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  BLACK GIRL, WHITE GIRL

  BLACK GIRL, WHITE GIRL

  Patricia Moyes

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.

  BLACK GIRL, WHITE GIRL

  A Felony & Mayhem mystery

  PRINTING HISTORY

  First UK edition (Collins): 1989

  First US edition (Holt, Rinehart and Winston): 1990

  Felony & Mayhem edition: 2020

  Copyright © 1989 by The Estate of Patricia Moyes

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-63194-247-1

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Moyes, Patricia, author.

  Title: Black girl, white girl / Patricia Moyes.

  Description: Felony & Mayhem edition. | New York : Felony & Mayhem Press, 2020. | Series: Henry Tibbett ; 18 | “A Felony & Mayhem mystery.” | Summary: “Inspector Tibbett has fond memories of the island of Tampica, but his most recent visit uncovers drug smuggling and political corruption in the tropical paradise”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020040892 | ISBN 9781631942471 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781631942488 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Tibbett, Henry (Fictitious character)--Fiction. | Tibbett, Emmy (Fictitious character)--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR6063.O9 B49 2020 | DDC 823/.914--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040892

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  The icon above says you’re holding a copy of a book in the Felony & Mayhem “Vintage” category. These books were originally published prior to about 1965, and feature the kind of twisty, ingenious puzzles beloved by fans of Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr. If you enjoy this book, you may well like other “Vintage” titles from Felony & Mayhem Press.

  ANTHONY BERKELEY

  The Poisoned Chocolates Case

  ELIZABETH DALY

  Unexpected Night

  Deadly Nightshade

  Murders in Volume 2

  The House without the Door

  Evidence of Things Seen

  Nothing Can Rescue Me

  Arrow Pointing Nowhere

  The Book of the Dead

  Any Shape or Form

  Somewhere in the House

  The Wrong Way Down

  Night Walk

  The Book of the Lion

  And Dangerous to Know

  Death and Letters

  The Book of the Crime

  NGAIO MARSH

  A Man Lay Dead

  Enter a Murderer

  The Nursing Home Murder

  Death in Ecstasy

  Vintage Murder

  Artists in Crime

  Death in a White Tie

  Overture to Death

  Death at the Bar

  Surfeit of Lampreys

  Death and the Dancing Footman

  Colour Scheme

  Died in the Wool

  Final Curtain

  Swing, Brother, Swing

  Night at the Vulcan

  NGAIO MARSH (con’t)

  Spinsters in Jeopardy

  Scales of Justice

  Death of a Fool

  Singing in the Shrouds

  False Scent

  Hand in Glove

  Dead Water

  Killer Dolphin

  Clutch of Constables

  When in Rome

  Tied Up in Tinsel

  Black as He’s Painted

  Last Ditch

  A Grave Mistake

  Photo Finish

  Light Thickens

  Collected Short Mysteries

  PATRCIA MOYES

  Dead Men Don’t Ski

  The Sunken Sailor

  Death on the Agenda

  Murder à la Mode

  Falling Star

  Johnny Under Ground

  Murder Fantastical

  Death and the Dutch Uncle

  Who Saw Her Die?

  Season of Snow and Sins

  The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

  Black Widower

  The Coconut Killings

  LENORE GLEN OFFORD

  Skeleton Key

  The Glass Mask

  The Smiling Tiger

  My True Love Lies

  The 9 Dark Hours

  SS VAN DINE

  The Benson Murder Case

  The Canary Murder Case

  The Greene Murder Case

  The Bishop Murder Case

  For more about these books, and other Felony & Mayhem titles, or to place an order, please visit our website at:

  www.FelonyAndMayhem.com

  BLACK GIRL, WHITE GIRL

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHRISTMAS EVE IN London. Not one of those merry, glittering, snow-spattered Christmas Eves, but a dark, dank one with intermittent sleety rain. However, Henry Tibbett—Chief Superintendent Tibbett of the C.I.D.—and his wife, Emmy, were feeling cheerful enough. It was a tradition that on Christmas Eve they dined at the house of friends in the City of London. The dinner and the company had been as good as ever, putting the Tibbetts into an excellent frame of mind as they drove home through the deserted streets of London’s business quarter, a mildly festive West End, and then down the never-sleeping clamour of the King’s Road toward The World’s End. For those not familiar with London, it should perhaps be pointed out that this address is not as dire as it sounds. The World’s End is a pub, which for decades marked the dividing line between chic, artistic Chelsea and working-class Fulham. This distinction has now disappeared. In the sixties and seventies, houses well west of The World’s End were described by house agents as being in Chelsea. Now that Fulham is fashionable, whereas Chelsea is considered somewhat brash, the same houses have reverted in the property advertisements to where they have always belonged—the Borough of Fulham.

  The Tibbetts had left their friends at half past eleven, so by the time they had parked the car and Emmy had the key in the lock, it was already Christmas Day, by one minute—and the telephone was ringing.

  “I’ll take it,” Henry said. “Hope to God it’s not an emergency.” He picked up the receiver from the hall table. “Tibbett here.”

