Final Exposure

By Paul H. Mansfield

A good police procedural novel set on a tropical island named San Rafael. Who commited murder at the New Year’s Eve party?

George and Vanessa own and run a coconut plantation. The island has its share of a snobby social set. The head of that group is Mrs. Lipton-Crumley. Her son Peter is universally despised by everyone. Like his mother he’s an arrogant bigot. He’s also a tempermental ne’er do well who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. None of them can stand him.

Vanessa has to invite a number of people she doesn’t like. It evens out because they don’t like her either. Her household staff is divided. Some like her husband George while others take her side.

Coming to the big bash are Gerald Balwin, a writer of bad but bestselling romance novels. Patricia Leighteon who is having an affair with George.

Frank is also invited. He used to be engaged to Vanessa. When she broke it off a few years back he threatened to kill her.The local Superintendent of police Mark Clifford is also invited along with his wife Greta.

Vanessa has a plan. She wants Frank to take infra-red pictures at midnight of the partygoers. She instructed her butler Clarence to shut all the lights down at midnight. She didn’t tell the guests. She’s not in a good mood since that afternoon George told her he wanted a divorce.

Later at midnight, out go the lights. A scream. The lights come back. Vanessa’s dead. She was hit over the head with Frank’s tripod holder.

Now Clifford has to go from friend to cop. He calls in Inspector Arrow to help in the investigation. The book follows the questioning of the suspects and what happens next. Inspector Arrow is also obsessed with finding out the identity of the hit and run driver who killed a six year old. He thinks it was Peter and goes to great lengths to try and prove it.

The book is a good read and never bogs down. If you like to follow investigations along pick this one up. It’s very well done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129434

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© Phocion Publishing 2019, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

FINAL EXPOSURE

By

PAUL H. MANSFIELD

Final Exposure was originally published in 1958 as a Cock Robin Mystery by the Macmillan Company, New York. All characters in this book are entirely fictitious and bear no relation to any actual person, living or dead.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

CHAPTER I 6

CHAPTER II 15

CHAPTER III 26

CHAPTER IV 32

CHAPTER V 43

CHAPTER VI 52

CHAPTER VII 63

CHAPTER IX 86

CHAPTER XI 112

CHAPTER XII 128

CHAPTER XIII 140

CHAPTER XIV 152

CHAPTER XVI 174

CHAPTER XVII 183

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 192

DEDICATION

• • •

For M. M.

who made this possible

CHAPTER I

1

The phone rang. Awakened from that delicious state of semi-consciousness particular to afternoon siestas, Vanessa sighed and swung her legs off the bed. She heard Vera trudging along the rear gallery; in a moment the old servant would be speaking into the instrument, saying: Mis’ Burnley’s residence in her sing-song native voice.

Vanessa stretched and blinked at the yellow afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows of her room. Outside the breeze flowing over thousands of palm fronds made soft scratching noises and she could see the far coconut trees swaying a little upon the ridge line that marked the eastern boundary of the estate.

Her movement towards the windows was checked quickly as she remembered that a gardener or the yardboy would in all probability be somewhere on the lawn below. The wisps of nylon in which she had been dozing were luxuriously cool, and it was sometimes difficult to remember, in the sultry heat of the rainy season, that she was not dressed.

Her reflection in the long mirror of the dressing-table caught her attention for a moment; she moved closer, running her hands over the curves of her body. She had long slender fingers; a musician had told her they belonged on the keyboard of a piano; an artist, imbibing at one of her well-known parties, had wanted either to paint them or teach them to paint. Vanessa actually had done none of these things; she was perhaps too vain to indulge in the self-abnegation of creation.

She pirouetted before the mirror, shrugging off her bra and gazing at the profile of her pointed breasts. Physically a little cold, she nevertheless found a certain satisfaction in the sight and feel of her firm body.

Vanessa had come into ownership of the rich Buenavista estate upon the death of her father three years previous and had thereupon married George Burnley, newcomer to San Rafael from a neighboring island. Burnley had appealed to her on several counts, not the least of which was his extensive knowledge of modern coconut estate management. The fact that he had little money had deterred her not at all; they had been married in the Anglican church in the tiny capital, and Vanessa had spent a goodly portion of her honeymoon going over the accounts with a mildly protesting George. On the downward trend at the death of her ailing father, Buenavista had in two years been transformed under Burnley’s expert direction.

