Kundu, page 9
For a long moment Curtis stood irresolute, eyes downcast, searching for the words to frame his message. Then he raised his head. His voice was unsteady.
“I—I’m afraid I’ve brought you bad news.”
She stiffened. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. The words carne in a faltering whisper.
“Bad news? I don’t understand.”
“Max Lansing died last night. Snakebite. A runner brought me the news ten minutes ago.”
She did not cry out. She did not weep. But her whole body was rigid and her eyes were staring with blank horror. She held tightly to the rough wood of the shelf, arching her back against it.
Lee Curtis stood helpless, incapable of even a small gesture of comfort. Gerda shuddered and buried her face in her hands. He laid a tentative hand on her dark hair. She jerked away.
“No! No! Don’t touch me.”
He drew back and watched her recover herself, slowly and painfully. Then at last she faced him, dry-eyed, tight-lipped. The horror was gone from her eyes. Now they were blazing with hate. Her voice was tight, but steady and full of challenge.
“Mr. Curtis!”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Curtis, you are the representative of the Administration.”
“That’s right.”
“You have police powers as well?”
“In this area—yes.”
“Then—” She looked him full in the eyes. Her voice was as cold as stone. “Then I want to tell you that Max Lansing was murdered—by my husband.”
The blunt accusation shocked him like a douche of cold water. He spoke carefully.
“Lansing died sometime last night in a village fifteen miles from here. Your husband did not leave the plantation.”
“I know that. He did not need to. He arranged for Max to be killed by Kumo the Sorcerer.”
“Can you prove that?”
“No. But I believe it to be true.”
“Why?”
“Because of what was said last night. Max made it plain that he believed Kurt was implicated in the trouble among the tribes.”
“There is no trouble yet—”
Her anger blazed out at him.
“No, but there will be—and why? Because you and your kind will not listen to the men who know—like Max and Père Louis. You come up here with your police boys and your guns and your little book. You make a great show and then you go away—and all the time Kurt and Kumo and the rest have been laughing at you, throwing dust in your eyes.”
Breathless with anger, she stood facing him, battering on the light armour of his youthful self-control. Before he had time to answer her, she returned to the attack.
“And now a man is dead. A snake bit him. The verdict? Accident—act of God—death by misadventure! It is murder, I tell you. Murder! And the man who planned it is Kurt, my husband, who is so filled with his own pride that he imagines himself Lord of All, Master of Life and Death—like the Red Spirit.”
Then, without warning, she wept. Her body was shaken with great sobs, and she buried her ravaged face in her white hands. This time he reached out and drew her to him and held her, unresisting, pressed against his breast, until the spasm passed and she was crying quietly.
She drew away from him at last and lifted her face again. Hands and lips and eyes were eloquent in the broken appeal.
“What do I have to do? What more do I have to say to make you believe me?”
“I believe you, Gerda,” said Lee Curtis softly.
“You do?” There was wonderment and gratitude in her eyes.
He nodded.
“I believe you, because I love you.”
“Oh, no!” It was a cry of pure anguish. She cringed away from him as if he had struck her. “Not you, too. Please leave me alone. I’m tired. I have my own life to live. I cannot bear the burden of yours as well.”
Lee Curtis was hurt and troubled, but he had delicacy enough to apologize.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I—I promise not to bother you. Really I won’t. I understand what you’re telling me. I believe you may be right. But you must understand I can’t move. I can’t give even a hint of suspicion until I have evidence. Solid evidence. You see that, don’t you?”
She nodded wearily.
“I do. I’ll try to get it. I don’t know how, but I’ll try. Meantime, have you told my husband?”
“No. I thought it would be kinder to tell you first.”
She reached up and patted his cheek with the same vague, tender gesture that had irritated Max Lansing.
“You’re a good, kind young man. I’m sorry I made a scene.”
Curtis stiffened. Mention of his youth brought back all his uneasiness and his sense of isolation. He spoke crisply, officially, to cover his embarrassment.
“If you can carry it off, I’d rather you didn’t let your husband know I’ve seen you. He’s in the plantation. I’m going to tell him now.”
Gerda nodded.
“I can carry it off, as you say.”
“Good. Find out whatever you can and let me know. But …” He hesitated, then the words came out with a rush. “For God’s sake, be careful, Gerda. Be very, very careful.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
But he did not hear her. He was already gone, a shamefaced, troubled, scared young man striding through the dappled sunlight to see Kurt Sonderfeld.
Sonderfeld professed himself deeply shocked by the news. He swore softly in German and beat his forehead with his fist.
“The poor fellow! The poor, poor fellow! Gerda will be upset. I am myself. He was angry with me, I think. He left without saying good-bye. Now he is dead and we have no time to be friends again. He was drunk, you say?”
Curtis nodded.
“Sounds like it from the reports.”
“Natural enough. He would be lonely when he got back. He would drink to put himself early to sleep. That is the curse of this life—the isolation, the black depression. I know. I have felt it myself.”
Wee Georgie whistled softly. His beady, bloodshot eyes were bright with interest.
“Snakes, eh? Makes you think, don’t it? Place is alive with the bloody things and yet a man walks about all day in bare feet, sleeps six inches from the floor. Strewth!”
