arm of a middle-aged man, a figure walked the dock slowly and hesitantly, as though every movement was painful. A small grey figure buttoned into a thick coat and muffled about the face with a silken scarf. Dr. Kingsley—for even at this distance the man's profession was stamped upon him—guided his charge solicitously up the gangplank.

They had cleared Sydney Heads two days later. A very quiet sailing.

That was twenty-four hours ago. Twenty-four hours in which their world was transformed from grey to blue, and soon the Queensland coast lay shadowy and vague on the far horizon. Robert had retired early that night. Next morning he rose with a feeling of freedom such as he had not known for years. He was on holiday, with nothing in his surroundings to remind him of the tedium of the typewriter.

But Jane, knitting industriously on the sun-deck on their first morning out, was not to be rebuffed by silence.

"Robert..."

He sighed a little. "Yes, dear?"

"Do you really believe Mr. Redmond is Mrs. Sheerlove's nephew?"

"I've never given it a thought, Jane."

Mrs. Morte wound a strand of wool in her fingers. "He's almost absurdly decorative, isn't he?"

Robert turned toward the far end of the deck, where Earl Redmond lay sprawled in the sun, naked except for a pair of abbreviated shorts. Even at that distance, the young man seemed conscious of scrutiny. He stirred, then, waving a brown hand, rose to his feet. This sudden friendly salute surprised Robert. Since coming on board, Redmond had made little effort to cultivate any society other than that of his aunt.

Now he was walking toward them. Morte noticed he was carrying a book, the dust-cover of which was very familiar.

Redmond grinned as he approached. "So we've got a real live author on board?" He waved the volume. "That steward guy down in the library gave me this. You know, it's kinda interesting."

"I'm glad you like it," Robert said civilly.

"Why not? I'm no highbrow," said Mr. Redmond candidly. "Me, I'm a sucker for this cheap blood-and-thunder stuff."

Jane said sweetly, "My husband has a very wide lowbrow clientele, you know."

"Guess I just can't wait to tell Hattie about this," Redmond said. "She collects celebrities. Back there in Toronto, our place was always knee-deep in them."

A shrill cry cut into the conversation. "Earl! You foolish, headstrong boy! Just you come and put on your robe at once. Do you want to catch your death by sunstroke?"

At the top of the companionway stood Mrs. Harriet Sheerlove, a thick towelling dressing-gown over her arm. Mrs. Sheerlove, her plump, aging body encased in green slacks, with a vivid yellow sweater outlining her ample breasts and thick arms.

"Earl!" she squeaked. "You come right here this minute!"

Redmond smiled with a flash of white teeth. "No, Hattie. You come here. I've made a swell discovery." Robert watched as Mrs. Sheerlove pattered obediently across the deck. The brilliant semi-tropic light dealt harshly with this woman, revealing the obviously dyed golden hair and pitilessly outlining the mask of rouge and powder.

Redmond thrust out an arm and drew her into the group. "What d'you know, Hattie? Mr. Morte here's written fifteen books."

"Really, now!" But the ejaculation was mechanical. Jane, watching carefully, had the impression that the woman was abruptly disconcerted. Then she smiled, and her next remark came a shade too quickly. "There, now! I always said you were a Personality, Mr. Morte! I said it to Earl the first few hours out—didn't I, Earl honey?"

Redmond was smiling. "You said you were sure the Mortes must be important, because they were so almighty high-hat to everyone."

"Earl!" His aunt wheeled on him. "You just love to embarrass me, Earl! I could have died right there and then about what you said to Dr. Kingsley last night."

"Gosh! When I was trying to be sociable—"

"Sociable!" Mrs. Sheerlove's plump face was pink. Again she faced the Mortes. "Do you know what he did? Went straight up to the doctor and asked if Miss Harland would join in a game of progressive ping-pong!"

Robert said mildly, "Scarcely a remark in the best of taste..."

"There—you see?" She flung this remark at her unabashed nephew, then addressed the Mortes again. "But the doctor took it so nicely. Just smiled and shook his head. But Earl should be downright ashamed, making fun of a poor invalid like that!" Abruptly, Mrs. Sheerlove veered off at a tangent. "Have you seen her this morning?"

