Professional Documents
Culture Documents
The Green
Island Mystery
By
BETSY ALLEN
NEW YORK
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Shipboard Meeting
The Green Island
The House Next Door
First Clue?
The Missing Photograph
Mr. Thorndikes Envelope
Premonition of Danger
The Vanishing Sailboat
The Police Investigate
Miss Merriam
Five Suspects
The Unfinished Letter
Williams Story
Aunt Penelopes Secret
Evidence in Writing
Farewell, Bermuda!
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Shipboard Meeting
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was being made fast to the old stone dock. The fact
that such an enormous ship could thread its way
through the islands of the harbor and move right up
to the front street of this quaint, clean little town
fascinated Connie, and she leaned over the rail and
looked down on the heterogeneous crowd below.
Negroes, dogs, bicyclists, tourists, workmen,
steamship company assistants all jostled each other
in a good-tempered throng. Nobody seemed in a
hurry. There was a sweet-to-be-doing-nothing
quality about the scene that was entirely new to
Connie.
Even the disembarking was leisurely. Georgia
forgot to be brisk and wandered down the gangplank
as though she had nowhere particular to go and
nothing urgent to do. The business of going through
customs was handled with unusual dispatch, and in
half an hour Connie and Georgia, lulled by the warm
sun and the unhurried atmosphere, found themselves
free.
Not until a tall, balding man with a clipped gray
mustache stepped out of the crowd of waiting people
did Georgia snap back into a semblance of her
former assurance.
Miss Cameron? the gentleman asked.
Mr. Tremont? Georgia put out a gloved hand.
This is Miss Blair, my assistant.
Mr. Tremont bent in a gesture that was almost
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amused.
Thank you, she said to Philip, then nodded to
his father. I am sorry to put you to the trouble,
but She spread her hands with a slight shrug that
was typically American and which put the burden of
the decision where it belonged.
Ill drive you out to the house, Philip
suggested, as soon as the bags come. Then, if you
like, we can have lunch back here in Hamilton, and
go over some of the broader outlines of our business
together this afternoon.
Half an hour later, in a small, trim English car,
Connie and Georgia rolled slowly out of Hamilton
into a road which curved along the shore. Philip
drove scarcely faster than the carriages they passed,
because Bermuda speed laws were strict, and, now
that the matter of housing for the two girls had been
settled, he seemed quite jovial and relaxed, and not
at all sorry to be their chauffeur.
Connie was fascinated by the changing landscape.
She loved the glimpses of pastel-tinted houses
against the turquoise sea, and the blue morningglories and poinsettia spilling over garden walls
made her fingers itch for her paints, which were
packed away carefully in her suitcase.
Easter liliesentire fields of themheralded
Bermudas spring, and plumbago and passion
flowers bloomed riotously. Here and there, at a
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First Clue?
them.
Thats good of you, David replied. Ill
remember that. Just now things are in a bit of a
turmoil, but when I start to get straightened out
He let the sentence dangle, as the knocker on the
front door sounded once more.
This seems to be your afternoon for callers,
Connie said, making conversation as the West
Indian houseboy again answered the door.
David grinned at her. Maybe this is Aunt
Pennys lawyer, he explained. He was to stop by
with some papers for me.
The guess proved to be correct. William ushered
into the living room a slender, serious gentleman
who was, to Connie, the very epitome of a British
solicitor. His hair was sparse but neat, his glasses
were set precisely on his nose, and his small, shrewd
eyes took in the company at a glance.
Miss Blair, Mr. Murphy. David introduced
them to Mr. Henry Thorndike promptly. The lawyer
bowed to Connie and nodded in the direction of the
singer. Mr. Murphy I have met before.
I was just about to show Miss Blair the house,
David said tactfully, but perhaps Mr. Murphy will
be good enough to take her around if you have
private business you wish to discuss with me.
What I have to discuss wont take five minutes,
replied Mr. Thorndike.
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Breakfast in the Tremont household was typicallyBritish. Everyone came down when they chose and
helped themselves from dishes arranged on the long
buffet and kept hot over boiling water. Ella put in an
appearance only when called for by Mrs. Tremonts
silver bell, and this Connie would have ventured to
touch only in the event of an emergency.
