The Deadly Isles, page 12
Luke passed through the little village with its inevitable church and Chinese grocery, and approached the tamaraa: a feast obviously commissioned by Brady. Food was heaped on four tables: steamed pork and chicken; crayfish, raw fish in lime juice, langouste, fried fish, fish balls in cocoanut cream, three kinds of poi, rice, bananas, papaya, avocados, minced clams in fermented cocoanut curd, heart of palm, octopus stewed in its own ink, a custard of canned milk flavored with vanilla bean and coffee.
It appeared that the company from the Dorado had already eaten. Now they sat drinking wine and watching dancers from the village. Halting back in the shadows, Luke studied the people present. Brady was invisible; Easley was nowhere to be seen; no one fit his mental picture of Lia. With the exception of Bill Sarvis, the Dorado’s Chief Engineer, the persons at the tamaraa were strangers.
Sarvis, now sixty years old, was a man not too tall, pale for a seaman, with a face all bone and cartilage. Luke tossed a pebble at Sarvis, who looked around. Luke signaled. Sarvis rose to his feet, ambled across the clearing. “Hello, Luke. Thought we were to meet you in Nuku Hiva.”
“That was my idea too. I was delayed. By the time I found out where the Dorado was anchored, you’d already set sail.”
Sarvis scowled, rubbed his chin. “Strange. The skipper got word that you weren’t aboard the schooner.”
“For reasons I can’t explain right now, I used another name: Jim Harrison. Does Brady know that Carson drowned?”
“What? You don’t mean it?”
“I certainly do. On the way up from Tahiti.”
“My lord no. What a terrible thing! Poor Brady! He left the kid in Honolulu. Well, I guess you know about that. How did it happen?”
“Something of a mystery. Where is Brady?”
“He took sick, ate something which didn’t agree with him. He and the missus went back aboard the Dorado.”
Luke stared at Sarvis, then at the loaded tables, then out toward the Dorado. “What made him sick?”
Sarvis shrugged. “Hard to say. Whatever it was he didn’t like it.”
Luke drew a long deep breath. Had Easley been at work so swiftly?
He heard a footfall, and there, as if summoned by Luke’s conjectures, stood Easley. “Hi, there, Harrison,” said Easley, without enthusiasm. “What brings you here?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
Easley waited a moment before replying, an insulting pause, as if Luke’s question deserved no instant response. “I’m a guest aboard the Dorado.” He jerked his head toward the Rahiria. “You’d better get aboard or you’ll be marooned. They’re about ready to cast off.”
Luke opened his mouth, then shut it. Let Easley think he had arrived aboard the Rahiria.
“How come you didn’t tell Mr. Royce that his son was drowned?”
“Who? Carson?” Easley wore an expression of surprise. “Was he Royce’s son? I don’t believe I ever heard his last name.”
Luke turned to Sarvis. “Take me out to the Dorado. I’ll have to tell Mr. Royce what’s happened.”
Easley looked toward the Rahiria, which indeed was on the verge of departure, then shrugged and walked away.
Luke said, “That man is the reason I’m calling myself Jim Harrison.”
“I’ve been wondering,” said Sarvis.
“Well, it’s my name until I tell you otherwise. Let’s go out and give Brady the news.”
“Come along then. The launch is this way.”
A few minutes later they nosed in under the Dorado’s accommodation ladder. Luke climbed aboard. The decks were vacant. He looked into the main saloon, to find a Filipino steward wiping down the brass work.
“Where’s Mr. Royce?”
“He’s in his stateroom. Pretty sick.”
“Mrs. Royce is with him?”
“Yes sir.”
“Go ask if I can speak to him.”
The steward went aft. A moment later a dark-haired young woman with a pale olive skin appeared in the saloon. She wore white shorts, a pullover blouse of beige cotton, and Luke was forced to admit that Lia Wintersea Royce was far and away the most beautiful creature he had ever seen face to face. At the moment she appeared nervous and on the verge of tears. “Yes? What do you want?” Her voice was gentle; her brusqueness was not intended to give offense.
“I’d like to see Mr. Royce.”
