Dark Bahama

by Peter Cheyney

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Fourteen miles off the tail-end of Andros Island in the West Indies lies Dark Bahama. Many people have discovered they can find their heart's desires there; many have found, too, that even in paradise it pays to watch your step.

Viola Steyning is young, wayward, rich and good looking, and the sort of girl to cause her mother back home in England a certain anxiety. That is why Julian Isles has been sent out by Johnny Vallon of Chennault Investigations to bring her back alive - for beneath the tranquil surface of Dark Bahama's tropical beauty lurk sinister and dangerous undercurrents.

Release date: January 1, 1951

Publisher: Dodd Mead

Print pages: 288

Sample

I

FOURTEEN MILES off the tail end of Andros Island in the Bahamas lies the island called Dark Bahama—which, says the guide book, is a natural
paradise.

Day and night the golden sand beaches, the calm inlets, the palms, the cats-tail trees, are bathed in sunlight and moonshine—especially moonshine. It is always summer except when a
half-hurricane strikes in the season and the drunks have another excuse for nerve troubles.

Many people—people not looking for trouble—have discovered that they can find plenty of it in a place where the atmosphere is filled with sunlight and happiness, moonlight and love,
calypso melodies, hard liquor and what-will-you.

Love, light and laughter live on Dark Bahama, and if these lovely attributes are gently interrupted by the soft sea-winds sighing in the palm trees and between the jacaranda groves, it may well
be that the same sweet sounds are no louder than the cries of those ladies and gentlemen who have discovered that some minds are impervious to the beauties of nature and that it sometimes pays to
watch your step even in a natural paradise like Dark Bahama.

Of course things are not like they were in the good old prohibition days when anybody with a sixty-foot motor-boat and enough money to take aboard a cargo of hooch at Jamaica could make a
fortune if they were smart enough to run past the U.S. Coastguard cutters that lay, like sharks waiting for a bite, off the Miami coast.

Dark Bahama is a small island. Thirty-six miles by eleven, it is a slice of heaven in a summer sea. A place of sweet rest and what-have-you-got-baby.

And you can always buy what you want if you want it, and if nobody else is a trifle more interested in having it too.

If you see what I mean.

II

A small wind was blowing when Mervyn Jacques—a coloured gentleman with plenty of what-it-takes where dark lady lovers were concerned—came out of the Green Cat
saloon, walked down to the quay, boarded his fishing motor-boat, sat in the stern and lighted a cigarette.

Jacques was of middle height. As negroes go, he was good looking. He wore a pair of rope-soled shoes, dark blue, gaberdine pants and a thin silk shirt. He moved like a cat and you could see the
muscles ripple under his thin shirt. On his black, curly hair he wore a red skull cap with a long peak. He sat there, smoking his cigarette, drawing deep breaths of tobacco smoke into his lungs.
After a while he threw the cigarette stub over the side. He began to sing “Nut-brown Baby.” He had a quiet, rather soothing, tenor voice. He liked singing. It made him feel
happy.

 

“Nut-brown baby, you got rovin’ eyes.

You don’ say nothin’ but yo’ sure is wise. . . .”

 

Jacques turned his head when he heard Mellin’s footsteps on the quay; Mellin was tall; thin. He was a white man with a sun-browned skin.

He said: “Hi, Skip. . . .” He jumped into the stern; stepped up on to the narrow passage-way that ran past the pole-supported awning; went forrard. He called out: “Where’s the customer, Skipper?”

Jacques lighted another cigarette. He said: “You tell me! When ah think of all the goddam time ah stick around here waiting for that no-good bastard. . . .”

Mellin said: “He’ll be along.”

Jacques heard the click as the ship’s lights went on. He said: “Hey, Mellin, you get some whisky out, see? Ah reckon when he comes aboard he’s gonna have a skinful and
he’ll want more. Ah reckon he’ll start bawlin’ for whisky.”

Mellin said: “You seen the straps on that fishing seat?”

