At least the food was delicious, but even that—well, here's how it was.

  The chef had done himself proud, and there was a very fetching variety of vittles. Vanessa had shish kebab, and I ordered some kind of roast squab stuffed with wild rice. John settled for a two-inch-thick filet mignon, and Dria chose a crab Louis.

  We were just starting to dig in, and my nostrils were twitching, taste buds salivating, stomach fluttering in anticipation. The fowl was admirable, a bit crisp on the outside, golden brown and juicy, and the ends of the legs had those little paper doohickeys on them, and I'd sawed off one leg and was raising it slowly, lingeringly, tantalizingly to my chops. And Joshua Burder stopped by the table.

  My mouth was open when I craned my head around and looked at him. He didn't say anything. Just looked—with an expression of vast sorrow—at the bird on my plate. The detached leg was two inches from my teeth; its magnificent aroma ravished my nostrils; I could feel the heat caressing my lips.

  “Well, hi, Joshua,” I said.

  He sighed, and walked away. Behind him walked Mrs. Burder, with a frown on her face and her lips pursed together. To hold in the gas, I guess.

  Naturally, that raised the hilarity of our table to a peak of dullness unnerving to experience. Probably we were all going to have gas before this orgy was over.

  When it was finally over, I deliberately walked to the Burders’ table and took a look, several biting phrases on the tip of my tongue. The sly dog was eating lettuce, peas, and asparagus.

  Ten minutes later Vanessa and I had said good night to John and Dria and trudged up to her door. She was in a dull mood. “That bitch,” she said. “That foul bitch."

  “Now, Vanessa—"

  “I'm going to bed."

  “Now, Vanessa—to where? Well, let's have a drink first, hey?"

  “No. I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

  “Now, Van—"

  “Good night, Shell."

  “Now—"

  In she went, clunk went the door.

  Hell, it was still early, too. I borrowed a hotel station wagon from Farrow and drove to the local funeral parlor in the capital city of Verde, ten kilometers away, and looked at Paul Yuré. He had a flat, squashed-looking nose and a boomerang-shaped scar on one cheek, and he was dead. Big night.

  So I went back to the hotel and went to bed, and dreamed of big birds eating me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The morning was glorious.

  My first breath of that fresh, clean air, and the sight of sand and sea from the open-air terrace where breakfast was served at the Sunrise, not only killed all the big birds but put hummingbird wings on my corpuscles. I hadn't even phoned Vanessa's room, since I hoped to digest breakfast, and after that expected to be pretty busy. Besides, last night she could at least have offered me a drink.

  The curving terrace was lined at its outer edge with small tables big enough for two, larger tables filling the rest of the cement floor. It wasn't yet eight a.m., and only a handful of guests were up and eating.

  But I spotted Dria at one of the little tables, drinking coffee. I walked over to her.

  “Alexandria Maria Ducharme,” I said. “Hello."

  “Hello, Shell.” She smiled brightly, those dark sapphire eyes shining. “Join me?"

  “I was going to ask if I could. After last night."

  “Last night was all right. The food was delicious."

  “Yeah. And I was glad to see you and Vanessa hit it off so well."

  “Yes. Miss Gayle is lovely."

  “Have you eaten?” I changed the subject.

  “Not yet. Just having coffee. We can order together."

  Our waitress—a millionaire's wife, Dria told me—pinch-hitting for one of the gals who'd walked off the job night before last, took our orders and came back with coffee for me.

  I said, “Dria, you know why I'm here, don't you?"

  “Yes. Because of the so-strange death of Mr. Wylie."

  “Did you think it was strange, too?"

  “Only because it was so sudden. He was healthy all of the time. Until he died. It happens like that often, of course. But it was so sudden it surprised us all. And..."

  “And what?"

  “Only that there have been two more, of a similar nature, in the few days since then. As you know."

  “John—Farrow—said there was no connection among the three people who died. Is that right, as far as you know?"

  “Yes—Mr. Wylie was already dead before the lady, the one who died last night, came to the island. He knew Paul, certainly. But only as everybody knew Paul."

  “Wasn't he a hunsi or something like that?"

  She nodded. “He was Mordieux’ confiance."

  “That's pretty close to the Count?"

  “Oh, yes indeed. Most trusted, the one who does all things of administration, the loyal right hand of his hungan. Paul intended to become a hungan himself, as soon as he could. It requires much money; he must have money to buy land and for the buildings of the sanctuary. He said many times that before he was through he would be the most powerful and respected hungan on Verde."

  “Didn't make it, did he? Would you say he might have—if he'd succeeded—become a threat to Mordieux? That is, too much competition to the Count?"

  She pursed her lips. “Oh, I doubt that. I suppose Paul himself might have thought so, but it is not likely Mordieux himself did. But I do not know."

  “Farrow said something about Paul's being a little trouble during the last two or three months. Right?"

  “Yes, of those who worked here, twenty or thirty were members of Mordieux’ sanctuary. Paul told them many times that they should not work for Mr. Farrow and Mr. Wylie, should stay with their own people. He spoke, of course, for Mordieux, but it seems odd Mordieux would not want them to work here, for in this way they earned much money. So they could then afford to pay him much for his services when they needed them."