Lia jerked out her hands. “I don’t see how you can just now. He’s terribly sick.”
“How sick?”
“Well, he’s vomiting. He has stomach cramps and — he’s really not himself.”
“You’ve called for a doctor?”
“Of course. There’s a hospital down the shore; the doctor should be here at once. Who are you?”
Luke evaded the question. “Does Mr. Royce know that his son Carson is dead?”
Lia blinked, drew back and became ghostly pale. “Carson? Dead?”
Luke nodded grimly. If Lia was acting, her performance was superb.
“He drowned on the way up from Tahiti. Apparently he fell overboard.”
“How perfectly awful,” whispered Lia to herself. She looked uncertainly down the passageway. “I can’t tell Brady. I simply can’t tell him now. He’s so miserable …”
“May I see him a moment or two?”
Lia searched his face with as much concentration as she seemed able to summon. “You’re a friend of his?”
“That’s about it.”
“I really don’t think you should. Not right now. I should be with him … Thank God! Here’s the doctor!”
A young man in white trousers and a white shirt came into the saloon, carrying a professional black bag. He asked questions in barely accented English, and Lia, ignoring Luke, took him aft to the stateroom.
Luke turned to Sarvis. “Well, that’s that.”
“What’s going on, if you don’t mind my asking?” Sarvis asked.
“I don’t mind. I believe that Easley knocked Carson on the head and threw him overboard. In Tahiti he tried to kill me. I was wearing a beard then; now he doesn’t recognize me. He’s a murderer — but I can’t prove it. I tried to get here, to talk to Brady, but it looks like I’m late.”
Sarvis’ eyes jerked open wide. “You don’t mean —”
“I don’t know. It’s strange that no one else is sick. Just Brady.”
“Strange for a fact.” Sarvis rubbed his chin, producing a grating noise.
Luke went out on deck and looked toward shore. The sound of music and singing drifted across the water; the tamaraa was a great success. The Rahiria had departed, the Dorado was the only yacht in the bay.
Fifteen minutes passed. Luke returned to the saloon. Sarvis sat brooding.
Luke paced back and forth.
The doctor appeared, followed by Lia, who was biting her lips.
Luke asked, “How is he?”
The doctor set his bag on the table. “Frankly, he’s not well.” He spoke in a precise voice. “I believe that he has eaten poison fish. There are many kinds of poison fish. Some become toxic from the waters where they live, the food they eat. A parrot fish caught here is safe, a parrot fish caught ten kilometers around the island is toxic … But these are not so dangerous. A person may become very sick. But usually he recovers. If Mr. Royce has eaten what the natives call hue-hue — that is to say, puffer fish — then the situation is more critical.”
“I see. Well — what do you think?”
“I can’t be sure. The symptoms are in many cases the same: vomiting, diarrhea, convulsions, loss of sensation in the extremities. I’ve done what I can for him. We can only hope for the best. Additionally, Mr. Royce seems to have a history of liver trouble which complicates matters.” He picked up his bag. “No one else is sick?”
Sarvis replied, “No one that we know of.”
“Strange … The natives won’t catch hue-hue; they’re afraid of it. Although if the gland is removed it’s quite safe.” He shrugged, turned to Lia. “I must go ashore, but I’ll be back in two hours.”
“Shouldn’t we move him to the hospital?” quavered Lia.
“It would do no good. I can’t do anything there I can’t do here. In Papeete they might do better. If you wish I’ll radio for the seaplane. Naturally there is expense.”
“Don’t mind the expense! Radio for the seaplane!”
“Very well. In the meantime, see that he’s quiet. Let him rest as much as possible.” The doctor departed; a moment later his launch surged past and away toward shore.
Luke flung himself down on the settee and stared at the carpet. Lia went back along the passageway. Sarvis came to stand in front of Luke. “You think Easley is responsible for this?”
“I know he is.”
“Why?” asked Sarvis evenly. “What for? For whose benefit?”
“Figure it out for yourself.”
“The way things stand, you’d be the only one to benefit.”
