Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Don’t stand there, go and fetch the doctor. Now!”

  “Yes—yes sir.” The butler turned and ran.

  Coffin looked down at his wife. Her limp body suddenly felt weightless, insubstantial. “Holly,” he whispered, “it can all be worked out. We can still make it work. My God, this isn’t the way. This isn’t the way.” He looked up sharply. “Is’bel!”

  “Yes sir.” The maid continued staring down at her unconscious mistress.

  “Go and get some water. Hot water. And towels.”

  “Yes sir.” She whirled and disappeared.

  Coffin lifted the small form off the floor, walked across the Persian carpet to set it gently on the nearest couch. He stayed by her side until the maid returned. Warm compresses were applied to his wife’s forehead. She continued to breathe but her eyes remained shut.

  Damn Edward! What was keeping him?

  Suddenly conscious of the maid’s presence in the room Coffin rose and quietly gathered the photographs from where they’d fallen. He put the letter on top of the first picture, sat down in his chair and began reading anew. His eyes burned into the paper as though by dint of sheer concentration he could somehow make a name, an address appear between the neat lines of script. As if in the rereading he might recognize the handwriting, or spot a watermark indicating where the paper had been purchased. But there was nothing. The careful, detached tone of the letter mocked his efforts to unravel its origin.

  Meanwhile there was only silence. Silence in the room and in the hallway beyond.

  9

  “Mr. Coffin, sir, I have some bad news. Mr. Coffin?”

  Lost in himself as he shuffled slowly past Goldman’s office, Coffin looked up only when Goldman emerged to block his path.

  When he saw the expression on his employer’s face, Goldman found himself hesitating. The eyes were tired, lost. For the first time in all the years of their long acquaintance, Robert Coffin looked like an old man.

  Now he tried to smile. You could see the effort it cost him. “I’m sorry, Elias. I guess I didn’t hear you. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Yes sir. I’m afraid John Morydon has left us.”

  “Left?” Coffin frowned, seemed to return from a place far away. “What do you mean, he’s left?” After Elias Goldman, John Morydon was Coffin House’s most valuable employee, a fine manager and master of half a dozen languages. Whenever Coffin had any serious trouble with his contacts in China, India or the Indies he dispatched Morydon to straighten out the problem, which he inevitably did.

  “Why would he leave? I thought John was happy here.”

  “So did I, sir. Apparently he received a better offer elsewhere.”

  “So much better that he would leave without giving us the chance to match it?” Coffin’s gaze narrowed. “Rose Hull.”

  “No sir, he didn’t move over to Hull House, sir. Nor has he gone with Rushton or Wallingford or any of the others. At least, not insofar as I have been able to discover.”

  Coffin sagged. “Ah well. Then I don’t imagine there’s much we can do about it, is there?” He walked around Goldman.

  His assistant came after him. This wasn’t the Robert Coffin he’d known most of his life, the man who once would have fought a whole crew of whalers or an entire government to protect his interests.

  “Don’t you think we should make some kind of an effort, Mr. Coffin?”

  “How do you mean, Elias?”

  “Well sir, to try and find out what happened. To hire John back.”

  “If John’s decided he can do better for himself elsewhere then what’s the point in our hounding him?” A gleam came into Coffin’s eye. “Though I would like to know who made him the offer. Try to find out where he ends up.”

  This was better. “I will do the best I can, sir. If he’s left the country it won’t be easy.”

  “I know it won’t, Elias. But you’ve been doing the difficult for a long time, haven’t you?” They were outside Coffin’s offices now.

  As Coffin moved to enter, Elias Goldman did something he hadn’t dared in more than thirty years. He physically prevented the bigger man from proceeding. Coffin halted, though whether out of consideration or shock Goldman didn’t know.

  “Mr. Coffin, sir—Robert. What’s wrong?”

  Coffin hesitated before speaking. “It’s Holly again.” He talked slowly with visible reluctance. “She’s had a—relapse.”