  “They pay the old Count, huh?"

  “Oh, yes, when they need his help—and when they can. But all the hungan and mambo, even including Mordieux, give their services free when necessary."

  “That's nice. Anything you can add to what you told me about Mordieux last night?"

  “Oh ... it is just that I do not feel he is good, Shell. Not honest. I think he uses his people for his own gain, for money, yes, but for—for power over them more than anything else."

  “Almost like politics back home."

  She smiled. “Perhaps. Mordieux, he is not a good man. I cannot give you argument and evidence, as one would in a courtroom. But it is something I know. I feel it."

  Our breakfast arrived then, and we started on the hot food. “Has the Count lived here all his life?” I asked her. “Was he born here?"

  “Born here, yes. But two years or more ago he went to the United States, to make money with which to establish his humfo."

  “What's a humfo?"

  “The sanctuary. When one becomes hungan or mambo, one must have money to buy lands and build the buildings of the sanctuary, the peristyle, perhaps rooms for powerful loa, for living quarters and such things. There must be the proper buildings and room for ceremonies and dancing."

  “I see. What did Mordieux do in the States?"

  “He took others with him, some of them fine dancers, both men and women. It was an act for hotels and night clubs. Dances of Verde, songs, and what they called voodoo. It was only the surface ceremony or ritual—not the real thing. Just for a show, you understand?"

  I nodded.

  “That is another reason I do not think well of him, Shell. A true hungan would not make an entertainment of what he believes, would he?"

  “Doesn't seem likely. How long was the troupe in the States?"

  “Six or seven months. They went to many big cities—Los Angeles, Las Vegas, San Francisco, places in Oregon and Washington. Mostly in your West, but I do not know all the cities. He has been back here a year and a half, perhaps."

  “You told me last night your stepfather died a year and four months ago. So Mordieux had been back from his tour of the States for maybe a couple of months then, right?"

  She looked toward the sea. “Yes. About two months, it was. As I told you, he then became hungan of what had been Papa Lurin's sanctuary."

  “Pretty convenient for the Count. He wound up with a going humfo, and it didn't cost him anything."

  “That is true. But, still, he spent much money. He bought more land, erected other buildings. And he prepared feasts at which whole oxen were cooked, and many hens, and at which there was drinking of much kal and wine. This brought more members into his colony."

  “Uh-huh. So because he had the fine big sanctuary, the biggest buildings, and gave parties for the voters—the members of the colony, I mean—a lot of other people turned to him. Is that it?"

  “In part, yes. But it is more than that. He, Mordieux, has some quality.... The people follow him easily, they trust in him, believe in his powers. He is strong, very strong. The people will follow a strong man and, even if he sometimes is not good for them, often they do not care."

  “Yeah. Well, how about Mordieux’ troupe, the ones who toured with him in the States—any of them here on the island now?"

  “Paul Yuré, the one who is now dead. He went, and became confiance upon their return and establishment of the sanctuary. And Michel, too, who is now Mordieux’ la-place and may become confiance."

  "La-place?"

  “It is from commandant général de la place, the commander in chief of the city. He is what you call the master of ceremonies. He leads all processions, directs them, sees that the others are m their proper places, that all is orderly."

  “Those two, then?"

  “There is one other. A young woman, of much knowledge, and a dancer of renown. She is called Chicha. Chicha is Mordieux’ hungenikon—the trusted one, who in all ceremonies identifies and names the loa that appear and determines which songs shall be sung to each loa. She herself begins each song and also stops the songs by her command."

  “Two still here, then. Michel and Chicha."

  “Yes."

  “You know where they might be found?"

  “At the humfo. At Mordieux’ sanctuary."

  “Where is it?"

  “Not far from here. Four, perhaps five kilometers.” She pointed to the west and described the route, up Hyacinthe Road to the sanctuary.

  When we'd finished breakfast and were having more coffee I said, “Well, thanks for the info, Dria. Now, though it may wreak havoc with digestion, I'd better get on my way to see Mordieux."

  The dark shining eyes widened. “You are not going there, are you?"

  “Sure."

  “After last night?"

  “Yeah. I can't just sit here and enjoy the balmy—"

  “But you must not."

  “Look, Dria, I've a lot of questions to ask, not only of Mordieux but the other people out there. About Paul and this strike or whatever it is, and..."

  I stopped. A black car had pulled up in front of the hotel entrance, and gaudily uniformed Sergeant Rivera popped out and trotted up the steps. He went inside in something of a hurry, I thought.

  Dria was saying, “Shell, already Mordieux is hating you, it will be worse if you go there. Besides, those of his humfo—and others here on the island—now know what occurred. Most are loyal to him; they might do you harm—"

  “Dria, I appreciate your concern.” I smiled at her. “But I'm here to do a job. To dig around in corners, ask questions—and if it means going to see our gleaming Count, then I've got to go see the Count."

  She started to protest, but I interrupted. “Wonder what Rivera wanted. He just flew inside the hotel."

  I was looking toward the entrance, and as I spoke the sergeant came back out with Farrow. Dria and I were sitting about a hundred feet from the entrance so I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I saw Rivera wave his hands and shake his head.