Vera was calling her. Vanessa flung on a bathrobe and went to the door.

Yes, Vera?

Ma’am, is Mis’ Lipton-Crumley on the line. Would like to speak with you.

Vanessa grimaced, pulling her mouth into a caricature of distaste and wrinkling her nose. She knew what Monica Lipton-Crumley wanted, and hoped she would not chatter too long. She would have to shower and dress before tea.

The telephone stood on the wall across the back gallery from Vanessa’s room. She smiled at Vera, whose quizzical old eyes had been watching the wrinkling of her nose, and walked across the gallery, feet padding on the warm pine boards. She picked up the receiver, holding it well away from her ear.

Hallo, said Vanessa, and the instrument immediately gave vent to a loud squawking.

Vanessa, dear, said the squawk, "I do hope I haven’t disturbed your nap—no, don’t protest, I know I have—but it’s just struck me that I’ve committed the most ghastly crime. Here’s your party only two days away and I haven’t done a thing about replying to your invitation. Do be an angel and say we can still come. Peter always has such a marvelous time at your parties."

Vanessa visualized with distaste the pimpled person of the Lipton-Crumley heir having a marvelous time. She had regarded him as a particularly poisonous youth; his attainment of adulthood had done little to change her opinion. She thought for a moment of telling Mrs. Lipton-Crumley that she and her son would be welcome only if the latter succeeded in behaving himself. It was impossible, of course; one did not say those things to Mrs. Lipton-Crumley.

The telephone stopped chattering. Vanessa said quickly: But of course you must come, Monica. We’d be lost without you.

Loud cackling came over the wire as Mrs. Lipton-Crumley laughed. My dear Vanessa, she gasped, you know perfectly well that you can get along wonderfully without me, and it’s no use trying to soft-soap an old woman. I was doing it myself before you were born. Vanessa wriggled uncomfortably. "Nevertheless, my dear, I adore flattery, however false. And we shall come; your parties are always so unusual. I had the vaguest notion of having a little do myself over the holidays, but of course it would be nothing like yours————"

Liar! thought Vanessa.

So when your invitation came I dropped the whole idea. Now do tell me who will be there.

The usual crowd, Vanessa said vaguely.

Ah. Dr. Siefert, of course, and that nice young policeman and his wife—what is his name, dear? I never can remember and then I have to call him ‘Superintendent’ which is so official and makes me think vaguely of prisons though———-

Caldwell, said Vanessa. Mark Caldwell.

"Of course. Stupid of me. Now let me see—the Everett boy, and Gerald Baldwin?"

Yes.

Ah. I hope you have enough rum, my dear. Then there’s Commander Leighton and his daughter—the naked one.

"The what?"

The naked one. I always call her that. Not to her face, of course, though I’d like to if it wasn’t for the poor dear commander. Now don’t pretend you’re innocent, Vanessa. You know perfectly well it was you who found that disgusting nude photograph of her in some American magazine—the one Keating took. The commander should have had him horsewhipped though I don’t know that it wasn’t as much Patricia’s fault—she always was a self-willed young hussy. I suppose she is coming?

Oh, yes. I couldn’t leave her out and after all she is rather fun—for the younger set, I mean—even though I don’t particularly care for her.

No, my dear, I shouldn’t think you would!

"What does that mean, Monica? Vanessa was suddenly alert. It’s not that preposterous story————?"

"No, dear, of course not. Do be normal and listen to me—I want to know if you’ve invited those dreadful people from Bel Air because I’d like to be forewarned."

The Fordes? Oh, they aren’t bad, Monica. I———-

He beats her. They break crockery.

Well, that’s the story. As long as they don’t do it at my party, I don’t———-

And she drinks.

Who doesn’t, in this place?

I don’t. And gin, Vanessa. All day.

I don’t believe it. Anyway, Monica, you won’t have to fraternize. There’ll be plenty of people. The Scotts are coming, and Harry Walker, and I’ve asked Barbara King and her husband, and Frank Keating—————-

"What!"