  “I see,” Goldman replied carefully. “I am truly sorry, sir. I didn’t know.”

  “No one knows except for the household staff, myself, the doctors and now you.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “I know that, Elias.” Coffin put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Is there anything I can do? I could send my wife around.”

  “No!” Coffin spoke so sharply Goldman retreated a step and his employer hastened to reassure him. The thought was a kind one, but the appearance at her bedside of Goldman’s attractive Maori wife was not the sort of therapy Holly required just now.

  “Thank you Elias, but no.”

  “What of the prognosis?”

  Coffin tried to sound hopeful, wondered if he was succeeding. “The doctors continue to consult. They say she has lapsed into a coma, alive but yet not. She could awaken at any time, or.…

  “Or?” Goldman prodded gently.

  “Or she might never come out of it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” More than you’ll ever know, Elias, he thought. “But I’m not the only one who’s going to sorrow over this.”

  Goldman frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir.”

  They entered Coffin’s enormous office and Goldman watched while the head of Coffin House sat down behind the desk. When his employer at last looked back to him it was as if the old Robert Coffin he knew so well had suddenly returned. The transition was abrupt and startling.

  “I have some work for certain of our people, Elias.” In contrast to Coffin’s previous slow, tired speech his words now came fast and crisp. A relieved Goldman whipped out pad and pencil.

  “Which people, sir?”

  “The ones we occasionally employ for atypical purposes. I want them to find the names and whereabouts of every professional photographer in the country. I want to know the ages of these people, if they’re independent artists or if they work for a service. I want to know if any of them worked in the Rotorua District at any time within the past two years. I want to know how many private cameras there are in the colony, who sells them and most importantly, who providers developing services and supplies. I want to know if any professional photographers have arrived from Australia or anywhere else anytime in the past year and any who’ve left recently.

  “In brief, Elias, I want as thorough a breakdown of the photographic community in New Zealand for the past two years as it’s possible to compile.”

  Goldman finally looked up from writing furiously. “Yes sir. May I inquire why you need this kind of information?”

  “No Elias, you may not. Someday maybe I’ll be able to explain it to you. If I find who I’m looking for.” His voice fell. “I may not, but by God I’m going to try.” Before he died he would know who had done this to him.

  Then he would crush whoever was responsible like a fly.

  10

  Flynn Kinnegad rolled over to stare at Merita. She lay on her side next to him, sleeping soundly, as much a natural wonder as the hot springs of Ohine-mutu.

  Everything was proceeding according to plan. His overseas investments continued to provide him with all the money he needed to do as he pleased. The gold he and his partners had wrenched from the hills of Otago had been channeled through offshore financial centers so as not to trigger any alarms in Wellington or Auckland. Yellow metal traveled from Melbourne to Hong Kong, New York and Rome, to be converted into pounds sterling and dollars.

  His latest triumph had been to have a Glasgow company hire the res
ourceful and irreplaceable John Morydon away from Coffin House. The bewildered but delighted company had been more than glad to do so since the necessary money had been provided by an insistent and anonymous shareholder. The small company could never have afforded a man with Morydon’s skills on their own. As for Morydon, he accepted the position and the outrageous bonus without bothering to inquire as to its origins, assuming quite naturally it had been provided by his new employer.

  No one in Scotland or New Zealand suspected that all that money and maneuvering had been for one purpose only: to deprive Coffin House of a valuable employee.

  It was a small blow, as had been the incriminating and revealing package that had been delivered to Coffin’s home. First blood. After endless years of waiting at last he was beginning to move.

  He drank in the sight of Merita. I have your woman, Father, he said to himself. Soon I will take everything else.

  He knew he would have to be careful. A wounded bear was more dangerous than a healthy one. Coffin House was such a vast enterprise it would be difficult to take over quietly.

