Conquering Kilmarni (14 page)

"A handkerchief with an initial on it. Yes."

"Him own initial, you mean?"

"No, not his. Young Peter Devon's there. But it
wouldn't be young Devon doing the tiefing. Zackie prob'ly did tief the handkerchief at the Kilmarnie house, where him staying now."

At the foot of the steps Peter clutched his father's arm. "Dad, did you hear what I just heard?"

"I think I did." Mr. Devon's face was one big scowl. "What is this about a handkerchief with your initial on it?"

Peter had not told him about the missing handkerchiefs. He did now, and Mr. Devon looked angry.

"It's my fault. I'm the one who suggested we leave the door unlocked."

As they walked to the car, Peter said, "Dad, that handkerchief Mr. Lee found, I don't think it was left by accident."

Mr. Devon stopped. "You mean—"

"I think Zackie's father put it there, hoping the police would think I'm the thief they're looking for. You heard what he said when we were coming back from the hospital. About getting even, I mean."

"Good Lord, Peter. He couldn't be that stupid."

"Dad, he uses dope. That makes people stupid."

Mr. Devon glanced back at the crowd on the post office veranda. Then he turned toward the police station and said, "I think we'd better . . ." But after taking a step in that direction, he stopped again. "No. Let's go home and do some thinking first, son. This is one of those times when the harder you push, the more likely you are to
break something. For the moment, perhaps we should go easy."

At the house, Peter went looking for Zackie and again found him in the kitchen, talking to Miss Lorrie. Peter told them what had happened, being careful to repeat all he could remember of the scraps of talk on the post office veranda.

Miss Lorrie looked worried. "Me nuh like this," she said. "It was Mr. Lee who found the handkerchief, you say?"

"That's what the woman said."

"It look bad. Real bad." She turned to Zackie. "You suppose you father dropped that stolen handkerchief on purpose, to get you in trouble?"

"Maybe he just dropped it."

"Well, maybe. But him mad about the pig, and because you is living here now 'stead of looking after him like before."

"What do you think will happen now, Miss Lorrie?" Peter asked.

"Well, me think we likely to have a visit from Corporal Buckley. That is what me think."

An hour later, the tall man in charge of the constabulary station came striding down the Kilmarnie driveway.

It was Mr. Devon who answered his knock on the door. In the doorway, Peter's father said very calmly, "Hello, Corporal. Trouble again?"

Buckley was equally calm. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Devon. May I come in?"

"Of course."

The corporal entered but remained standing until Mr. Devon motioned him to a chair by the fireplace and said, "Sit down, won't you?" Mr. Devon sat facing him. Peter was at the table. The corporal nodded to him.

"What seems to be the trouble, Corporal?" Mr. Devon said. It was like a game, Peter thought. The two men liked each other, but each was doing something the other did not wholly approve of. Corporal Buckley was determined to catch a thief, even if the culprit was Zackie Leonard. Mr. Devon, though not at all convinced that Zackie was innocent, was nevertheless trying to protect him.

Now Corporal Buckley took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. "Mr. Devon, I've come about this."

Mr. Devon took the handkerchief. "What about it, please?"

"This letter
P
on it. The article belongs to your son, doesn't it? Our country people don't own handkerchiefs with initials on them, Mr. Devon."

"May I ask where this was found, Corporal?" Mr. Devon said quietly.

"In a house owned by Mr. Lee, who owns what our people call the 'Chinaman's shop' in the village."

"I see."

"The same shop Zackie Leonard tried to steal from, Mr. Devon."

Again Mr. Devon said, "I see," and nodded. "You're not accusing my son of being the thief, then?"

"Not your son, Mr. Devon. Zackie."

"But this is Peter's handkerchief, as you suspect."

"Your son lent it to Zackie, I suppose. Or Zackie stole the handkerchief, too."

Both men had been speaking quietly, as if discussing something of no great importance. Now Mr. Devon said in the same casual tone, "What was taken from the shopkeeper's home, Corporal?"

Buckley's voice changed a little, Peter thought. It took on an edge. "Money, mostly. More than sixty dollars.
A
radio. Some liquor."

"Zackie Leonard doesn't use liquor. I'm sure he doesn't."

"He could have stolen it to sell, Mr. Devon."

"To sell, yes. Well, all right. What do you propose to do now?"

"It is my duty to take him to the station and question him." There was a small silence, and then Buckley added, "Mr. Devon, I think you know
I
like the boy. But I'm in charge of the constabulary here, and I've got to find out who is doing this stealing. Otherwise you may soon find someone else running the Rainy Ridge station."

Mr. Devon slowly nodded. "I understand, Corporal. Myself, I think the boy's father, not the boy himself, is probably the one who took the handkerchief from here. We foolishly left the front door unlocked the night of the big rain, and I believe Merrick Leonard chose that night
to come prowling, expecting us to be off guard."

"But why would a grown man steal a handkerchief, Mr. Devon?"

"In this case, to punish his son."

"Because of the pig, you mean?"

"And for neglecting him. I imagine that's the way he would think of it. Until the pig incident and its aftermath, the boy had been dutifully giving his father money for food and liquor and ganja, looking after him as if he were the parent and Mr. Leonard the child. When the handouts stopped, the man became angry, blaming Peter and me, as well as Zackie."

The policeman nodded. "But I still have to question the boy, Mr. Devon. Where is he, please?"

Mr. Devon looked at Peter, who had been listening to every word. "Do you know where Zackie is, Peter?" "No, Dad."

