The deadly isles, p.4
The Deadly Isles, page 4
Luke sat brooding. The gendarmes would be disturbed if Luke did not report himself alive. Still, he need not have seen the item in the newspaper. If Black-eyes considered him dead, herein lay some small advantage for Luke … The object of Luke’s reflections came sauntering along the sidewalk: Black-eyes himself. Today with his white shorts he wore a black polo shirt, black socks and sandals.
Luke raised the newspaper across his face. The man took a seat about twenty feet distant, facing toward the harbor. Luke lowered the newspaper, studied the side of the sleek dark head. There he sat, comfortable and placid, with no pang whatever for the condition of poor Luke Royce. The next step, thought Luke, was to engage the man at closer quarters, to learn his identity, hopefully to bring him to grief.
Kill him? Why not?
Luke’s stomach gave a small jerk of distaste.
In spite of haircut and shave Luke felt vulnerable. A few steps away, where Rue Bréa entered Quai Bir Hakeim, was a souvenir shop. Luke went in, bought a green and black Tahitian shirt, a pair of dark glasses, a jaunty coco-fiber hat. He looked in a mirror. The transformation was complete. He had changed to where he no longer could recognize himself.
Luke returned to the Vaima. He stopped short in disgust. His enemy had departed.
Chapter VII
The Dorado had entered the doldrums. The winds had fled, leaving a glassy calm. Up and down a few slow inches eased the ocean, in near-invisible heaves. The Dorado floated motionless, all sails loose. Brady put out a shark-watch: two crewmen with snorkels and face-masks at bow and stern, and now his guests enjoyed a mid-ocean swim. They plunged from the rail into the transparent blue water, swam under the hull, floated on the surface, splashed and sported.
Neither Brady nor Lia joined the fun. Lia, in her bathing suit, sat somewhat self-consciously in a deck-chair; Brady rowed around the edge of the group in a dinghy. Swimming with four watery miles below gave him the shudders. Suppose he were to lose his buoyancy and sink? How dark and cold and lonely would be the four miles! On rare occasions — this was not one of them — he forced himself to join the more confident swimmers, whereupon he kept his eyes tightly closed under water, to avoid seeing the sunlit blue fading through indigo into blue-black murk.
Most of the others felt no such inhibitions. Rather enviously Brady watched them playing in the water. Don Peppergold swam two hundred yards directly north. In mid-ocean sharks were no great threat, but the creatures were notoriously unpredictable. Not impossibly some pelagic monster might come cruising past, with dire results.
Brady rowed out to where Don Peppergold loafed on his back, looking up at the sky. Brady communicated his fears. “Nothing is as wicked as a shark. If one caught you out here you’d be done. Better head back to the ship.”
“Okay, skipper.” Don clipped back toward the ship. Brady paused to admire the Dorado: the rake to the bow, the generous hull, the expanse of the white sails. An excellent thing to be Brady Royce, master of the Dorado! Everything was going well. Lia seemed to be enjoying herself, although Brady thought to detect occasional cryptic moods. Depression? Boredom? Hard to believe. Brady gave his head a thoughtful shake. His plans to teach Lia navigation had come to nothing, Lia showing no penchant for the subject. She held the sextant as if it were a dead animal, and turned the pages of the almanac with an air of quiet desperation. Brady felt he had no cause for complaint. Lia had tried; she clearly had done her best. Some people simply did not have navigational minds. Lia had other qualities — beauty, charm, amiability — which more than made up for her inability to lay down lines of position; in fact, if Brady had been pressed to criticize his beautiful new wife he would have specified only her baffling and sometimes irritating reticence. Perhaps she felt constrained by the presence of her sister. The two shared no obvious affection and from time to time bickered in low voices, stopping short only when someone came within earshot. Brady did not know what to make of Jean. She was attractive, even fascinating, in an odd over-civilized way. In a science-fiction movie she might, without makeup, have played the part of the Martian woman. At times Brady had to admit that she intrigued him. Lia was beautiful, but just a trifle listless. Jean, though pale and withdrawn, looked anything but listless, and seemed to be continually roiling with unorthodox impulses.