  If he moved boldly and openly he could achieve that end far sooner, but that wasn’t the kind of revenge he’d spent his entire life planning. How much more satisfying to slice up his father’s precious business a little piece at a time while Coffin went mad trying to unmask his tormentor, wondering who was demolishing him and why. Far more interesting to move slowly, like playing chess blindfolded. Only near the end would Kinnegad show Coffin who had broken him.

  There was noise out in the hall, innocently loud and uncaring. That would be young Andrew off to play with his friends in the village. Some day he would learn that his mother’s friend was in reality his own half-brother. A good boy, Andrew, and blameless. A magnanimous Flynn could leave the child out of the plans for his father’s destruction. He smiled contentedly.

  There was no way he could fail.

  BOOK SIX

  1886

  1

  “Damn all liberals!”

  The shouts seeped from behind the heavy closed door to halt the two clerks in their tracks. The one nearest the door winked knowingly at his colleague.

  “The Old Man’s at it again.”

  “You better not let him hear you say that.” His companion kept his voice to a whisper. “Better not let him hear you referring to him as the ‘Old Man,’ either. You know how vain he can be.”

  “Don’t worry.” Additional oaths and curses boomed from the big office sealed off by the door.

  The smaller of the two men was staring nervously down the hall. “Come on, Mick. We’d better get away from here. If Goldman or Ellsworth catch us listening we’ll be out on the street in two minutes, without severance pay.”

  “What are you worried about?” His foolhardy friend was straining to hear as the voices on the other side of the barrier fell. “It’s lunchtime. Everyone else has cleared off. Besides, Goldman’s in there with him. You can hear him muttering ‘yes sir, yes sir’ all the time. You know how the Old Man uses him for a sounding board.”

  “Yeah, I know, but this is still dangerous country.” He took his friend by the arm and started trying to pull him away. “Come on!”

  “Oh all right.” The other clerk allowed himself to be led off. But he was still striving to listen as they started down the stairs.

  Elias Goldman stood patiently in the middle of the floor while Robert Coffin strode angrily back and forth between his desk and the window that overlooked the city beyond. As he raved, Coffin gesticulating violently, using his fingers like knives.

  “I just don’t understand what’s wrong with people today, Elias. What do they want, anyway?”

  At seventy-three Coffin was a straight-backed, imposing figure, with the body and bearing of a much younger man. Not so Elias Goldman. Never impressive physically, now he was bent and wrinkled, so thin it seemed Coffin’s bellowing must surely blow him across the carpet. But like a reed in the wind, Goldman knew how to cope with his employer’s occasional tirades. He stood nodding understandingly while Coffin’s violence slipped around him.

  Coffin stopped to stare out at the bustling, busy street below. “Sure we’re in debt, but business is good and improving. The country prospers. Even this fool Te Kooti and his passive resistance campaign have just about run out of steam.”

  “That’s true, sir,” said Goldman, venturing cautiously into the first gap in Coffin’s sermon. “I hear tell he’s going to surrender himself any day now.”

  “About time,” Coffin said huffily. “At last we’ll have an end to the Maori problem.” He turned from the window, grinning ruefully. “Remember when the resistance first broke out, Elias? We thought we’d clean up the Maoris in a month. Instead it’s taken almost twenty-five years. A quarter of a century!”

  “Yes, sir, if you go back to the burning of Kororareka.”

  “Kororareka.” Coffin stared off into the distance and his voice was suddenly thick with remembrance. “Now there was a real town! Not boring and stuffy like this.” He swept a hand toward the window. “We’ve gotten too civilized, Elias. That was a place where people lived.”

  “I know, sir.” Privately Goldman thought old Kororareka the most heinous blot on the country’s history but he was far too sensible to offer his personal opinion to Coffin. “Remember, I lived there too.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten. You know, you’re a funny fellow, Elias.”

  “Am I, sir?” said Goldman noncommitally.

  “Yes. You keep a lower profile than a kiwi, yet you’re always around. Whether you’re needed or not.”