“Ah seen ’em,” said Jacques. “What’s the matter with dem straps?”

“They’re sorta frayed. Another thing, those straps was all right two days ago. Maybe somebody’s been messing around with this boat.”

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. “Ah’m not gettin’ excited.”

Mellin said in a surly voice: “If it’s O.K. by you, it’s O.K. by me. What do I care?”

“That’s right, boy. Don’t you care about anythin’. Ah don’ care about anythin’, an’ ah’m the skipper. So what do you have to care?”

Mellin, who was right forrard, leaned on the canopy, looking over the top towards the quay.

He said: “Boy, here he comes. Jeez . . . an’ is he high. . .!”

Jacques got up. He walked between the two steel-girdered fishing seats in the stern of the boat. He jumped up on to the stern.

He called out: “Hi, Mister Sandford . . . ah’m glad to see you . . . thought maybe you wasn’t comin’ with us.”

Sandford lurched on to the boat. He was big, burly, over six feet tall. He jumped at the stern slope; fell into the cockpit. Jacques, moving like a cat, caught him before he hit the floor.

He said: “You take it easy, boss. You take it easy. . . . Look, let me give you a little straightener. . . .”

“Goddam you, nobody has to tell me to take it easy.” Sandford’s voice was thick. “And what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of
here.”

Jacques said softly: “Yo’re the boss, Mister Sandford.” He hollared: “Hey, Mellin. You got that blood aboard?”

Mellin said: “Yeah. . . . I got it forrard here . . . four buckets.”

Sandford said: “What the hell’s all the talk about? Do we have to stay here all night?”

He sat down on the board seat that ran round the cockpit. He took a flask from his pocket; unscrewed the stopper; took a long swig.

Jacques said: “Here we go, boss.” He moved forward in the cockpit; switched on. He let the engine run, came back to the stern and cast off. The boat began to move, slowly at
first, then gathering speed. A mile off the island Jacques took her in a half-circle, round the bottom of Andros Island. He headed in the direction of Cat Island.

Sandford was trying to light a cigarette. Over his shoulder Jacques watched him trying to get his lighter somewhere near the end of the cigarette. After several attempts he succeeded. He leaned
back, drawing on the cigarette, trying to pull himself together.

Jacques began to whistle softly to himself.

Sandford said: “For crissake! . . . Why don’t you get yourself another tune. Every goddam time I come near you you’re whistling or singing ‘ Nut-brown
baby.’”

Jacques said: “Sorry, boss . . . sorta like that old song. It’s got somethin’, you know, Mister Sandford.”

The moon came out from behind a cloud. The sea was quiet, but the air was hot and there was a restlessness about. Mellin, making some coffee forrard, thought it was one of those uncomfortable
things. The heat was occasionally relieved by a sharp breath of cool wind. Mellin thought when the wind came it felt like an icebox, and when it wasn’t there the night was like an oven. You
sweated or chilled, but most of the time you sweated.

He brought the coffee. Sandford drank it in great gulps.

Jacques said: “Mister Sandford don’t want no coffee. He just had some whisky. What the hell he want with coffee?”

Sandford seemed a little better. He asked: “Where’re we going? I want a big one to-night—a real one, see?”

Jacques said softly: “Ah know exactly how you’re feelin’, Mister Sandford. Ah know. . . . We’ll get one. They been around here to-day—amber heads an’ all
sorts.” He busied himself preparing the line. When it was ready Sandford lurched into the fishing seat. He heaved himself into the chair and sat back.

Jacques said: “You play it quietly, Mister Sandford, an’ you’ll sure get a big one, ah promise you.” He went back to the wheel; cut the engine. Now the boat was moving
slowly in a wide circle. Mellin was still standing forrard leaning on the canopy.

Jacques said: “You put the blood overboard, boy. We’ll play around it.”

“O.K.,” said Mellin.

Sandford, sitting in the stern, watched the scene drunkenly; heard the splash as the buckets of blood went overboard.