On the morning following her carriage ride with
David she found herself in the dining room alone
with Mr. Basil Tremont, who greeted her with
remote civility and returned to his perusal of the
Royal Gazette, which was propped on a mahogany
paper rack in front of his plate.
Connie poured coffee from a silver pot and took
the lid from the chafing dish, vaguely missing the
orange juice or grapefruit which would have
introduced her usual breakfast at home.
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Premonition of Danger
chair.
Photographs cluttered the mantel, the walls, and
every table. Strange faces stared at Connie, smiling
or sorrowful or merely vacant. Actors and actresses
postured and posed.
It was like being surrounded by the ghosts of
Miss Penelopes pastjealous ghosts, who guarded
their secrets well. Connie wondered whether, among
all these faces, there was hidden the one which
David must find before he disposed of this property
and returned to the United States. Or had the empty
silver frame held the one face they were seeking, the
face that would be the clue. . . .
Trying to shake off her mounting uneasiness,
Connie wandered around the room, straightening a
frame here, picking up an easeled picture from a
table and putting it back. A thought occurred to her,
and she opened the doors of the huge, black walnut
Victorian clothespress and felt along the bottom for
a catch to a secret drawer. This was a possibility she
and David had overlooked in considering hiding
places for the manuscript, and Connie remembered
just such a clothespress in her grandmothers house
in Baltimore, which had fascinated her as a child
because it had a false floor.
But no hollow sound greeted the rapping of her
knuckles. It had been an idle hope. Connie finally
gave up and went over to the desk, pulling up the
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be so strong.
Mr. Henderson nodded. And, alter you were
locked in the clothespress, you heard no footsteps,
no noise of any kind?
Connie shook her head. None. She smiled
ruefully. Of course, for a few seconds, I raised a
terrific racket myself, hammering on the door. Until
I had come to my senses enough to be scared that I
might smother.
Mr. Doty put in a word. He edged his stout body
forward and said, Thisthis sailboat you saw in
the distance. Mr. Murphy couldnt tell clearly
whether it was handled by a lone man, or whether
there were other occupants?
Connie shook her head. By the time Mr. Murphy
reached the gazebo, the boat was too far away.
William leaned forward momentarily, seemed
about to speak, then to reconsider. His change of
position was just enough to attract Mr. Hendersons
attention.
Ah, yes, he said, getting out of his chair and
standing with his back to the bay. And where were
you all this time, boy?
William gulped and stammered, I wasnt on the
premises, sir. I was over at the next place. With my
mother. I usually go over there, afternoons.
That would be thelet me seethe Tremont
place? Mr. Henderson rocked back and forth on his
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substantial heels.
Yes, sir.
Ah. He fixed the young Negro boy with an
eagle eye. You heard no outcry?
William shook his head, and Connie murmured,
He couldnt have heard. She wanted to defend
William, although she half suspected that he knew
something that he didnt intend to tell. He seemed so
cowed, standing there against the door, that she
didnt want to see him baited.
But Mr. Henderson ignored her remark. What
time do you usually go over to High Hedges, in the
afternoon?
About one oclock sir, after the lunch things are
cleared away.
What time did you go today?
At about quarter past the hour. I was a little
late.
And what time do you usually return? Mr.
Henderson pursued.
William glanced at David Scott. Three-ish.
And what time did you get back today? There
was a repetitive monotony about Mr. Hendersons
voice which Connie found irritating.
Not until four, said William promptly. I came
through the hedge just as Mr. Scott answered the
door to let you in.
Mr. Henderson glanced at Mr. Doty, then raised
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Miss Merriam
Certainly.
Connies eyes widened in surprise. Who?
Henry.
Henry Thorndike? cried David in astonishment.
Butbut why? Connie asked.
I told you before I considered him either an idiot
or a rascal. If he allowed someone else to get hold of
the manuscript he was an idiot; if he managed to
give the impression that Horizons was burglarized
and got away with it himself it can only be for one
reason. Penelope knew that there was more to Henry
than meets the eye and got something hot as a
firecracker into her book about him.