"I'll just have a look downstairs, then," Buckley said, and went into the hall, where the stairs led down to the kitchen.

Peter rose from his chair by the fireplace, but fright kept him standing there for a moment. Then, with a glance at his father, he, too, walked into the hall. But he stopped at the top of the stairs to listen. Voices came up to him from below.

"Me nuh know, Corpie." That was Miss Lorrie's voice. "Him was here awhile ago, but him gone now."

"Gone where?"

"Me can't even guess. Down to Mango Gap, maybe, to
look for him worthless daddy. Or to the coffee works or Rainy Ridge or—how you expect me to know what that boy goin' do, for heaven's sake?"

"Miss Lorrie, I hope you're not hiding him from me."

"No, me not hiding him, Corpie. Look for youself, if you likes."

Peter heard the yard door close as Corporal Buckley departed. Then he went downstairs and found Miss Lorrie leaning against the kitchen counter, looking a little scared.

"Is Zackie really gone, Miss Lorrie?" he asked.

She nodded. "When him hear Corpie talking to you daddy, him did grab some food from the fridge and run. Him know them think him is the tief, Peter. Him never even take the dog."

"You mean Mongoose didn't follow him?"

"Uh-uh. When me see Corporal Buckley coming down the driveway, me did shut the animal up in the storeroom so him wouldn't bark. You want to let him out?"

Peter nodded. "But where will Zackie go?"

"Who can say?" She took a big breath and exhaled a noisy sigh. "There must be a million places a boy like that can hide, knowing the bush like him do. And the police won't find him, either. But . . ."

"But what, Miss Lorrie?"

"It was wrong of him to run, Peter." She shook her head and sighed again. "Likely this will convince everyone him is the one doing all this tiefing."

Peter thought about that as he went to let Zackie's dog
out. Was she right? She probably was, he thought sadly. Should he try to find Zackie and persuade him to come back?

He couldn't make such a decision by himself, he decided. He would have to talk to his father. Still thinking about it, he opened the storeroom door and was almost knocked down by a small brown-and-black missile that shot out between his feet.

Zackie's dog didn't even look to see who had let him out. Racing into the kitchen, he went streaking around in search of Zackie. Frustrated there, he shot out to the flower beds in the yard, then up to the garage. Only when certain Zackie was nowhere in the yard did he slow down and come back to the house.

Peter was standing at the kitchen door by then. The dog sat down a few feet from him and looked up, with both ears drooping. Then slowly the ears rose again and Mongoose came forward. Rubbing himself against Peter's right leg, he voiced a single soft bark.

D
uring the next four days Peter spent most of his time searching for his friend. With Mongoose trotting along at his side, he walked every track on the plantation, looked in every fertilizer shed, visited the two nearby villages of Mango Gap and Rainy Ridge, and even spent part of a morning at the coffee works.

There were many places at the coffee works where Zackie might hide. There was the cooper's shed, where the barrels were made—the co-op never shipped its Blue Mountain coffee in bags, the way less expensive coffee was shipped. Then there was a big room where the red cherries, after being picked from the trees, were run through machines called pulpers that pressed the beans out of them. While watching the pulpers in action, Peter found it hard to believe that when coffee was first discovered, people ate the pulp because it gave them a lift, but didn't experiment with the beans until years later.

And there were other places on the co-op compound where Peter looked for Zackie. One was the big room where the coffee beans were washed. Another was the room where they were dried electrically. Still another was
a long hall where women sat at long tables and picked out the broken or discolored beans before any were shipped. Not that he expected to find Zackie hiding under a table. He only hoped one of the workers might say something like, "If you looking for Zackie, Peter, me did see him"—and tell him where. Or perhaps he was hoping that Zackie, if he was anywhere around, would see Mongoose and be unable to resist calling out. Or that Mongoose would smell him or sense his presence and go racing to him.

But nothing like that happened. Not in the coffee fields, not in the villages, not at the coffee works.

Corporal Buckley, too, was searching for Zackie. On two occasions Peter saw him on the Kilmarnie property, once far up on the main track near Zackie's secret garden, and once on the river bridge where Mark had drowned. It saddened Peter to see the policeman looking for his friend in a place that was just about sacred to Mark's memory.

And now, on the evening of the fourth day following Zackie's flight, Peter sat with his father on their veranda, watching the sun go down and wondering where Zackie could be.

"We have to find him," Mr. Devon said. "And if he's not guilty, we somehow must persuade him to come back. Miss Lorrie was right, you know, Peter. Every day the boy stays away makes it that much harder for anyone to believe he is innocent."

"You still think he may be guilty, don't you, Dad?"

"I suppose I do," Mr. Devon said reluctantly. "But in any case, we have to find out how big the problem is before we can decide what to do about it."

Peter blew out a noisy sigh of defeat. "Dad, I've looked just about everywhere I can think of."

"So have Miss Lorrie and Mr. Campbell. So he must be moving around, trying not to stay in any one place too long. Or perhaps he has left the district altogether."

"Where would he go?"

"To join his mother in Kingston, maybe?"

Peter thought about it while watching the last crimson rays of the sun disappear from the sky and the evening shadows begin to creep down the river valley. "He wouldn't have gone to Kingston without finding some way to let me know, Dad."

"He's in trouble, Peter."

"But if he's innocent, it isn't fair!" Peter protested loudly. "Why don't they question his father?"

"They have. Corporal Buckley told me so this morning. They've had him at the station twice, talking to him. But even when he's drunk or on ganja, that man is resourceful."