Jane put down her knitting. "Only for a few minutes. As I came out on deck she was sitting behind the windows of the sun-balcony. But the moment she saw me she moved away."

Redmond said casually, "Kinda elderly dame, isn't she?"

"I can't tell you," Jane said levelly. "Her face and head were covered entirely by a grey silk scarf."

No one spoke. In the pause, the gentle throb of the engines and the rush of water beat strongly in their ears. The silence was broken by Mrs. Sheerlove, who held out the bathrobe almost appealingly.

"Earl, dear, do put this on," she begged.

"Nuts!" snapped her nephew. "For Pete's sake, Hattie—don't fuss so! If you want to nurse someone, get yourself a post with that Harland dame."

"Now, honey..." began Mrs. Sheerlove, but the young man cut her short.

"What's wrong with her, anyway? No one should be stuck away behind glass like a goldfish in a bowl. What that dame wants is open air and sunshine—and plenty of it."

A voice spoke from behind them: "Perhaps I am more qualified to judge than you, Mr. Redmond."

Dr. Ralph Kingsley had approached the little group so quietly that his appearance remained unnoticed until he spoke. Jane smiled and Robert nodded toward an empty deck-chair. Their acquaintance with this thin-faced, soft-spoken physician had begun on the previous evening, when they found him seated at their table. Kingsley apologised for the error, and later, in the lounge, this introduction led to further conversation. The Mortes had liked Dr. Kingsley on sight. There was about this man a quiet assurance that commanded respect, an authority leavened with gentle humour and good breeding.

Kingsley was smiling as he seated himself.

"I'm rather glad you brought up the subject," he said genially. "Because there's nothing at all sinister in my patient's seclusion. Quite recently she was concerned in a car accident which scarred her face. In consequence, she has had to undergo plastic surgical treatment. All this has left Miss Harland in a highly nervous condition. I prescribed this journey as a means of recuperation. Under the circumstances, a crowded passenger ship was impossible."

The Canadian coloured; then abruptly he rose and ran his fingers through his thick hair. "I'm hot as a bride's breath!" he announced. "I'm taking myself into the pool."

They watched him as he moved down the companionway. Mrs. Sheerlove, after a quick, nervous, almost apologetic nod to the others, followed him. Jane broke the silence.

"This trip takes five weeks, I believe?"

Robert looked at her in surprise. "Yes, but—"

"Oh, I'm not being irrelevant," she assured him. "But I'm just wondering if I can take five long weeks of Mr. Redmond!"

Kingsley produced a pipe and tobacco-pouch. "You're going to be spared that, Mrs. Morte. Those two people are leaving the ship at Paradise Island, in the Barrier Reef. They're staying a month before completing a tour of Australia."

Robert frowned. "Then this freighter is stopping off the Queensland coast?" And, as Kingsley nodded, he went on, "But surely that's most unusual?"

"Not with the Medusa." The doctor puffed for a moment. "Ever heard of Arthur Burton?"

"Of Burton and Skinner?" Robert nodded. "Of course. They're the largest firm of manufacturing engineers in this country."

"They also happen to own the Medusa. At the moment, she's laden to Plimsoll line with Burton cargo for Liverpool." A gust of wind scattered sparks, and Kingsley cupped his hands around the bowl of his pipe. "Burton and Skinner are holidaying on Paradise Island with Burton's daughter, his secretary, and some kind of foreign man-servant. We're laying off to pick them up." He paused and glanced at Robert in a half-puzzled way. "But surely you know all about these arrangements?"

Morte said drily, "My wife and I left in rather a hurry. I was writing up till the last minute. I was literally a writing-machine, geared to turn out so many thousands of words each day. Each hour of my time was planned to produce the maximum of writing energy—until a week ago."

"And then the machine broke down?"

"Oh, no," said Jane Morte suddenly. "Margaret Vane did that."

Kingsley's tone was puzzled. "I seem to have heard that name somewhere..."