No one was perfect, reflected Brady, not even himself. He took it for granted that his guests, if only subconsciously, resented him — for his wealth, and for the authority that, as master of the Dorado, he exerted over them. In his turn he felt impelled to play the role: the bluff, half-benevolent, half-irascible tyrant. But he really wasn’t like that at all. Brady gave a despondent grunt. There were worse things than being poor; at least you knew who your friends were. When you married a beautiful young wife, you knew for sure what she thought of you, and everyone else knew for sure too.
Brady gave a grim chuckle. If he were poor, with no wealth, no Dorado, no Golconda, he might have no friends and no beautiful young wife either. Best to accept things as they were. Who the hell cared what people thought in the first place? Be damned to everybody!
Brady rowed back to the Dorado. Lia, Jean and Kelsey McClure stood together on the deck. Lia’s bathing suit was old rose, Jean’s was white, Kelsey’s was baby blue. A highly palatable picture, thought Brady. Lia of course was the most beautiful. Jean was more intense and, well, yes, more intelligent. She was not so supple, so well filled-out as Lia; she was built like a fashion model, though she probably would have resented the comparison. Kelsey was smaller than either of them, with a slender energetic body. Kelsey also was a rather puzzling young woman. Watching her toy with Don Peppergold, Brady wondered if she might not have something of a malicious streak. Lia displayed only a vague absent-minded vanity that offended not even other women. Jean seemed unaware of her own peculiar appeal. Kelsey was aware of everything. She knew how men felt; she knew how to make them feel even more so. Brady had heard rumors that during her adolescence she had been something of a problem.
The swimmers all climbed back aboard the ship; Brady and the shark-watch followed; the dinghy was hoisted aboard. William Sarvis, Chief Engineer aboard the Dorado III and now the Dorado IV, came to consult Brady. “We won’t have more wind today. Might be a good idea to give the diesels a spin. They could stand a bit of exercise.”
Brady considered the sky. It was blank of clouds except for a few nubbins of cumulus far over the eastern horizon. He gave a curt nod. “Start ’em up.”
Sarvis turned away. The engines coughed, the exhaust gargled and bubbled. Five minutes later that spot where the ship had paused, where the passengers had swum, was a half-mile astern, indistinguishable from any other spot on the face of the ocean.
Chapter VIII
Luke considered himself the most reasonable and tolerant man alive. But here was a special situation. It was bitter frustration to find that his quarry had taken cover. “Still,” Luke told himself, in order to put his emotion on a rational basis, “no one has ever tried to kill me before.”
He searched north and south along the waterfront. Black-eyes might have sauntered off in any of four or five directions. Where, on this placid Sunday morning, would so restless a man be apt to go? To his hotel? To the rented Citroën, for a ride in the country? To church? Not bloody likely.
Luke walked to the Quai du Commerce, examined the decks of the Godesund, a Swedish cruise ship tied up to the wharf. No sign of his enemy.
Luke returned along the waterfront, beside the moored yachts, past the Rahiria, searching in all directions. Black-eyes was nowhere to be seen. Luke crossed to the Vaima, flung himself into a chair and prepared to wait. Sooner or later Black-eyes must return along the Quai Bir Hakeim, and so come into his range of vision.
Luke waited two hours, drinking coffee, while the folk of the town passed along the sidewalk. A large group from the Swedish cruise ship appeared, walking in a stately herd. All were dewed with perspiration; all appeared vaguely uneasy as if they felt inadequate to the legends. Some were glum, some muttered and nudged each other, some contrived a thin gayety. It was difficult to be a Swede, reflected Luke.
Time passed. Luke looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Black-eyes undoubtedly had returned to his hotel for lunch, and now sat out on the terrace with a tall rum punch. Luke called a cab. He visited each of the large hotels in turn, looking through lobby, bar and terrace, scrutinizing those who lay on the beaches. He dared not inquire at the desks; the clerks might mention him to Black-eyes. Everywhere the result was negative. Luke returned through the lavender dusk to the Vaima. Here he himself drank a couple of rum punches.