  “I’m not naturally an obtrusive type, Mr. Coffin. I try to anticipate.”

  Coffin laughed. It was good to hear him laugh, Goldman mused. He didn’t laugh often these days. Only when he’d stolen a march on a competitor or ground another into dust. Even Angus McQuade came around but rarely. Goldman often saw Coffin eating in silence at the Club or one of his favorite restaurants instead of participating in his friends’ debates the way he used to do.

  It wasn’t that he saw them as enemies trying to steal information from him. It was simply that he wasn’t good company anymore. Unless he was in one of his rare good moods, like today.

  He sighed wistfully. “So many years gone. Poor old Kororareka. Now they call the place Russell. It just doesn’t sound right.” Coffin glanced sharply at Goldman. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Elias.”

  “Neither do I, sir.” Goldman smiled through his thick gray mustache and Coffin grinned back. “If I may say so, it’s good to see you feeling so well.”

  “I know I haven’t been very cheerful lately, Elias.”

  Lately, Goldman thought? You haven’t been very cheerful for years. But who was he to criticize Coffin’s deportment? That was not now and never had been his job.

  “How goes the cable laying?” Coffin asked him.

  “Coming along on schedule, I believe, sir.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? Science and all that? It’s hard for a simple seaman like myself to accept the fact that soon we’ll be able to telegraph our Sydney and Melbourne branches directly. Think of the savings in time—and money.”

  “Speaking of time and money, sir, the Corinthian is overdue from San Francisco.”

  “Nothing to get excited about, Mr. Goldman. Even these days a transpacific voyage still involves many variables. It’s only a few days late.”

  In an exceedingly good mood, Goldman told himself, even as he thought he knew the reason why. He would never voice his suspicions aloud, of course. Tolerant as Coffin was of their long relationship, he still had limits beyond which it was wise not to push.

  “Staggs is rarely on time, but he always gets here.”

  “That’s true, sir. He always does.”

  “And with his cargo and crew intact. I’ve watched other Captains, Elias. They drive their men so hard half of them jump ship as soon as they make port. All to shave a day or two off the crossing. Good sailo
rs are more valuable than a few days.”

  “Quite so, sir.” He swallowed pointedly. “Although as I’m sure you’re aware, the Marathon docked yesterday.”

  “A Hull Company ship.” Coffin chuckled. “A tough gal, that Rose Hull. Always was, even as a child. So she’ll be the first to offer in stores the latest in bric-a-brac and fashions. No matter. Business is good enough that we’ll still make a handsome profit on the Corinthian’s cargo. Maybe next time it’ll be Skaggs who’s first to port. There’s enough profit to go around.”

  “I must disagree with you there, sir.” Goldman had decided to test the depth of Coffin’s good mood. “There isn’t enough to go around.”

  “What? What’s that?” Coffin eyed him in surprise. “Elias, we’re not going to have a political disagreement, are we?”

  “I’m afraid we are, sir. You spoke briefly earlier of the liberal sentiment in this country. It’s not just a youthful aberration, sir. It’s serious.”

  “You, a liberal?” Coffin let out a desultory laugh. “You of all people, Elias.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, Mr. Coffin.”

  “Well I’ll be damned. I wouldn’t have believed it possible if you hadn’t told me yourself.”

  “That’s because you don’t go into the city, sir.”

  “What are you talking about, Elias? I’m in town every day.”

  “In the financial district, yes. In the better sections. You don’t visit the fringe, the smaller towns. It’s true Julius Vogel spent this country back to prosperity, but it was prosperity for a chosen few.”

  Coffin’s smile was fading. “What are you driving at, Elias?”

  Goldman took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “You’ve done well, sir. Coffin House Limited and Hull Company and Rushton and McQuade and many of the others have done equally well. But I’m afraid that the money generated by Mr. Vogel’s policies has failed to trickle down to the common folk.”

  “Elias, I’m surprised at you. I always thought you were a great admirer of Julius.”