Theodore Nelson clucked his sympathy. He had travelled too much and too comfortably to be moved by Lansing’s untimely death. He was more interested in Lee Curtis. The boy knew more than he was telling. He was unhappy about something, scared, too, probably, but he was putting up a good front. His hands were steady and his eyes were cold, and there was a reassuring firmness in the set of his downy chin.
“If there is anything I can do—?” said Sonderfeld tentatively.
“There is—yes.” Curtis’s voice was crisp with authority. “I’m going up to the village this afternoon. I’ll have to inspect the body, arrange for the burial, collect Lansing’s things, make a report. I’d like you to come with me.”
Sonderfeld could not conceal his surprise.
“If you say so, of course. But I do not see what good I can do.”
“You’re a doctor,” said Curtis bluntly. “I need a death certificate. I may need a postmortem. You’re entitled to refuse, of course.”
“My dear fellow!” The big man was bland and smiling. “I wouldn’t dream of refusing. The Administration has been good to me. I am happy to serve the Administration. When do you want to leave?”
“In half an hour. Even at that we’ll be walking in the dark.”
Sonderfeld shrugged.
“I shall be ready. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I should like a few minutes with my wife. She was very—attached to our friend, Lansing. Come, Georgie!”
He strode off over the soft, black earth with the fat man shuffling and wheezing at his heels like a decrepit spaniel. Nelson and Curtis were left alone in the clearing.
“Cigarette?” said Nelson gently.
“Thanks.”
They lit up. Curtis was still staring across the plantation at the retreating figure of Sonderfeld.
“Trouble, Curtis?”
“Part of the job.”
Nelson grinned at the cryptic reply. He was a hard man to snub.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Curtis slewed round to face him. His patience was wearing thin, and the older man’s mockery was not calculated to improve it.
“Do I ask you about growing coffee?”
“No. But I’d be happy to tell you if you did.”
“This is police business.”
“What? Snakebite?”
“Yes.”
“Look, Curtis—” He was serious now. His pale eyes were shrewd and penetrating. “One of the things you learn in a job like mine is to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. If you say so, I’ll do just that. I’m not a policeman. I don’t belong to the Administration. You can blow this island off the map and I’ll still have a job. On the other hand, I may be able to help you.”
“How?”
“There’s trouble blowing up. I have no more than an inkling of what it may be—but one thing I’m sure of, this Lansing business is part of it.”
“How do you know that?”
The question was sharp with professional interest. Nelson shrugged.
“I don’t know anything. I’m guessing. I’m guessing that you’re taking Sonderfeld with you for a reason. I’m guessing that you’re not satisfied with the report from the village and that you’re going to make inquiries on your own account. I’m suggesting—only suggesting, mind you—that if you give me a little of the background, I may be able to pick up some information while you’re away. I presume I’ll dine at the house. Wee Georgie’s a gossipy sort of soul. Mrs. Sonderfeld will probably react to a little sympathy. And sometimes the onlooker sees more of the game than the man on the field.”
Curtis nodded slowly.
“That’s fair enough. But why? What’s your interest?”
Nelson chuckled and gave a comical shrug of defeat.
“Damned if I know. I’m breaking the habit of a lifetime. Perhaps I like you. Perhaps I don’t like Sonderfeld. Perhaps …” His eyes darkened. “Perhaps I’m scared of a place where a man can be killed in his cups and never know what struck him. Perhaps I need an ally as much as you do. Anyway, there it is. Take it or leave it.”
Seconds passed while Lee Curtis stood, silent and abstracted, staring out across the valley. Then his tight features relaxed into a boyish grin. He held out his hand.
“All right. I’ll take it! Walk with me down to the Kiap house. I’ll talk to you as we go.”
As he walked slowly across the plantation and up the gravelled path that led to the bungalow, Kurt Sonderfeld took stock of his situation. The first glance showed him a neat profit. His dominion over the sorcerer was established. The swift and sudden death of Lansing proved that. With Lansing gone, one major danger to his project was removed. His mouth was stopped; such evidence as he might have given was stifled forever. Unless …
A new fear halted him in his tracks—Lansing’s notes.
The man was a scholar, a meticulous recorder. Was there any mention of Sonderfeld’s activities in the notebooks which Curtis was bound to find when he came to collect the belongings of the dead man? He weighed the possibility, measured the risk. Then he was no longer afraid. There might be nothing. At most there would be the scrawled and cryptic jottings, the groundwork of a thesis that would never be written. They would harm him no more and probably a good deal less than Lansing’s blunt challenge over the whisky.
He became aware that Wee Georgie was standing beside him, studying him with shrewd and furtive eyes. He turned abruptly and began giving him orders for the conduct of the plantation during his absence. Wee Georgie listened and nodded continuously like a mandarin figure. He knew it all by heart. He knew exactly how little he could do and still escape the wrath of his master. Then, without warning, Sonderfeld heeled to a new tack.
“Then, there is the girl.”
“N’Daria, boss?”
“That’s right.”
Wee Georgie leered happily.