Abruptly, as though she had said her final word
on the subject, Miss Merriam stood up. Will you
have some tea? she asked without warmth.
Oh, thank you, but I do think wed better be
going along. It was Connie who made the gesture
of refusal. .She wanted a chance to think over what
this strange woman had said. Was Henry Thorndike
playing a double game? Was he other than he
seemed, a person to suspect and watch? Sire had a
feeling that instead of unraveling this mystery, she
and David were managing to roll up a perfectly
enormous ball of wool, through which no glimmer
of truth could possibly be seen.
David followed Connies lead, and the two
young-people said their goodbyes politely but as
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Five Suspects
out and put his hand over Georgias to take any barb
from the words.
Finding a scratch pad and her fountain pen,
Connie wrote: No. One, Henry Thorndikefind
out why hed want to suppress P.S. journal.
What about Mr. Murphy. Who is he? Philip
probed.
A singer, a decent sort of guy, who called very
promptly to offer his services. Apparently he was
one of Aunt Pennys closest friends.
Your mother suspects he may be living here
under a pseudonym, Connie told Philip, deciding
that there was no use in playing her cards too close
to the vest if David intended to break down and tell
all.
Why? Philip asked.
Because he looks as Italian as spumoni, Connie
said promptly. A thought suddenly flashed into her
mind and she snapped her fingers. Say!
What? David asked.
But her natural caution reasserted itself at once.
Connie didnt want Philip Tremont to know
everything that she and David had discovered, at
least not until he had presented a more convincing
alibi for a certain ten minutes on a particular
afternoon.
Oh, nothing, she said. An idea struck me but it
was a dud. Skip it.
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been the book she was working on? Did you think to
look?
Her eyes were shining, and she stepped forward
and almost shook the boys arm. No, maam, he
said, shaking his head vigorously, but I can if you
like.
Look, Connie said, the typewriters yours,
William. Im sure thats all right, isnt it, David?
Sure, David replied.
But we want to see it again. Can you bring it
back, unopened, just as it is now? Can you bring it
back after dinner tonight? Just for a little while?
William looked so relieved that they did not plan
to take the portable away from him that he agreed
readily, and Connie could scarcely contain herself
with impatience for the next two hours. As soon as
she could break away from the Tremonts, she
hurried hack to Horizons in the twilight, and found
William just pedaling up the drive, the typewriter
balanced in his bicycle basket.
The boy carried it into the hall and put the
machine on a table, while Connie and David itched
to get their fingers on the lock. It was David who
opened it, and Connie could see at once, to her
intense disappointment, that there was no sheaf of
papers clipped in the top of the case.
A single eight by eleven inch sheet, however, was
run through the roller, and on it were a few
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aria and some little French love songs of the type for
which Lawrence Tibbett was famous. He was a born
actor, and obviously loved to entertain. Both Connie
and David found him very interesting, and Connie
wasnt surprised when David persuaded him to
come back for dinner on the following evening and
sing for his guests.
Delighted, Mr. Murphy said at once. At
eight?
At seven, I think, David suggested. Neither he
nor Connie could get used to the habit, fashionable
in Bermuda, of dining late.
Fine. Ill see you then. Mr. Murphy bent over
Connies hand in a manner both dramatic and
Battering. Then, without loitering, he took his leave.
David walked home across the lawn with Connie
immediately thereafter. Dew dampened her feet, in
open-toed sandals, but overhead the night was alive
with stars. David tucked her hand under his arm and
held it lightly against the side of his tweed jacket.
Two more nights, he said sorrowfully, and then
you will be gone.
A lot can happen in a couple of days,
murmured Connie, misunderstanding.
One thing can happen, certainly, said David,
setting her straight. You can come dancing with me
Wednesday night. You promised, you know!
Id love it, Connie agreed, and I cant think of
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Williams Story
She was late, but not too late. Georgia and Mr.
Basil were standing on the steps while Philip
Tremont backed the car out of the garage.
You certainly are an early bird! Mr. Basil
teased her.