Luke raised his head, met Sarvis’ cool grey gaze. “Easley tried to kill me first. He thought he had succeeded. I was riding a motor-scooter; he drove me over a cliff. He thinks I’m dead.”
“If he had known you were alive, he might not have killed Carson. If, in fact, he did so.”
“That’s true,” said Luke. “But I knew nothing of his intentions. If he’s responsible for this —” Luke nodded toward the aft stateroom “— then things start to take shape.”
Sarvis grunted. “If Brady dies, it’s your word against his.”
“Just one matter,” said Luke. “How am I supposed to have poisoned Brady?”
“You had as much chance as Easley had. The Rahiria has been in port since last night.”
Luke grinned. “I see. Well, Sarvis, you suspect whomever you like. But for now — until things straighten out — I’m Jim Harrison. Remember that!”
“Whatever you say. I think I’d better pick up the folk ashore.”
“Bring my suitcase over, will you? I left it near where we were talking.”
“Right.”
Sarvis presently returned with a load of subdued guests. Sarvis tersely introduced Luke as ‘Mr. Harrison’, which seemed to suffice for the moment. Easley, coming into the saloon, stared thoughtfully at Luke, then went off to his stateroom.
Lia emerged. In a hushed voice she reported the doctor’s diagnosis, and then she began to sob. Luke watched her carefully, and the other two young women as well. If Lia was acting, thought Luke, her technique was beyond reproach.
The other two? He was able to form no immediate opinion. Both were formally sympathetic; neither gave evidence of deep concern. Jean was cool and didactic: her emotions were carefully intellectualized. Kelsey, saucy, spoiled, effervescent with mischief, clearly intended to waste no concern on troubles not her own. A fascinating little creature, thought Luke — more vital and self-aware than Lia, more feminine than Jean, and already appraising Luke, the new man aboard. Luke refused to respond. She was quite possibly a murderess — more properly, a murderer’s accomplice, but why boggle at the distinction? The word almost certainly fitted one of the three young women aboard the Dorado.
Which?
Simple inspection yielded no information.
The other guests Luke dismissed with a cursory inspection. Don Peppergold seemed a straightforward young man if somewhat bumptious. The older McClures could not possibly be anything but what they seemed to be: a prosperous middle-aged couple, civilized, intelligent, decent by long habit rather than conscious doctrine. Easley was alien to the group: at least to the older McClures and to Don Peppergold. Luke heard Kelsey call him “Ben” and Jean for a period sat with him in the corner of the saloon.
The doctor returned and without words went into the stateroom. Lia came into the saloon, to stand troubled and alone.
Conversation halted. The steward brought tea, which was sipped in near-silence. Everyone ignored Luke.
The doctor appeared briefly. “I radioed for the seaplane,” he told Lia. “It is probably the best we can do for Mr. Royce, to get him to Papeete. They have new techniques and drugs which so far are not available to us.”
“When will the seaplane arrive?”
“I can’t be sure. Certainly within an hour or two. There will be trained attendants aboard; I have seen to that.”
“Thank you very much.”
The doctor returned to the aft stateroom. Lia sat down and listlessly sipped the tea which Mrs. McClure forced upon her. Whatever her thoughts, she kept them to herself, with only jerks and twitches of her mouth to indicate that she was thinking at all.
Luke leaned back on the settee, watching everyone through half-closed eyes. No one seemed to heed him except possibly Easley, who from time to time turned him a brooding glance of speculation.
The doctor emerged from the stateroom. He looked haggard, dismayed, a trifle bewildered, as if he too found the events confusing. Without preamble, without so much as clearing his throat he announced: “Mr. Royce has passed away.”
Silence held the air. Lia gave a little moan and fell to sobbing against Mrs. McClure. Easley reached for a cigar but thought better of it. Luke watched to see with whom, if anyone, he would exchange a glance of triumph.
Jean sat with her mouth pinched, her forehead creased, as if she were worried. Kelsey watched Lia with an unreadable expression.
