“I’m no authority on the Federation,” I said. “But I’ll be glad to give you any help I can. I might be able to arrange some introductions—that sort of thing.” While we talked he had been scrutinizing Ellen with that bold, suggestive stare, and the poor girl was more flustered than I had ever seen her. Averting her eyes and blushing, she drained her punch in a gulp. I felt my fingers tighten on my own glass.
“Here’s the deal,” Bart said. “I’ll ditch this babe I’ve got in tow, and you and your—ah—secretary have dinner with me. I’ll give you all the latest news flashes on the good old U.S.A., and you can fill me in on What Every Young Boy Should Know in Trinidad. Okay?”
The last thing I wished was to have dinner with Barton Wentworth, who would almost certainly want to make a night of it, but I saw no graceful way of bowing out. And also, something that could have been the beginning of an idea was stirring in my unconscious.
I said, “Why, thanks, Bart, I’ll be delighted. Unfortunately, I believe Ellen has a date with her fiancé and won’t be able to join us.”
Noting his alerted look, I regretted the slight emphasis I had given the word fiancé. Learning that another man had a prior claim had always whetted his interest. I’m sure that at first he had assumed the prior claim was mine, but I’m not that particular kind of old fool. Except for his poaching instincts, I doubt that Ellen would have appealed very much to Bart Wentworth, lacking as she does that flamboyance he usually went for. Not always, but usually. The woman who still waited at the other table, for instance, a spectacular blonde, was much more his type.
While he returned to the blonde to make whatever glib excuses came to his tongue, I laid down the law to Ellen. She was wistful; I suppose having dinner, and perhaps a series of luncheons and dinners, with a well- known newspaper correspondent appealed to her young imagination as romantic. But I was too fond of Ellen, and I liked her Leon too well to let Barton Wentworth mess up their lives as he very likely would, given half a chance. Ellen pouted a bit and pointed out that she wasn’t married yet, but she didn’t really want to hurt Leon, so she took my advice and left to keep her date.
Bart came back, looking well satisfied with himself, and the first thing he said was, “Hey, where’s little cutie-pie?”
“I told you she had a previous engagement.”
“Aw, she could have busted it. You always were a selfish bastard, Paul. I’ll bet you scared her off with stories about the big bad wolf.”
He would have guffawed if I’d explained that Ellen was like a daughter to me, so I forbore argument.
He demanded, “How come you need a secretary, anyway? Is she a nurse?”
I shook my head.
“I’m not practicing here.” I paused, then added quietly, “I sold my practice in the States after my wife’s death. Losing Cynthia hit me pretty hard, you know.”
“Uh, sure, must have been tough.” He had always shied away from the thought of death or suffering and now he looked uncomfortable, casting about for a change of subject.
I said, “Fortunately I’ve found a project of absorbing interest and, I hope, one that will be of real value. I’m working on a book about tropical diseases, using an approach that’s quite unique.”
“God!” he grimaced. “Don’t see how you can stand even to think about such things, much less write about them. So far as that goes, I don’t see how you can stand living in a place like this where you must be exposed to all kinds of gruesome germs all the time.”
“Your theory being that some germs are more gruesome than others?”
“You damned well know they are. Well, I took precautions. Before this trip I got shot for everything from yellow fever to the plague. Say, Paul, those inoculations are sure-fire, aren’t they? I mean, once you’ve had ’em, you’re one hundred per cent guaranteed not to catch anything, aren’t you?”
I smiled. “Now, Bart, you must understand that such sweeping generalizations are distasteful to the scientific mind. Let us say that the inoculations are effective virtually always.”
“Virtually!” He flagged a passing waiter. “Boy, bring us another round.” He fumbled out a filter-tip cigarette and lighted it with hands that were almost steady. “You know what I did, Paul? There was an awful mob at the airport when I got in. Negroes, South Americans, Chinese, East Indians—and God, when you think of all the filthy diseases they have in India! Anyway, by the time I got through Customs with all that crowd brushing me and jostling me, I felt positively crawling. First thing when I checked in I stripped and took a good hot bath with antiseptic soap and sent everything I had on to the laundry. I felt like burning those clothes.”
I smiled again. “You should have been a writer of fiction. You have an inflamed imagination.”
“It’s all very well for you to be casual. You’re a doctor, and used to all kinds of unpleasantness. But it gives me the willies just to visit anybody in the hospital. I’ve never been sick a day in my life, except when I broke my leg and that doesn’t count, and I think I’d shoot myself before I’d submit to a lingering illness. Especially one of those horrible diseases you’ve got down here.”