"One of the best-known radio actresses in Australia," Morte explained. "Margaret Vane was playing lead in my serial, The Golden Serpent. A week ago the studio rang me to say that she'd had a complete mental collapse and had to rest for six months in a nursing home. As the serial was tailored for this woman's personality, it had to be stopped." Robert smiled. "It also meant that, for the first time in years, I was free from my most binding commitment."

The ship's bell chimed eight times and the sound roused the doctor.

"Ever been up this way before?" he asked.

Morte shook his head. "There's never been time. A visit to the North Queensland coast and the Barrier Reef Islands was something that was always just ahead."

The doctor shook his head slowly. "Don't expect too much, Morte. Oh, yes—the islands were glamorous enough once. But that was long before the place became a fashionable tourist resort."

Jane Norte asked casually, "You seem to know the coast, doctor?"

"Pretty well. I was stationed at Cairns during the war." He rose and picked up his sun-glasses: "And now I really must take a look at my patient."

The first of what was later—much later—to become known as the Curious Incidents in the Case occurred shortly after the conversation on the sports deck.

Robert had returned to their cabin alone to change for lunch. When Jane entered, she found her husband engrossed in a map of the Queensland coast, mounted behind glass on the wall. He turned at her approach.

"Have you noticed this, Jane? It's a regular pirate chart! Just look at these names. Silversmith Island—Anchorsmith—Blacksmith, Anvil, Hammer, Forge and Bellows! It's enough to make one believe in the stories of buried treasure-chests!"

"Talking of pirates and unpleasant people like that," said Mrs. Morte tartly, "we've had an invitation from Mr. Redmond. He's asked us for drinks in his cabin." She sat down on her bed. "I'm not going!"

"Why not?"

"First, because liquor before lunch always makes me sleepy, but mainly because I don't like the young gentleman's company."

Morte grinned at his reflection in the long mirror.

"In that case, I'll skip the invitation, too."

"You'll do no such thing," she retorted. "It's going to look much too pointed if we both ignore the man. After all, we are passengers on the same ship." She crossed and, rather surprisingly, kissed him.

"Run along, my dear, and enjoy yourself."

Morte found Redmond's cabin more or less a replica of their own comfortable quarters.

He was last to arrive. Mrs. Sheerlove, Dr. Kingsley and Captain Robertson were gathered in a group near the table. They nodded at his entrance. Redmond, in his dressing-gown, was surprised to find Morte alone.

"Where's your wife?" he asked. Robert murmured excuses regarding a headache and tried to ignore the sudden glint of malicious amusement which flickered in the Canadian's brown eyes. "Guess that's bad luck," he said casually. "Now, mister. What are you drinking?"

"A small whisky," Morte said. "And I mean small."

"And what do you want to kill it with?"

"Is there any soda?"

This request caused a mild complication. The host delved into the cabinet and clattered bottles impatiently. Then he straightened.

"Hattie, pet. What d'you know? I'm clean out of soda..."

"Make it water," began Robert, but the solicitous Mrs. Sheerlove gave a sharp squeak of protest. "No, no, no! There's plenty of soda. It's all in my cabin." She moved toward the door and they heard her pattering down the corridor.

An expression of impatience crossed Redmond's face. He reached for the water-jug and splashed Robert's glass. "Have this while we're waiting," he invited, and then raised his own drink.

"To crime!" he said.

He gulped the liquor almost in a mouthful. Captain Robertson, by contrast, sipped at his glass in a manner almost ladylike. In appearance, the skipper of the Medusa was a small, pink man, bald as an egg. As if in compensation, Nature had endowed him with the bushiest pair of eyebrows Robert had ever seen.

It was Kingsley who gathered Morte into the conversation. "We're still on the subject of the Barrier Reef Islands," he explained. "The skipper was telling me something about Paradise—the island we make some time tomorrow."

"Charming spot. Quite unspoilt. Well off the beaten track."

Later Robert was to become accustomed to Captain Robertson's staccato conversation, but now he had to strain to catch these telegraphic monosyllables. He drew his brows together and squinted at Robert.