Jacques kept the boat moving slowly in a wide circle. Mellin put his head under the canopy. He said: “He’s sitting in the port seat—the one I told you about.”

Jacques said in a low, quiet voice: “Go fry an egg, you goddam punk. What you worryin’ about . . . hey? Why the hell don’ you keep that goddam trap shut? You make me tired.
. . . Yes, sir . . . an’ how!”

Now the moon came out of a cloud. For a few minutes it was bright. The moon lay across the calm waters like a silver dagger. Jacques began to narrow the circle the boat was making, in the centre
of which Mellin had thrown the blood. The boat circled easily. There was little sound. Then the moon went behind a cloud. The sea was dark again.

Quietly, Jacques began to whistle, almost under his breath: “Nut-brown baby . . .” Mellin was forrard. He sat with his back to the bow, looking over the canopy watching
the stern. He saw the shark’s fin.

He yelled: “Here she comes! . . . Here she comes, Mr. Sandford. . . .”

The shark’s fin showed fifty yards astern of the boat. Jacques cut the speed to nothing. He stood, one hand on the wheel, half-turned, watching Sandford.

The shark dived; took the hook.

Sandford said: “Jeez . . . a big one. . . .” He leaned forward in the seat. Then, as the line jerked, he went out of the seat; shot across the stern. He knelt in the stern sheets,
his face stupid. He tried to get to his knees.

The line jerked again. Sandford went over the stern into the sea. A split second later Jacques, the cigarette stub still hanging from the corner of his mouth, saw the fin and the twist of the
tail as the shark turned.

Mellin said hoarsely: “For God’s sake . . .” He ran towards the stern; knelt, hanging over, looking into the water.

There was a fearful shriek, a flurry of foam, then quietness.

Mellin, white-faced, turned. He saw that Jacques was lighting a fresh cigarette. He moved towards the negro.

He said: “Well, it’s got him. He didn’t even get the belt done up. If he had it wouldn’t have been any goddam good to him.” He was sweating.

Jacques looked at him in the half-light. The moon came out from the clouds. Jacques looked over his shoulder at the sea. It was calm and moonlit.

He said: “What d’you always get so goddam excited about? It ain’t the first time a shark got a fisherman, is it—’specially when he’s high an’
don’ know what he’s doin’? See what I mean?”

Mallin said: “Yeah, I ain’t worrying. It’s not my boat.”

Jacques said: “You won’ never have no boat. No, sir . . . you won’ never have no boat, boy, because you get so goddam excited. An accident can happen—can’t it?
Ah reckon it’s no good us stickin’ around here. We can’t do nothin’. Maybe we’ll put back.” He went on: “You get yourself a cup of coffee, Mellin.
Ah’m mighty sorry about this . . . mighty sorry! Mister Sandford was a great guy . . . ev’body like Mister Sandford.”

Mellin said: “Maybe . . . except when he was drunk . . . and he was always drunk.”

Jacques said: “That’s a silly thing to say. Ah reckon Mister Sandford wasn’t drunk to-night. No, sir . . . he was sober all right. Ah never seen him so sober. See, Mellin?”

Mellin said slowly: “Yeah . . . yeah. . . . I guess he was sober.”

Jacques smiled. He showed his even, white teeth. “You good boy, Mellin. You never know . . . maybe you keep your nose clean an’ one day you’ll get a boat—a boat like
this. A swell boat, see?”

Mellin said: “I’m going to have some coffee.”

Jacques jumped on to the narrow passage-way that ran round the boat. He took off his left canvas shoe. He put his foot under the canopy and took the wheel between his black toes. He stood there,
hanging on to the side of the canopy, steering the boat towards the lights of Dark Bahama.

He began to croon. He sang softly: “Nut-brown baby, you got rovin’ eyes. . . .”

I

VALLON CAME out of the lift; began to walk towards the offices of Chennault Investigations. He looked at his strap-watch. It was ten
o’clock—too soon for Madeleine to have left the theatre. He walked down the corridor past the telephone operators’ room; the night staff room. He unlocked the door of his office; switched on the lights; took off his hat; sat at his desk. He lighted a cigarette; put his feet up on the desk.

