Our housekeeper at the Tree House lived in a small room at the southeast corner of our home. The entrance was from the outside and to come to work she would have to go outside and walk around to the front steps and enter. For emergencies there was a small door at the foot of the bathtub that allowed for alternative entrance. Since we did not wish that door to be used except when the weather was very wet and windy the latch was on our bathroom side of that wall.
Late one night when we had been asleep for long enough to be hard to wake up I thought I heard the housekeeper calling my name. After listening for a minute I heard it again and this time I knew there was no mistake.
As I have explained the passage to and from the second floor at our house was a ship’s ladder built of local wood, at the top was a trapdoor that we could latch from there.
I went to the trapdoor, lifted it up and, kneeling down, poked my head, upside down, through the hole to have a look. I heard the cries and then saw a slim, medium height, black man wearing dark trousers and a bright yellow and brown patterned shirt with a set of red bands running up and down on one side and across the stomach perpendicular to that. He was in the doorway to our kitchen, through which one had to pass to get to the bathroom. An outside night light dimly illuminated the area.
I recognized the person as Dennis Jean Baptiste, a young, rather mild individual who was borderline in good worker qualities and who seemed to have a problem with alcohol.
My immediate thought was anger at his intrusion into my house, and second that he was undoubtedly boozed and, losing his judgment, being led there by his young hormonal desire for the housekeeper.
I straightened up and started backing down the steps of the ladder. I did this without thinking about getting a gun. I knew this boy and his lack of judgment and that he was not a danger to anyone, except perhaps a young defenseless girl.
By the time I got to the bottom and turned to “Put hell on him” he was half way down our walk to the pool, running away fast. In another moment he disappeared in the dim light.
We consoled the girl and the next morning I put in a police report, asserting positive identification of Dennis.
“But, Sir,” the young officer who was taking the report said, “You said you didn’t see his face. How can you be sure that this was that Dennis Jean Baptiste?”
“I was there, believe me, it was him.”
“I will put that in my report, Sir,” the officer replied, but he was clearly doubtful.
Later Margie asked me how I could be sure.
“Damnit, Honey, if you show me a tree or an orchid in our garden, and it doesn’t have a bloom on it I can still tell you what it is. It is an over all identification and that was Dennis in there.”
The next day we were driving to town and we saw Dennis up ahead. As we passed him he waved to us as though nothing was wrong. He was one of the villagers who was known to have a place to stay in town and often spent the night down there.
“He appaarently doesn’t even remember the incident. He was probably drunk as you say,” Margie observed. “He looked happy and innocent.”
We drove along for another mile when I saw Dennis up ahead again. Of course, it could not be Dennis but there he was. I continued until I was almost on him and must confess to a certain feeling of discomfiture while figuring that this could not be Dennis. The fact is that the shirt the man ahead wore was the same as the one Dennis always wore. I then realized that one often recognized the villagers by their clothes at a distance. Each had a distinctive and limited wardrobe and Dennis had always worn that yellow shirt with the bands. Now there was a second such shirt on a boy that was about the same size, but I could see this was not Dennis.
I called the Police and withdrew my positive identification.