  “Henry! Happy Christmas!” The voice was low-pitched, could be masculine or feminine. Henry thought for a moment that he recognised it, then put the idea out of his head as too farfetched. The voice went on, “I’ve been trying to get you all the evening, but there was no reply. I thought for a moment you might be out of town.”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “You don’t know? Shame on you, Henry.” The voice chuckled.

  Henry said, “If I didn’t know it was impossible…can it be Lucy?”

  “Of course it’s Lucy, you silly man. Lucy Pontefract-Deacon.” This, being a typically English surname, is pronounced “Pomfrey-Doon.”

  “My dear Lucy—where are you? You should be in Tampica, enjoying the sun.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m in London, enjoying the rain, and trying to get in touch with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. We were out to dinner. When shall we see you?”

&n
bsp; “As soon as possible, young man. I suppose you’re busy over Christmas?”

  “No, not really. We had our celebration dinner this evening. We’d planned to spend tomorrow quietly—Emmy’s going to make my favourite lunch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Steak-and-kidney pudding. Would you like to join us?”

  “Steak-and-kidney pudding!” Miss Pontefract-Deacon seemed to be licking the words. “I don’t suppose I’ve tasted one in sixty years. Not the right sort of fare for Tampica, but for London in December…thank you, Henry. What time? I need to talk to you.”

  “Then come around noon. Where are you staying?”

  “A rather grim and expensive hotel in Kensington. They promise a festive lunch for tomorrow, which I fear means frozen turkey and balloons. Expect me at noon. My love to Emmy.” The line went dead.

  Emmy said, “I heard some of that. Is it really Lucy?”

  “It’s really Lucy,” Henry assured her. “She’s come all the way from the Caribbean to spend Christmas at what she calls a grim and expensive Kensington hotel. She must finally have gone crazy in her old age.”

  Emmy smiled. “Lucy may be nearly ninety, but we both know that she’s far from crazy. You’ll find she has a good reason for coming to London.”

  “But what?” Henry was talking more or less to himself. “She seems very anxious to speak to me—or to us. Why couldn’t she have telephoned from Tampica? Why come all this way?”

  “Well,” said Emmy, “we’ll find out tomorrow. Or rather, today. Happy Christmas, darling.”

  At twelve noon on Christmas Day, freezing rain was falling, thin but penetrating, as a taxi bearing Lucy Pontefract-Deacon pulled up outside the Victorian house where the Tibbetts lived in their ground-floor apartment. The old lady climbed out with a certain amount of difficulty, her voluminous tweed skirt and tent-like raincoat hampering her progress. She opened an enormous handbag and fumbled in its interior while the cabby sat waiting with patient resignation. At last, Miss Pontefract-Deacon came up with a fistful of coins that seemed to satisfy her. She handed them to the driver.

  “Merry Christmas to you!”

  The driver did not return the greeting. He counted the coins, slammed the taxi into gear, and roared away in obvious disgust.

  Henry already had the front door open and he hurried down the steps to meet his visitor. It was six years since he had seen Lucy, and even then she had been over eighty. It seemed incredible that she should have left the tropical island of Tampica, where she had spent almost all her life, to come to London in midwinter. She had not changed much, Henry thought. A little frailer, a little thinner—but her wrinkled, suntanned face was as merry as ever, her eyes as bright, and her back as ramrod straight. She grasped Henry’s outstretched hand in both of hers and kissed him on the cheek.

  “My dear Henry! How good to see you! No, no, I can manage the steps perfectly well, thank you. What a surly fellow that cabdriver was. And I gave him a two-shilling tip.”

  Henry smiled. “What you call two shillings is only ten p.,” he remarked, “and I’m afraid it doesn’t buy much these days.”

  “Oh, I get so confused with these newfangled pence!” Lucy exclaimed. “And now I’m told that they’re not printing any more pound notes. Just these horrible little coins, which appear to be worth practically nothing. I can remember when a pound was a pound. Ah, Emmy! How splendid you look, my dear! Just as young as ever, and I believe you’ve lost weight.”

  “You always were the soul of tact, Lucy.” Emmy returned the old lady’s kiss. “Now, come in and have a drink, and tell us all about Tampica, and what brings you here.”

  Lucy divested herself of her raincoat, accepted a sherry, and established herself in the largest armchair. Then she said, raising her glass, “A very happy Christmas to you both.”

  “And to you, Lucy.” Henry clinked his glass against hers. “Rather different from Christmas in Tampica.”

  “Yes.” Lucy sounded serious. “And I don’t only mean the climate.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Emmy. “Trouble?”

  “I fear so.” Lucy took a sip, then put down her glass. She turned to Henry. “You remember Eddie Ironmonger?”

  “I’m not likely to forget him in a hurry,” said Henry. “I heard he’d been elected Prime Minister of Tampica, as everybody expected. I hope he’s not—”

  Lucy interrupted. “Yes, he was elected when Sam Drake-Frobisher resigned, quite shortly after Independence. He served out Sam’s term, and then was reelected for another four years. I need hardly say that he made a very fine Prime Minister.”