Don’t sound so shocked. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. There’s nothing wrong with Frank.

Of course not. But he was dreadfully in love with you and you seem to forget the ghastly upheaval when you broke off your engagement. I certainly didn’t know you two were on speaking terms again. After all, he did threaten to kill you. Publicly.

Why should he want to kill me publicly?

"Don’t be tiresome, Vanessa. You know perfectly well what I’m getting at. I mean he said it in public. I have it on the best authority. Of course I can’t tell you who to invite and if you really have patched it up I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it. You’ll create the deuce of a stir, though. You always do."

Vanessa laughed. She said: Don’t let it worry you. You forget all this happened a long time ago.

I know that. There was a trace of irritation in the old woman’s voice. And I’m not suggesting he’ll arrive with murder in his heart and a gun in his pocket. He is coming, I suppose; he never has before.

Yes, Vanessa said uncomfortably. That is, I’m to phone him today and make final arrangements.

"You are to phone him! My, my, there have been changes made!"

Nothing of the sort, Vanessa said coolly. I spoke of arrangements. I want him to bring his camera. After those delightfully funny candid shots he did for Dr. Siefert’s party I decided he simply must do some for me.

Humph! That’s a slightly different shade of horse, my dear. A business proposition, then.

Not at all, said Vanessa, wishing she could stop herself being goaded into explanations. He will of course be a guest and the photography will be incidental. When and where he chooses.

I see, said Mrs. Lipton-Crumley. She paused, as though searching for further fields of discussion, and Vanessa said quickly: I must be off, Monica. George will be in at any moment and I haven’t even tubbed yet. Cheerio and thanks for the call. See you on Saturday.

Yes, of course. Goodbye, dear. Vanessa cradled her receiver. She moved backwards, leaning upon the gallery rail and staring at the black immobility of the telephone.

Old bitch, she said softly, wants to run everything. Even other people’s parties. I’ll damn’ well invite Frank if I want to. Her mind went back quickly to Pat Leighton and to Monica’s cryptic remark while they had been discussing her. Perhaps the remark had not actually been cryptic, but there had been an edge to it, and a change of voice typical of Mrs. Lipton-Crumley when she had some scandalous tit-bit to retail. Vanessa wondered if she had been about to resurrect that silly story about George and young Pat. A vague doubt began to rise in her mind, and with it a growing sense of irritation.

She shrugged and reached for the slim green telephone book, tapping the toe of her slipper on the floor until she found the number she wanted.

She let the book drop from her fingers. It swung on its length of cord, slapping against the wall as she gave the operator Keating’s number. After five rings the exchange called her back.

No answer, Mis’ Burnley.

Try again, said Vanessa imperiously.

Keating answered on the third ring. A radio blared in the background.

Damn you, Gerald, Keating said amiably and without preamble, you had to call me now. I’m up to my ears in hypo.

Hallo, Frank, Vanessa said, arranging her voice carefully, this is Vanessa.

She heard a quick intake of breath over the wire. Keating’s voice said, too carelessly: Oh, hallo, Vanessa. Pardon the opening remarks. I thought it was Gerald Baldwin—he was to call me earlier today.

About Saturday night, Frank. I haven’t heard from you.

Keating said: I’m sorry, but I don’t know that I ought to come. I never take more work than I can handle and I’m extremely busy at the moment.

Vanessa smiled into the telephone. The fact that she could still disturb Keating emotionally pleased her immensely. A tingle of pure enjoyment ran through her body. She said: Who mentioned work, Frank?

This is an assignment, isn’t it?

Only in so far as Dr. Siefert’s party was an assignment.

Your pictures shouldn’t occupy a great deal of time, surely?

I’m sorry there’s such a scarcity of girls, but———-"

Same old Vanessa, Keating said. You haven’t changed a bit, have you, darling? His voice was gay and unnaturally light, and Vanessa said: Do I have to beg you to come, Frank? Because I’m not going to. Incidentally, do you love Monica Lipton-Crumley very much?

Definitely, said Keating, with studied malice. Are you putting her forward as a candidate for my amusement on Saturday?

Not at all. But I thought you might like to help me tarnish her brass a little.

Good heavens! I thought you were the best of friends!

Aren’t we all, in this delightful island society.