  I thanked Dria again, told her to keep calm, and walked toward the two men. As I reached them Farrow was saying, “That's the damndest thing. What about Miss Underwood?"

  “No, she is all right. Only Paul."

  She's all right? I thought. Hell, she was dead as a doornail. I said, “What's up?"

  Rivera looked at me and waved his hands again. “My body, it has been stolen."

  I blinked. “Your ... Is this another damned voo—"

  Farrow broke in. “He means the body he was going to have Dr. Otter perform an autopsy on. Paul Yure's body."

  “It's been heisted?"

  He nodded.

  I looked at the sergeant. “When was this? And why in hell would anybody steal his body?"

  “Why, indeed? Why? It is crazy, no? Yes. But it was last night. Not anyone knows when, since not anyone was watching the body. Who would think it necessary to watch a dead body?"

  “That makes sense."

  “It was in the funeral parlor at the beginning of the night, but at the end it was no longer there. It was gone.” He waved his hands again. “Vanished."

  “Well, a dead guy doesn't get up and go for a stroll all by himself. Somebody had to go in there and haul it out so it could vanish. Any signs of forcible entry?"

  “My man is checking."

  My man, he'd said; not my men. That was another difference between here and Los Angeles. There were a lot of differences. Rivera continued, “The locks are not difficult, however. Many keys would open them. Any keys. For who would think it necessary—"

  “You've no idea who snatched the stiff, or why?"

  “None. Perhaps it was no one. Perhaps...” His eyes flickered, and he shut up. I wasn't sure what he'd started to say. But I had a hunch.

  Rivera scratched his cheek, then said to Farrow, “I must return. But I felt you should know of this.” He trotted back to his car.

  “How about that, John?” I said.

  “You tell me. You're the detective.” He didn't speak with real sharpness, but I could tell he wasn't feeling as jolly as could be.

  I told John where I was going—just in case I didn't return until moonrise or something—and then added, “Have you got something I can use for transportation?"

  “Sure. Take the blue station wagon again. It's yours while you're here. The other one's all we'll need."

  He got me the keys, and I was on my way.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mordieux’ sanctuary was inland four miles and a thousand feet or so above sea level, near a small settlement or village called Vincenne. About half of the two hundred people in Vincenne were members of Mordieux’ “colony,” and there were a number of others from more outlying parts of the island. According to Dria, usually from half a dozen to a dozen of Mordieux’ followers lived on the two-acre sanctuary itself, in a building set aside for that purpose.

  These were the indigent, those with nowhere else to go—at least, until they were able to provide for themselves—and the ill. Mordieux took care of them at his own expense, ministered to their needs—which was a plus for the Count, I figured. If, that is, he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart, and not simply because it was the traditional role of the hungan.

  Basically, the institution of the hungan was, I thought, a good one—at least in a place that our planners back home would call an “underdeveloped” or “emerging” society. The hungan was a kind of combined Congressman, priest, judge, doctor, and psychoanalyst of and for his small community; its political, medical, and religious leader.

  In addition to food and shelter, the people needed someone to hand down decisions and, hopefully, justice; to minister to their ills of mind and body and, maybe, cure them; and to lead them into—or at least toward—religion. As for the religion itself, I guessed it was as good as any other, for Verde. Different people require different symbols, different dreams and rituals and hopes. Voudon was, I guessed, at least for this time and place, as good as any.

  The question was: How about Count Mordieux? What kind of cat was he?

  The drive to here had been the kind honeymooners should take on the day after the wedding. Half a mile from the hotel, Hyacinthe Road had curved away from the sea and then started rising in slow stages toward the west. For the last three miles it had wound through thick growth of palms, bananas, and ferns, the deep green relieved by splashes of color that were the biggest and most vibrantly tinted orchids I'd ever seen.

  In order to get four miles west I had to drive about twice that far in every direction but east. Twice I passed other dirt roads that intersected the one I was on, but I didn't see another car in all that time. I did pass half a dozen people walking toward the coast.

  Then I came around the last curve, and the road straightened out. On my left the land was flat, but at my right a hill, covered with thick brush and a few crooked trees, rose to a height of perhaps a hundred feet. Straight ahead and slightly above me were Vincenne and what had to be the sanctuary of Count Mordieux.

  The village was half a mile or so distant, on my left, while the sanctuary itself was no more than three or four hundred yards away. Over breakfast Dria had told me quite a lot I hadn't known about voodoo and had also described the sanctuary; she'd said it covered perhaps two acres, but it looked bigger to me. I could count six separate buildings grouped around an open area that was at least half an acre in itself. On its far side was the biggest building of all—that would be the peristyle, where the major ceremonies, dances, and classical rituals of voudon were held. A slightly smaller building was on its left, adjacent to it, and two of the other wooden structures were at each side of the cleared space. At the edge of the clearing nearest me was a big bushy tree—called an oraflora tree, Dria had said.

  Three or four people were visible near the buildings, but I could see many more moving around in the dirt streets of the village beyond or sitting next to the small houses. So I drove on, headed for Vincenne.

 

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