Luke met the gaze of William Sarvis. He knew what Sarvis was thinking: the obvious; what else? He, Luke Royce, was now administrator of the Golconda Fund, a de facto millionaire, master of enormous wealth. The Dorado, which heaved on the easy swells of Hana Menu, was his. Beautiful women, as beautiful as Lia, were at his command. He was now a powerful man. Luke gave a wry grimace, trying to drive the thoughts from his mind. For a fact, they held no pleasure. The only reality was here in the saloon of the Dorado. The murderer was known; who was the murderess? Luke looked from face to face: from Lia to Jean to Kelsey. The doctor was talking in tense hurried tones to Lia, who listened numbly, nodding from time to time, her beautiful eyes glinting with tears. Jean watched with a detached frowning interest. Now she darted a quick glance toward Easley. So far as Luke could determine it seemed exploratory, questioning, rather than communicative. Easley was making bored O’s with his mouth, smoking a non-existent cigar. Kelsey? She appeared resentful, as if Brady’s death were a tiresome and inconsiderate act.
Lia? Jean? Kelsey? One must be guilty; one of these had brought Easley to the Dorado; either Lia or Jean or Kelsey had plotted with Easley to kill three men.
Two were dead; one remained alive. Easley and someone unnamed were about to receive a terrible shock.
Luke looked again toward Sarvis. The cold gray eyes no longer probed him. Instead they were fixed upon Ben Easley. By some unconscious device, Luke had convinced William Sarvis of his innocence.
Luke pulled himself upright on the settee. It was a time for plans. Easley and his accomplice would not casually reveal themselves. Their guilt had to be demonstrated. At the moment Luke could invent no method to compel such a demonstration.
Chapter XVIII
The seaplane arrived at seven o’clock, skimming low across the dusky bay, settling in a fan of spray.
The district gendarme had already been aboard and had conferred with the doctor. He manifestly felt out of his depth; he stated that he would investigate the circumstances at the tamaraa and report to the Papeete authorities, which would be to the convenience of all, since the Dorado was bound there in any case.
Brady’s body was transferred to the seaplane.
Lia declared her intention of accompanying the body to Papeete. The McClures argued against this course, pointing out that she could effect nothing meaningful at Papeete, that for the time she was better off aboard the Dorado in the company of her friends.
Lia listened dubiously. “But I should get in touch with Luke Royce — after all, he’s the new administrator of the estate.”
Jean joined the conversation. “Send him a radio message. A few days won’t mean anything to him.”
Lia turned to Sarvis. “What do you think?”
“We’ll be in Papeete inside of four days, if we hoist anchor right now. We can certainly send a radiogram to Luke Royce at his Papeete address.”
“Very well then,” said Lia in a wan voice. “Can we sail right now?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Lia turned wearily away. As she passed Easley he stopped her, muttered a sentence or two. Lia turned a puzzled gaze toward Luke, and hesitated. Then she turned back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t quite understand why you’re aboard.”
Luke had been expecting some such challenge; indeed for the last few minutes he had been receiving dubious glances from everyone in the saloon.
He responded carefully, aware that everyone was watching and listening. “I came up from Tahiti aboard the Rahiria, as perhaps Mr. Easley has told you.”
“‘Easley’?” Lia looked around in puzzlement. “You mean Ben? His name isn’t Easley.” She looked toward Ben Eiselhardt, who merely grinned and fished in his pocket for a cigar.
“Whatever he chooses to call himself,” said Luke, “he and I and Carson were all aboard the Rahiria. I came aboard the Dorado to speak to Brady Royce, and while I was here the Rahiria sailed.”
Ben Eiselhardt spoke in an offhand voice. “And now the Dorado is about to sail. It’s time you were going ashore.”
Luke paid him no heed, and continued to address Lia. “I hoped to presume upon your good nature for transportation back to Tahiti.”
Lia gazed at him numbly, not wanting a stranger aboard, but unwilling to seem ungracious. She looked helplessly toward Malcolm McClure, who cleared his throat. “I think, sir, that under these tragic conditions —”
Luke rose to his feet. He addressed Lia. “May I speak to you privately?”
Lia took him out on deck. “Well?”
Luke sighed. To reveal his identity even to one of his suspects was a pity — but now a necessity. Lia had been on the point of ordering him off the ship.