“I’ll keep me eye on her, boss. Never feat I’ll see she doesn’t go whorin’ around with the—”
“Shut up!” said Sonderfeld harshly. “Shut up and listen to me.”
“Yes, boss.” Wee Georgie was fervently contrite.
“You will have nothing to do with the girl, nothing to say to her. Let her go where she wants, do what she will. But you will arrange that her every movement is watched by your women or by one of the work boys. When I come back, I shall want a complete account, hour by hour. day and night. Understand?”
“Yes, boss. Yes … leave it to me. Those girls of mine have got eyes in their backsides.”
“Keep your own eyes open, Georgie—and your ears, too. Don’t drink too much. There are things moving that you do not understand. I will not have them complicated by a babbling fool with a bellyful of liquor”
“You can trust me, boss. You know that.”
“I know, Georgie.” His thin lips were a smiling threat. “I know that I can trust you. Why else would I have kept you alive so long?”
With that, he left him, a flabby, quaking wreck, cold in the warm sunshine. Wee Georgie shivered and licked his dry lips. He thought he had never needed a drink so badly.
As Sonderfeld came closer to the bungalow, he realized with something of a shock that he did not know what to say to his wife. In a curious fashion he was, for the first time, afraid of her. When, in the past, he had meditated the death of Lansing, it had been part of his pleasure to anticipate her reaction when he told her, bluntly and brutally, that her lover was dead. He had framed little speeches of mockery, little tricks of surprise to recall the presence of her lover, even when she was prepared to forget him.
Now, with Curtis alert and Nelson a shrewd and prying presence, with his plans for the pig festival so near to fruition, he could not afford the luxury of cruelty. So he must be gentle with her, grave, considerate, even tender, as if regretful of the past and faintly hopeful for the future of their married life. If he could not deceive her, at least he might puzzle her long enough to lull her suspicions of himself.
Then, when Curtis was gone, and Nelson, when the valley was his, and his the dominion of all the mountains, he could abandon himself to the luxury of tormenting her with mockery of her lover’s death.
At the foot of the steps he paused to compose his features in an expression of seemly grief. Then he walked into the house.
Gerda was in the living room arranging a great fan-shaped display of gladioli. She looked up when he entered and greeted him with the polite indifference that was habitual between them.
“Hullo, Kurt.”
Across the polished table he faced her. His eyes were grave, his lips almost tender.
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Gerda.”
“Bad news?”
She was only mildly surprised. He hesitated as if at a loss for words. He stumbled a little, stammered over the first awkward phrase. It was a magnificent performance.
“I—You may think I find a pleasure in this. Believe me, I am surprised that I do not. I feel grief for him—and grieve for you. Max Lansing is dead!”
“No!”
Her performance matched his own for depth and subtlety. She hid her face in her hands, as if trying to blot out a vision of monstrous horror. Her voice came to him in a muffled whisper.
“How? When did he die?”
“He was drunk last night. He was bitten by a snake and died in his sleep. At least that is the report we have had from the luluai. Curtis and I are going up to—to make an inspection and bury the poor fellow.”
“You are going up?”
Her surprise was genuine now. This was a move she had not expected. Sonderfeld nodded.
“Yes. Curtis wants a death certificate, possibly a postmortem. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. In any case, I am hardly in a position to refuse.”
“When are you going?”
“As soon as I have changed my clothes and packed some instruments.”
“I’ll help you.”
“There is no need.”
“I should like to do it. You have been kind to me in this—kinder than I could have believed possible with you. I am grateful, Kurt. Please let me help.”
Amused by her humble gratitude, elated by the success of his acting, he made no further protest but went with her to the bedroom. He stripped off his shorts and knee stockings and the white, short-sleeved shirt and put on a pair of denim slacks, greenhide jungle boots, webbing gaiters and a long-sleeved shirt of military pattern. It would be a long walk and the insects would be bad; it was wise to leave as little as possible of the body exposed.
While he was dressing, Gerda packed shaving gear and a box of cigars and a clean change in his canvas shoulder bag and laid out the small leather case of surgical instruments. She gathered up his discarded clothes and laid them in a heap on the bed for the houseboy to collect. She rubbed his hands and his face with repellent oil and went down on her knees to adjust the straps of his gaiters. Nothing more was said between them, but Sonderfeld watched her with cynical amusement, remembering the first days of her servitude to him.
He was so absorbed in this refinement of pleasure that he quite forgot the bamboo tube which he always carried in the pocket of his white shorts.
He was halfway over the mountains with Lee Curtis before he remembered it.
Long before it had reached Patrol Officer Lee Curtis, the news of Lansing’s death was reported to Père Louis. His village was only a few miles from Lansing’s, and the commerce between them was easy and constant. A man with a load of canes met an old woman leading a blind pig. They whispered a moment, furtively, fearfully, and then they parted.
The woman met a man and his son armed with bows and arrows out on the hunt for bird of paradise plumes. She hailed them and they came to her with reluctance, but when they had heard her low-spoken message, they turned back, running in the direction of the village.
The man and his son passed the taro patch where his wife was working. They told her the news in hurried undertones, then went back to the hunt. The woman told another woman and she told her husband’s father.