"Paradise. Very well named. Wish we were staying there longer!"

"And just," inquired Morte, "how long do we stay?"

"That depends. Three days. Maybe a week. Owners' wishes, you know. Not mine." He turned to Kingsley. "Been there yourself, I believe?"

The other shook his head. "I know of the island only by hearsay. There was rather a nasty fatality there during the war. They flew the victim to Townsville for treatment. Unfortunately, he died on the way."

"Died?" It was Redmond. "Was this guy taken sick?"

Kingsley's answer came reluctantly. "Well, yes and no. He was poisoned. He trod on a stone-fish."

Behind him, Earl Redmond hooted in open scorn.

"Say, Doc—what the heck is this? Another fish story?"

Kingsley turned slowly. "No," he said clearly. "It happens to be true. During the war, Army Operations established a radar base on the island. This young chap was an operator. The personnel were warned about roaming the reefs barefooted. This lad ignored instructions...for the last time."

Captain Robertson cleared his throat. "Fact!" he grunted. "Stone-fish. Devilish things. Put your foot on it. Up come its spines. Pours poison into the wound."

Redmond said unsteadily, "What kinda dope is it?"

Dr. Kingsley shrugged. "Pathology has yet to find out. So far, we only know its effect. A paralysis of the entire nervous system which is proof against even powerful opium injections." His voice slowed. "And which kills within four hours."

And at that moment the telephone on the table shrilled abruptly. Earl Redmond took up the receiver.

"Yeah?"

With the ringing of the telephone, a silence had fallen in that sunny cabin, a hush threaded through with the living sounds of a moving ship. Robert, who was closest, could hear very faintly the thin metallic voice at the other end of the wire. Actual words he could not distinguish, but their effect upon Earl Redmond was alarming. He gave a sudden choked-off gasp and his mouth hung open, foolish, witless.

"No," he whispered, "it can't be...No..."

The colour had drained from his face. Then abruptly his knees folded under him.

The receiver, dangling from its cord, swung slowly backward and forward.

Dr. Kingsley leapt forward, with Captain Robertson half a step behind. As they bent over the unconscious man, some instinct prompted Morte to put the receiver to his ear. But the line was dead. Barely had he replaced the receiver when Mrs. Sheerlove entered. Several bottles were clasped firmly to her breast, and under one arm she hugged a carton of cigarettes.

"I just thought I'd step down to the bar—" The words died suddenly on her lips.

"Earl!" Her voice was shrill with anguish.

She had dropped on her knees, cradling the dark head in her lap, smoothing the chiselled features with trembling pudgy fingers. The tears streamed down her cheeks, furrowing the powder so that the face she turned to them was tragically ugly in its grief.

Harriet Sheerlove rose and stood with fingers pressed across her mouth, so that her next words were muffled. "It's sunstroke," she said huskily. "I knew it would happen."

"Yes, yes." Kingsley straightened. "But I can assure you that the sun had nothing to do with this. Judging by the way your nephew's pulse is racing, he's had a very bad shock." He spoke over his shoulder to Morte. "See if you can find any brandy in that cabinet."

Mrs. Sheerlove cried out impatiently. "Of course there is! Everything he wanted is there. I've never stinted him a single thing." Abruptly she seemed to realise the significance of the doctor's first words, and she stared at him with reddening eyes. "A nasty shock? But that's just plain silly!" She wheeled on the captain. "You said he was talking on the telephone!"

Robertson nodded. "Right! Most odd thing I've seen—" Then he stopped at a gesture from Kingsley. Robert, feeling among the stacked bottles, turned. Redmond had stirred, the head lolling drunkenly. A tongue flickered across his full lips and he swallowed.

"Where...Where is she?" he whispered.

Harriet Sheerlove was by his side in a moment. "I'm right here, honey-lamb."

Abruptly Redmond's white teeth flashed in a snarl; he thrust out an arm and almost pushed the woman out of the way.

"For God's sake leave me alone!" he snapped. "And stop pawing me!"