You amaze me. What horrid scheme have you cooked up now?

You remember, Vanessa said, the photograph of Pat Leighton?

I’m not likely to forget it. Nor am I likely to forget who was responsible for letting it get into the hands of the people most likely to put the wrong construction on it.

Honestly, I never realized they’d be so stupid.

I believe you. Sorry, go on.

Mrs. Lipton-Crumley phoned me today. I told her I’d invited you and she said several unpleasant things about your photograph. She also said, lied Vanessa, that you’d arrive with lethal weapons and intent.

With a view to her extermination? She’s not far off.

No, mine.

Good God! Keating sounded genuinely shocked. What next will the old harridan think up? Are these some preliminary tit-bits to raise my ire, Vanessa?

I’m merely working up to things. Do you know Rothstein?

Andreas Rothstein?

Yes, the American photographer. He’s holidaying here.

Not the American photographer, Vanessa. The American photographer. No, I haven’t met him.

I have. And Monica, much to her chagrin, has not. She loves collecting celebrities and I suspect it’s her main reason for being so eager to come to my party.

Keating said: So Rothstein will be among the merrymakers. Pardon me, but I still don’t get it.

Rothstein was here yesterday. I showed him that photograph—I still have the magazine. He doesn’t think it’s pornography.

Obviously. The man’s intelligent.

Yes. And it can easily be arranged that a discussion of your photograph takes place within hearing of Monica Lipton-Crumley.

Which will deliver her, well browned and on a silver platter, into my hands. Vanessa, you’re impossible. Besides, where do you come in? Don’t tell me you’re not getting anything out of this?

I thought it might be fun. I detest Monica, really.

I’m suspicious. And I’m not really interested in what Mrs. Lipton-Crumley thinks about my work. Suppose Rothstein won’t play?

He will.

Ah, your inimitable charm. Incidentally, would all this by any chance be bait?

Bait?

"Yes. Because you’ve told someone I was coming and if I don’t your reputation as San Rafael’s most unpredictable hostess goes off with a loud bang?"

Keating’s marksmanship had been altogether too near the truth. Vanessa’s temper flared, but she said meekly: I’m surprised at you, Frank. She did not feel at all meek. She felt like breaking things. Preferably over Keating’s head.

He said: I know, Vanessa. It’s my belief in humanity running low. Too many knocks.

She laughed suitably into the telephone, saying: Then you’ll come? Your friend Gerald will be there. So will Mark, and Bill Everett.

Ah. Oases in the intellectual desert.

Don’t be corny. You will come, Frank?

Yes, my dear. I’ll regret it, but I’ll come. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Vanessa said, hanging up. She smiled to herself, thinking how easy it had all been. She might even go through with the Rothstein farce, if it became worthwhile. At least she had Keating’s promise, and the rest could wait. Had he refused, she would never have heard the end of it. Monica would have shoved the failure down her throat for ever, and Vanessa detested failures. It would have been the one unbearable thing.

An irritation at Keating grew upon her afresh. She thought: Damn Frank, anyway. Her teeth bit angrily into her lower lip.

The bathrobe was coming undone and Wilberforce, the yardboy, was standing on the lawn below, gaping up at her. She glared at him, catching the robe tightly around her and going off towards the tiled bathroom at the other end of the gallery.

2

The clock in the corner of the dining-room chimed five-thirty as Vanessa sat down to tea. The shower had not cooled her irritation and she was annoyed with Burnley for being late. This was entirely unreasonable, since he was supervising both the building of the new copra shed and the extension to the structure which housed the fiber-making machinery, but this illogicality did not strike Vanessa.

She understood very little about the fiber-maker apart from the fact that it produced a highly salable commodity from the otherwise wasted coconut husk; the thudding and roaring of the great machine terrified her and she would go into the building only when the monster was silent. Situated deep in the fold of the next valley and out of sight of the house, the machine’s clatter could still be faintly heard at Buenavista.