After a while he moved the house telephone towards him with one foot; reached forward; picked up the transmitter. He said to the girl on the switchboard: “Is Mr. Marvin in?”

“No, Mr. Vallon. He went out about half an hour ago. He said he’d be back soon after eleven.”

Vallon asked: “Anything else?”

“Yes, there is. I’d have called you before but I didn’t know you were back. There is a lady in the waiting-room. She wants to see you.”

Vallon asked: “Who is she, Mavis?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl. “When I told her that you weren’t here but were coming back she said she’d wait. I asked her her name. She said she
didn’t want to give it.”

“All right,” said Vallon. “Send her in, Mavis.”

He took his feet off the desk.

The side door leading from Vallon’s office to the staff offices opened. Johns, one of the night staff, ushered a woman into the room. He went away, closing the door quietly behind him.

Vallon got up. He said: “Well, for God’s sake . . . Thelma . . .! Wonders will never cease.”

She stood in the middle of the floor. He thought she made a superb picture. She was tall, slim, supple, curved in all the right places. Her blue-black hair made a vivid foil for her
camellia-coloured skin and scarlet lips. She wore a close-fitting, black crêpe cocktail frock, trimmed all over with tiny jet tassels. Over it she wore a mink cloak. Her stockings were sheer,
her tiny feet encased in high-heeled, black satin sandals. She wore long, pale-pink gloves, a close-fitting feather hat to match.

She said: “Well, sweet? . . .”

He came round the desk. He stood looking at her. He said: “Has anybody ever told you that you look good enough to eat, Thelma?”

She nodded. Her dark eyes were sparkling. “Somebody did once. You did. That was before you became quite so important as you are now—the proprietor of Chennault
Investigations—the man who took a run-out powder on me.”

Vallon laughed. She thought she liked the look of him when he laughed. His quiet eyes shone wickedly, and when his lips parted you could see his strong white teeth, the clear-cut line of his
jaw.

He said: “Why don’t you sit down and have a cigarette?” He pushed a large leather armchair in front of his desk. She sat down. He gave her a cigarette; lighted it.

“So I took a run-out powder on you, did I? That’s a slander.”

She smiled up at him. She said in her soft, low voice: “It’s almost true, Johnny. If you hadn’t been in such a hurry to go off and marry some woman I think there might have
been some future for us.”

Vallon shook his head. He sat down on the edge of the desk looking at her. He said: “That’s what you say now, and it’s a long time ago, Thelma. Maybe you’ve forgotten
that you took a run-out powder on me and got yourself married before I did.”

She smiled; shrugged her shoulders prettily. “What are a few years between friends, Johnny? By the way, how is Mrs. Vallon?” She leaned forward a little. “You’re
not telling me that you’ve been faithful to one woman for more than a few months, are you?”

Vallon said: “You bet! . . . When I’ve found a good thing I stick to it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So she’s all that good, is she?”

“Better than that.” Vallon got up; walked round the desk; sat down in his chair. “I never expected to see you, and certainly not at this time of night. It’s only by
chance I’m here. I was filling in time before I went to the theatre to meet my wife.”

She said: “I see. . . .”

There was a little silence. They sat looking at each other.

Suddenly Vallon asked abruptly: “What’s this in aid of, Thelma? Is this a social call or is it business?”

She got up. She began to walk round the room. Vallon thought that she certainly knew how to move. She was as graceful as a cat. She turned and stood on the far side of the room, leaning against
the wall. She looked remarkably effective like that. He thought that everything about her was very effective. She knew how to talk, how to carry herself, how to do everything.

She said: “You might call it business, Johnny . . . nobody’s business . . .!”

He grinned at her. “So it’s like that, is it? When you have business that’s nobody’s business you have to come to Chennault Investigations. It sounds like a murky
story. What have you been doing, Thelma?”