"Earl!" The woman was on her feet, brushing the tears from her face so fiercely that mascara smudged one cheek. "Earl, darling, you just don't know what you're saying! You're not well..." But the young man was struggling to his feel, ignoring her outstretched hand. He steadied himself against the table and faced the three men.

"Guess I made a prize monkey of myself." He essayed a tight smile. "Reckon I've been hitting the bottle too much."

Mrs. Sheerlove did not speak. Morte was suddenly conscious that his companions felt their presence an intrusion in that cabin. Kingsley broke the silence with a slight cough.

"All right now, Redmond?" And as the other nodded impatiently, he added, "If I were you, I'd rest up this afternoon. And I'd lock the liquor cabinet for a few days."

Captain Robertson grunted something about duties and the other guests took the cue rather thankfully. Morte, who was last to leave, closed the door firmly behind him, but not before they caught the beginning of a tearful tirade front within.

"Earl, darling—how could you? To speak to me like that...and right out in front of all those men..."

When Robert returned to his own cabin, he lost no time in retailing his story. By the time her husband had finished, however, Jane was sitting up and frowning.

"Of all the extraordinary things!" she announced. "Whatever do you make of it?"

"I'm waiting to hear your theory."

"Obviously some stupid practical joke."

"Stupid practical jokes don't cause men to faint," Robert pointed out. "Anyway, who'd be likely to do such a thing?"

"One of the officers, perhaps. Even one of the crew."

Somewhere the ship's bell beat out a single stroke. A water-glass vibrated in its container with the motion of the ship. As Robert did not speak, Jane prompted him. "Don't you agree?"

"No." His tone was sombre. "There's something you don't understand, Jane—something I don't understand myself. I haven't mentioned it to anyone else..." He had taken a cigarette from his case and he turned it over in his fingers. "You see, when Redmond answered that telephone I was closest to him. And I could hear the voice on the other end of the line. Not words—just the pitch of the tone." He raised his eyes.

"I'll swear that it was a woman."

Jane digested this information. "Could it have been Harriet Sheerlove's voice? She was out of the cabin at the time."

"If it comes to that," said Robert testily, "so were the entire ship's personnel." He snapped a lighter under his cigarette. "I tell you, Jane, that woman was almost beside herself with panic. And, in the name of fortune, why should Harriet Sheerlove want to play such a senseless trick?"

"All right," said Jane shortly. "Who else could it have been?"

Morte blew a thin spume of smoke. "Possibly Leila Harland.'

"Oh, no!"

"Jane—have you ever heard of a well-to-do family in Sydney named Harland?"

"No," she replied. "But that doesn't mean a thing." Her face lightened and she jumped from the bed. "Robert—we've both been so stupid! There's one certain method of tracing that telephone call."

"How?"

"Ask the switchboard operator," cried Jane triumphantly.

Morte grunted. "On this ship the inter-cabin phone service is automatic."

"Oh," said Jane, rather dashed.

From down the corridor, the musical chime of the dressing-gong rang clearly. Mrs. Morte padded across to the wardrobe and began to change.

"Jane..."

She turned from the mirror to see that familiar humorous twist to his mouth.

"I've been thinking," he went on. "A woman made that telephone call. Make no mistake about that! So if it wasn't Mrs. Sheerlove or Leila Harland, there's only one other person it could have been. You!"

"I almost wish I had thought of it," she confessed. "Mr. Redmond is so very keen on shocking people that it's more than time someone gave him a dose of his own medicine."

* * *

Neither Earl Redmond nor Mrs. Sheerlove made an appearance at lunch. Scarcely had the meal began, however, when Dr. Kingsley appeared. He paused at their table and suggested that the doctor might care to join them. Kingsley seemed pleased at the suggestion. The meal over, Jane returned to her cabin to write letters. When Kingsley left, Robert, feeling drowsy, wandered on deck.

On that lazy, sun-drenched afternoon, everything should have been conducive to slumber. Yet, curiously enough, Morte found himself suddenly clear-minded and alert. It was inevitable that his mind should revert to that perplexing incident of the morning.