Vanessa had purchased the plant at her husband’s suggestion soon after their marriage; it was the only one of its kind in San Rafael and Burnley’s prediction that it would soon pay for itself had been amply vindicated. The machine had cost a great deal of money; Vanessa had signed a check and left it at that. The large crates arriving from England, and the assembly of their contents into a mass of gleaming metal, had interested her not at all. She was more than content to leaf through the fat cheques which read: Pay Buenavista Estate... and sign receipts in her bold scrawl with the thick, imperious downstrokes and the very final full stop at the end.

Vanessa was half-way through her tea when she heard the whine of Burnley’s jeep on the path at the rear. She paused only until the jeep stopped, then continued to eat her hot buttered roll with a delicacy that could have been fastidious, but which in Vanessa was merely finicky. There was something almost feline in her eating; the similarity to a well-groomed cat sniffing suspiciously over its blameless milk was impossible to avoid. Indeed there was about Vanessa something altogether feline; her movements were supple and flowing, she had small, sharp teeth, and her pale hair gleamed with repeated grooming.

Burnley had put away the jeep. Vanessa heard him run up the steps on to the rear gallery and go into the pantry behind her. He sloshed about at the basin for a while and came through into the dining-room.

Hallo, Van, he said. Lord, I’m tired. He bent down and, gently moving a swath of hair, kissed her lightly behind the ear, resting his hands for a moment on her shoulders.

Vanessa swung around. She said crossly: For God’s sake don’t paw me, George. You know I detest it.

Burnley straightened up immediately. Sorry, he said. She glared steadily at him over the rim of her teacup.

You smell of horses and some kind of oil, she announced, wriggling her shoulders as if to shake off the feel of his hands. I’m all clean and it’s disgusting.

I can’t help it, you know, he said mildly. I’ve been working. He took a cup and filled it from the teapot, moving around to his chair. Vanessa watched him and the smallest sliver of remorse inserted itself into her consciousness. She said, conversationally: How’s the work going?

Oh, not too bad, you know. I underestimated the wood a little. We’re short of two-by-four joists for the copra shed and———-

Urgent?

Oh, no. I’ve put the extra men on to the extension until after the holidays, then we can get some more wood: up from old Lee-Kim. Lee-Kim was the shrewd, potbellied Chinese merchant with the lumber store in town.

Burnley chuckled. Hate going back to the old beggar, though.

Why?

He told me in the beginning I’d need more two-by-fours...now he’ll crow in his own inimitable Oriental fashion.

However———-? Oh, I see. You told him about the project at the start, then?

Yes. Why ever not?

Oh, nothing. But I wish you wouldn’t fraternize with: these tradesmen, George. You sit in his shop and chatter with him. It—it’s not done.

Really, Vanessa! What’s the matter with you? Something gone wrong with the party arrangements?

No, of course not. And there’s nothing the matter with me. Vanessa suddenly remembered Monica Lipton-Crumley’s waspish little remark on the telephone; there might be nothing in it, but her seldom controlled temper boiled quickly upwards. She said hotly: First you come in and muss me up. Then you talk about sitting in that horrid little man’s shop discussing my estate affairs. And now you have the cheek to ask what’s the matter with me!

Sorry you’re in one of your moods. Let’s drop it, shall we? I’d like my tea in peace.

I am not in one of my moods, whatever that means, and as for having your tea in peace, why on earth can’t you come in at a decent time?

Would you mind telling me what we’re quarreling about?

"I’m not quarreling."

Lines of irritation were beginning to show in Burnley’s face. He said: You’re giving a damn’ good imitation of it.

I merely detest your being late for meals. And I hate your paws over me when I’ve just bathed and dressed.

That’s ridiculous! You’re a cold little devil, Vanessa.

Oh, damn and blast you, George!

And don’t shout. The servants will have it all over the estate by tomorrow. Haven’t you any control at all?

So I’m a cold little devil? Vanessa said viciously. I suppose Pat Leighton is more satisfactory?

Burnley’s head jerked up. He said woodenly: So your muckraking friends have unearthed that one again, have they?

Deny it, then. I dare you to deny it!

There’s nothing to deny.

No? Now tell me you’ve never been out with her. Secretly.

"That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? What these nasty-minded carrion have been telling you. Look here, Vanessa, I can’t stand much more of this. I’m sick and tired of your infernal bickering and if you can’t stop this damned nonsense, I’m going out. Or else tell me who’s been purveying this filth, and we’ll