The events of the previous evening began to recede. They were too grotesque for credibility. Luke blinked and shook his head. Without a focus, his first rapture of rage was hard to maintain. Luke began to reason with himself. Might the episode simply be coincidence? An ordinary run-of-the-mill accident? Luke grimaced. This was carrying dispassionate analysis too far. The circumstances were all too real. The bruises along Luke’s ribs ached with a real ache. Once again Luke became angry. So then, what of the future? Assuming that he had not located, identified and punished Black-eyes by Tuesday, as seemed more than likely, should he sail aboard the Rahiria anyway? Or should he remain in Papeete? Luke inclined first one way, then the other. Meanwhile lights appeared up and down the waterfront. Quinn’s, a block up the street, showed its ancient festoon of olive-green bulbs.
At eight o’clock Luke gave up his vigil. At the Chez Chapiteau on the Rue des Ecoles he dined on steak, pommes frites, a bottle of claret. Returning to the waterfront, he passed Quinn’s, and for lack of better entertainment, looked in through the open doors. The orchestra: three guitars, drums, a string bass, saxophone, was rendering Rose of San Antone, with Polynesian whoops and hoots. The cavernous interior was already crowded. The dance-floor pulsed to the vehemence of the dancers, two-thirds of which were Tahitians wearing garlands of flowers, totally indifferent to the fact that a hundred ladies and gentlemen from the Swedish cruise ship, sitting at an isolated section of tables reserved for them, had traveled half-way around the world to inspect them. French soldiers, sailors, a contingent of Foreign Legionnaires in white undress caps, stood at the bar or danced with the girls: the notorious, somewhat unkempt and completely unrestrained ‘Quinn’s Girls’.
Elsewhere, crowded in booths, knee to knee around tables, were tourists from the hotels, sun-burned young men from the yachts, Frenchmen and Frenchwomen in garish clothes from the holiday camp on Moorea. There was too much color, too much din, too much movement to be encompassed. The Swedes in particular seemed dazed. Pushing to the bar, Luke fortuitously found a vacant stool and ordered a bottle of beer. Immediately he saw the man whom he had been seeking all afternoon. Black-eyes sat at a table near the wall with a young Tahitian woman in a very tight red and blue pareu. On her head, somewhat askew, was a crown of ginger blossoms. Tonight Black-eyes wore gray slacks, white shoes, a light-weight turtle-neck shirt striped black, grey and white. A rather vulgar outfit, thought Luke with a trace of disappointment. He would have preferred a gentleman for his murderer. Black-eyes was something of a puzzle. He had the arrogance of a lord; he was undoubtedly handsome, if speciously so; he looked deft and competent. A professional killer? Luke’s spine tingled. He watched in fascination. Black-eyes sat back in a relaxation close to boredom, a long thin cigar smouldering in his fingers. The girl performed her most trusted exertions: pouting, hunching her shoulders, wrinkling her pug nose, tilting the ginger lei even more precariously over her forehead. Black-eyes watched in noncommittal amusement. The girl was not altogether to his taste, and Luke would have agreed that she looked blowsy and well-used, at the dangerous verge of portliness.
The music came to a thudding halt, like a stampede stopping short at the edge of a cliff. The musicians stood back to catch their breath, the dancers moved off the floor. Voices, laughter, the clink of glassware were suddenly audible. Only temporarily. The musicians shifted position, the guitarists stepping forward, the saxophonist taking up a baritone ukulele, the drummer tucking a leather-topped drum between his knees. A pause, an expectancy: then four quiet chords on the ukulele; four quick chords from the guitars: the tamure! Ignoring all protests, the girl pulled Black-eyes out on the dance-floor. Luke craned his neck, but they were lost in the seethe.
Luke turned his glass this way and that, watching the lights twinkle and distort around the islands of foam. He had found Black-eyes: what now? Luke had no clear idea. It occurred to him that he had failed to define his objectives. What did he want to do?
Most urgently Luke wanted to know why, so he decided. Revenge, legal or otherwise, could follow. Investigation therefore was in order. Luke leaned back against the bar, watching the dancers convulse, writhe and jerk. The music halted. The dancers gave a great sigh, then shuffled from the dance-floor. Twisting in his seat Luke fleetingly met the gaze of Black-eyes, but let his eyes slide past. When he looked back Black-eyes was signaling the waitress. Evidently he intended no immediate departure.