Dollars to doughnuts shes been off sleuthing
again, Georgia added.
Connie wasnt disturbed. The early bird catches
the worm, they say, she reminded them.
During the morning Georgia asked Connie to
sketch the facade of the Tremont Shop, trying to
make the multiple-paned windows look as
interesting as possible. Itll be hard to make the
store look smart, but you can make it look very, very
British, Miss Cameron said. And now that weve
managed to put across a few principles of window
display, youll be able to get a little color into the
thing.
So Connie borrowed a stool and took up a stand
across the street from the store, where she found a
convenient window sill for her water colors and a
nice angle on the doorway.
She painted for nearly an hour, interrupted at too
frequent intervals by passing tourists. A cruise ship
was in, and Hamilton was swarming with men in
sports coats and girls and women in dark glasses.
Georgia came across the street to speak to her
after a while. Plying your trade under difficulties
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rather ill-timed.
On the landing Connie paused, a thought
occurring to her.
David?
Yes?
Will you do something for me?
Dont ask me why, Connie whispered
hurriedly, but will you go through all your aunts
record albums as soon as people go home, tonight?
If you find the Delius record William was talking
aboutSea Driftjust go to bed and forget it. But
if you shouldnt find itif it should be missing
come to the hedge and whistle, three times.
David grinned. Ill whistle like a bobwhite. Im
good at that, he added impatiently, But why?
Connie shook her head, and said softly, Ill tell
you in the morning. She walked on downstairs
ahead of her host. Come on now. Well be missed.
The party broke up early. Connie left Georgia and
Philip at the door of High Hedges, and went up to
bed at once. But she didnt fall asleep, as she usually
did, the moment her head touched the pillow. She
lay curled up on her side like a kitten, feigning
sleep, until long after Georgia had come up and
crawled into the other twin bed. And finally, after
nearly an hour, a quail railed, strangely, in the night.
Bob-white, Bob-white. Wide awake, now, she lay
on her back and thought, testing and retesting her
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Evidence in Writing
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16
Farewell, Bermuda!
remember!
And you were probably concentrating, besides,
David teased her lightly.
It was a pretty smart trick, though, practically
smothering me and then pretending to rescue me.
The funny part of it is, he looked really alarmed.
He was alarmed, Ill bet! David said. He never
planned to have you practically pass out. He
couldnt have guessed that the clothespress doors
would fit so tight.
One thing Mr. Murphy missed was the guest
book, Connie hurried on. That was our first real
clue.
Hey! David complained. What about my torn
photograph?
But that didnt really tell us anything, Connie
explained. The clue we almost missed was the
broken phonograph record. She retold Williams
story to Georgia and Philip.
But how did the record get broken? Who did it?
Georgia asked.
According to Murphy, he broke it himself, so
that he couldnt be tricked into a similar situation
before the police. That Miss Sebastian would call
the police, as well as Mr. Thorndike, he had no
doubt. She was a fiery old lady, my aunt! said
David proudly.
Georgia rested her chin in her cupped palms. Do
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envied Georgiaalmost!
But not quite. In her heart Connie knew that it
would be years, yet, before she would be ready to
marry and settle down, as Georgia was planning to
do. There would be many more adventures in store
for herperhaps many more mysteries to solve.
She was even beginning to look forward to
getting back to Reid and Renshaws. If the agency
had felt it so important to hurry them home, who
could tell what might happen next?
Of course, if Georgia handed in her resignation, it
would change things around the office, but Connie
couldnt worry too much about the future. June was
still two months away. And there was a chance that
Georgias departure, much as she would miss her,
might mean a promotion for Connie Blair!
Driving home, through the flower-scented night,
Georgia was dreamy, but Connie was looking ahead
for new worlds to conquer. She had loved every
minute of her stay in Bermudawell, every minute
except those few horrible ones in the clothespress
but all good things were bound to come to an end.
And even the end would be thrillinga trip by
airplane.
On Thursday afternoon all of Bermuda takes a
holiday. The shops are closed, the bay is crowded
with sails, and the tennis courts and golf courses are
busy.
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