“Believe it or not, Johnny, I haven’t been doing anything. After Jim died——”

Vallon interrupted. “So he’s dead? I’m sorry to hear that, Thelma.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I wasn’t too sorry,” she said. “It’s only after one’s married that one discovers it should have been somebody
else.”

Vallon said uneasily: “Meaning who?”

“Meaning you,” she said. “But, as Mr. Kipling says, that’s another story. However, this particular business doesn’t concern me. It concerns a woman who
is a close friend of mine—a very close friend.”

“Yes?” He stubbed out his cigarette. He sat, his elbows resting on the desk, his long thin hands clasped, looking at her.

She went on: “This woman is a very nice person. Her name is Nicola Steyning.”

Vallon said suddenly: “Would you like a drink?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks, Johnny. But you have one. I’ve never known you to be too far away from a whisky bottle.”

He smiled at her. “You’d be surprised! I’m a reformed character.” He opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk; took out the flask of Bourbon. He unscrewed the
top; put the neck in his mouth; took a long swig.

She walked across the room; sat down in the chair in front of the desk. She said: “Still the same old Johnny.”

He said: “Let’s forget me. Let’s talk about Nicola Steyning. Is it Mrs. or Miss?”

“It’s Mrs. . . . She’s forty-three and looks thirty.”

“I know,” said Vallon. “That type—beautiful and charming and nice! She’s got to be beautiful; otherwise she wouldn’t be in trouble. Because she’s
got to be in trouble; otherwise you wouldn’t be here telling me about her. What is it—money or some man?”

“You’re wrong for once, Johnny. It’s her daughter—Viola Steyning.”

He said, with a grin: “I bet she’s good looking too.”

She nodded. “She has too much everything. Her figure’s too good, her legs are too good and she’s got too much money. You know how that adds up, don’t you?”

He said: “Yes. Usually a bad sum of addition. What’s she been doing?”

She snuggled back into her chair, resting her pink gloved hands on the arms. She leaned her head against the back of the chair; looked at him through half-closed lids.

She said nonchalantly: “She’s a bad lot, Johnny. Her mother, Nicola, thought it might be a good thing for her if she did a little travelling. So she travelled. Nicola hasn’t
heard from her for quite a time. Do you know the Bahamas?”

Vallon shook his head. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve seen a picture of it. Which part are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about the island called Dark Bahama,” she answered. “That’s where she is now.”

“And I suppose she’s raising hell?” Vallon queried.

She nodded. “Every kind of hell. I don’t think I’ve ever known a girl with such an aptitude for getting herself into trouble.”

“Well, we’re narrowing it down,” said Vallon. “What is it? Is she being blackmailed, or is Chennault Investigations being asked to buy off some outraged wife whose
husband has strayed, or been deflected by our little Viola, from the straight and narrow path?”

“You’re wrong again, Johnny. It’s probably all those things. But the main thing is her mother wants her got away from the island. She wants her to come home.
She’s been hearing all sorts of rumours—some of them not very nice—about Viola.”

“I see,” said Vallon. “So I’m to send an operative out to this island—Dark Bahama—to bring the young woman home under his arm?”

She shook her head. “No, Johnny, that won’t do. You have to go.”

He said: “I see. . . .” There was another—a longer—pause. Then he asked: “Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Well . . . this is one of those things. The girl isn’t easy to handle. It’s going to need somebody like you for this business. I told Nicola you
were as clever as the devil himself; that you were brainy, very tough; that no matter how much you might be tempted by, shall we say, beauty, if you were doing a job you’d see it
through.”

Vallon grinned. “Thank you for nothing, Thelma. Are you suggesting that one of my operatives, if he were sent, might get himself seduced or fall by the way and never come home?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Johnny. But I told her this was a job for you, and I told her that you’d handle it for my sake.”

Vallon said: “I don’t think that was wise, do you, Thelma?”

She looked at him seriously. “What do you mean by that?”

Vallon said evenly: “I’ve never believed in trying to. . .