A second girl came to sit at his table: a friend of the woman in the red and blue pareu. The newcomer was younger and more supple, with a fresh smiling face. Black-eyes sat up straighter in his chair. The woman in red and blue scowled across the dance-floor.
Luke thoughtfully drank the last of his beer. The music began once more: an old island tune derived perhaps from a missionary hymn. Luke gave a sigh for his easy old life; the time had come when he must commit himself. He stepped down from the bar stool, gave his shoulders a shake, crossed the room to Black-eyes’ table, halted in front of the girl in the red and blue pareu. “Voulez-vous danser?”
She looked up, gave Luke a dispassionate scrutiny. Then, glancing toward Black-eyes and the girl who had just joined the table, she shrugged. “Oui, m’sieu.”
Luke steered her across the floor, shuffling dispiritedly to the music. The girl smelled of ginger blossom, perfume, sweat; her body felt bulky; her hair rasped against his cheek.
Presently she pushed slightly back, to look up with a gap-toothed grin. “You American, oui?”
“Right,” said Luke. “Et vous? What about you?”
“Moi? j’suis Tahitienne!” And she gave Luke a look of amused wonder. “You like Papeete? Nice place, eh?”
“Very nice indeed.”
“That’s good. Lots of pretty vahines. Where you stay?”
“I’m at the Blue Lagoon,” lied Luke.
“Nice place. Très cher. Costs too much money, eh?”
“Right. Far too much.”
“You like pretty vahine for girl friend? Maybe you like take nice girl back to States?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. By the way, that man over there at the table: what is his name?”
The girl gave a complicated shrug and grimace. She tugged at Luke’s arm. “Come on, we sit down; you not a very good dancer. But you buy me a drink.”
“With pleasure.”
They returned to the table. The girl dropped into her seat and Luke, pulling up a chair, essayed a friendly grin toward Black-eyes. “Mind if I join the group?”
“Help yourself.”
“I’m Jim Harrison.” And Luke smiled expectantly toward Black-eyes.
“How-de-do.” Luke was favored with a glance so cursory as to be insulting. Then prompted perhaps by a sudden subconscious admonition Black-eyes looked back with a glitter of puzzled interest.
Luke hastily signaled the waitress. “What’s everybody drinking? Rum punches for the girls? What’s yours? Er, what’s your name?”
“Scotch and soda.”
“A bottle of beer for me.” Luke turned once more to Black-eyes, considering subjects which might make acceptable small talk. As he thought, there was a shuffle and bump and someone else joined the group: a massive heavy-shouldered woman with a slab-sided face, a wild bush of coarse black hair under a palm-frond hat, a festoon of pikake. She gave Luke an enormous grin, squeezed herself and a chair up to the table.
“Voilà Odette,” said the girl with whom Luke had danced, in a subdued voice.
“Bonsoir, tout le monde!” called Odette in a hoarse voice. She nudged Luke with her elbow. “What you think, cowboy? How you like?”
“Everything is fine,” said Luke. “Odette, let me introduce you to —” he looked toward Black-eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Ben Easley.”
“Odette, meet Ben Easley.”
“How-de-do.”
“Hi, cowboy.” Odette pushed closer to the table, appraised the bottles and glasses. She spoke in Tahitian to the other girls, provoking them to mirth.
“What in the world are they saying?” inquired Ben Easley, mildly curious, addressing no one in particular.
“They’re dividing us up,” said Luke. “That’s my guess.”
Easley raised his glass. “I hope the big one likes you.”
“She’s a formidable woman,” Luke agreed. “Your first time at Quinn’s?”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t have been in Papeete very long.”
“Not too long.”
Straining to maintain his amiable grin, Luke said, “I’ve been around a couple of months. Long enough, actually. Time to move on.”
“Two months? You must be loaded. It costs a fortune to live here.” Easley had a characteristic mode of speech, a clipped sardonic rasp.
“Too right,” said Luke. “I cut every corner I can. Where are you staying?”
“Big place up the road.” Easley glanced across the table toward Odette and her two friends. “The local population isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Where are the dollies in cellophane skirts?”