  “I’m sure he did.” Henry was remembering the handsome, urbane lawyer-turned-politician, whom he had known as Tampican Ambassador to the United States.

  “Did he marry again?” Emmy asked. It had been in connection with Lady Ironmonger’s tragic death that the Tibbetts had met Sir Edward.

  Lucy shook her head. “No. It’s funny, isn’t it? With all her faults, nobody could replace Mavis.” There was a small pause, as all three remembered. Then Lucy became brisk. “Well,” she said, “you know the workings of democracy as well as I do. Remember what GBS said? ‘Democracy substitutes election by the incompetent many for appointment by the corrupt few.’ That may have been a little harsh, but the fact remains that politicians wishing to get elected slur over hard facts and make empty promises. And at the same time, the electorate demands miracles from its leaders and throws them out when they fail to deliver.”

  “You mean they threw Sir Edward out?” Henry was surprised.

  “Eddie,” said Lucy, “was much too honest to promise miracles. Every island in the Caribbean has got horrific economic problems, and Tampica is no exception. Eddie managed to keep things moving slowly towards solvency while he was in office, but his policies of austerity weren’t popular. So you can imagine what happened two years ago, when he campaigned on slogans like ‘Tighten our belts and work harder.’ Of course they threw him out.”

  “So I suppose he’s leader of the opposition now,” said Emmy.

  “No, no. He actually lost his seat in Parliament and retired from politics. Well—almost. He’s now Governor-General—the titular head of state of Tampica, and with as little political power as our own dear Queen.”

  “I feel very remiss,” Henry said. “I haven’t kept up with Tampican affairs. Who is the present Prime Minister?”

  Promptly, Lucy replied, “A very unsavoury little man by the name of Chester Carruthers. I’m sure you never met him. He promised the people health, wealth, and prosperity—and of course they fell for it.”

  “He must have been in office for two years already,” Emmy pointed out. “Surely the voters must be disillusioned by now. I was reading somewhere the other day about Tampica’s economy being in bad trouble.”

  Lucy sighed. “You two have been away from the Caribbean for too long. Perhaps you don’t even know that some states in our part of the world have two economies.”

  “Two economies?”

  “I fear so. The official economy and the drug economy.”

  “Oh, my God.” Henry was profoundly depressed. “Like the Seawards affair?”

  “Much worse, I’m afraid. The Seawards affair, as you call it, was nipped in the bud. The Seaward Islands are still a crown colony with internal self-rule, their economy is very healthy, and the drug problem is minimal. Why, you ask? I’ll tell you. Because the government was never involved.”

  “And this man Carruthers is?”

  Lucy looked straight at Henry. “Eddie and I are almost certain. He, and some other members of his cabinet. That’s why I am here.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Henry made a hopeless gesture.

  Ignoring him, Lucy went on. “It’s Mafia money, of course. Enormous quantities of it. That’s the drug economy, and Chester the Creep is making sure it goes to the people who can keep him in power. He also knows who his enemies are.”

  “You and Sir Edward,” said Emmy.
>
  Lucy smiled. “Why do you think I am here? Why do you imagine I didn’t simply write or telephone? Because Eddie and I are—to put it bluntly—afraid.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Henry was remembering the lovely island, the friendly people, the heady excitement of independence, the growing tourist industry. “What could happen to you, of all people, Lucy? Or to Sir Edward, come to that.”

  “Mail is being tampered with,” Lucy replied calmly, “and telephone lines tapped. People opposed to the government are meeting with unaccountable accidents. Even obeah—or the threat of it—is being used. There is no West Indian, however westernised, who doesn’t dread the obeah-man in his heart. To tell you all this, somebody had to come to England. Eddie had no ostensible reason for coming, and if he had done so, he would be in considerable danger when he went back. I, on the other hand, am well known to be of British origin, even though I have taken Tampican nationality, as you know. I put it out that I wanted to visit members of my family in England, while I could still make the journey; that I wished to see my ancestral home again for the last time, and other such nonsense. Also, I am not scared of obeah-men. So my trip, although it may not be popular in some circles, is at least regarded as harmless.”

  “That’s all very well.” Henry sounded thoughtful. “But I still don’t see what you expect me to do.”

  “Just listen, for the moment.” Lucy’s bright blue eyes twinkled. “We’ve worked as a team before, Henry, and we can do it again.”

  “But vague suspicions aren’t—”

  Lucy held up her hand for silence. “Now pay attention, my dear. What I am going to say is very serious and far from vague. Eddie and I are both convinced that Carruthers is involved up to his neck in using the island as a transit post for drug running between South America and the States.” She paused. “In fact, it’s even possible that by now he wishes he could extricate himself, but things have gone too far. He’s dead scared of his Mafia masters, and he also needs their money—not just to feather his own nest, but to keep him in office.”

  Henry said, “It’s easy to see how he could take bribes, personally—but how does he arrange what you call the drug economy?”