He meant it too. I studied him thoughtfully. Perspiration glittered on his forehead and he wiped the back of his neck.
“You’re unbalanced on the subject, Bart,” I said slowly. “It’s not healthy. You ought to take hold of yourself. You know what would be good for you? Let me take you on a visit to the leper colony at Chacachacare. You’d be amazed at how happy many of those people seem. It’s still a living death, of course, but someday we may even find a cure for it. Meanwhile, you’ll be impressed by the difference between the old days when a leper had to ring a bell and call out, ‘Unclean, unclean,’ and our modern leprosariums. I should think it would give you good material for a story too.”
“God damn it, Heffner, you’re needling me! Leper colony! Will you cut it out or shall I slug you one?”
“Why, of course, if you’re that unreasonable, we won’t continue the discussion. I was only trying to help you out of a bad mental state. Let’s forget it. Where shall we eat dinner?”
“What’s the matter with right here? Big hotel like this, run by the British, ought to have some notion of sanitation in their kitchens.”
When I raised my eyebrows in ever so faint derision, he flared again. “All right, God damn it, laugh at me! But don’t give me any more of your so-called clinical observations or I’ll feel like going up and taking another bath.”
As I had drearily anticipated, Wentworth insisted on making a night of it. Quite late that evening, we were having a drink on the terrace of the Belvedere, high on Lady Chancellor Hill with all of Port of Spain and the harbor twinkling below. It was a pleasant spot, with frangipani and hibiscus scenting the soft air and night birds swooping around the lanterns.
We had stopped at several other places before this, and Bart was again in great good spirits. As usual, when he got a little high, he started telling an interminable succession of off-color stories. His attitude was “I don’t care whether it’s funny or not, just so it’s dirty.”
I was pretty bored and glanced at my watch, preparatory to breaking it up. He seemed not to notice the gesture, but abruptly broke off his ribald laughter and leaned across the table, lowering his voice.
“Say, Paul, you mentioned earlier about arranging introductions for me. How’s about fixing me up with one of these native girls? I understand they’re hot little numbers.”
I frowned. It was not, of course, quite the sort of introduction I’d had in mind, although, knowing him, I should have anticipated such a request. But I wasn’t enthusiastic about acting as procurer for Barton Wentworth.
“Oh, come off it, Paul,” he said. “Don’t pull that lily-pure stuff on me. You haven’t lived here all these years without learning your way around. Don’t be so damned selfish all the time.”
While I hesitated, still frowning, he said, “I don’t care what color she is, just so she’s lively. And c
lean.” His tone was suddenly anxious. “You know? I want to be sure about that.”
That nameless something stirred in my unconscious again.
“Maybe,” I said slowly, “I can arrange something. But you’ll have to promise me, Bart, to use the utmost discretion. I have my reputation to think about, you know, and if I do you this favor, you’ll have to agree to my conditions.”
“Why, hell, discretion is my middle name. Let’s get going.”
“You wait here a few minutes,” I said. “I’ll have to make a telephone call.”
When I returned and nodded to him that it was all set, we called for the check.
In the parking lot, climbing into my MG, he demanded, “Now this mystery woman, whoever she is, is clean, isn’t she? You’re sure of that? I don’t want to pick up VD down here—or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Bart,” I said, with exaggerated patience, “I absolutely guarantee you on my word of honor as a doctor that this girl doesn’t have VD. Does that satisfy you?”
“Well, you don’t need to get huffy about it. A fellow can’t be too careful.”
We wound down the long hill, skirted the north edge of the savannah, and turned into the hills again toward my place in the Maraval section. It’s a modest enough colonial bungalow, but nicely situated to catch the night breezes and with sufficient ground to insure privacy. In the rear is a luxuriant tropical garden and at the very end of the garden, far from house and street, a small building which started out in life as a summer house and which I converted into a sort of studio apartment to accommodate any house guests I may have. They are fairly infrequent, but I cannot endure having people underfoot.
Lights still burned in the bungalow and, as I turned off the motor in the drive, I said, “I believe my housekeeper is still up. We’d better go in and have a nightcap—let her know I have a guest.”
Mrs. Johnson was just leaving my study after having placed there the tray with whisky, ice, and soda which she left for me every night. I introduced Wentworth to her, mentioning that he would be leaving after a drink or two. She is a tall spare woman in her sixties, with that gentle dignity which is characteristic of the West Indian Negro, and with that equally characteristic grave courtesy. After a brief chat with Wentworth, she retired while I busied myself with highball glasses.
Bart was full of questions and impatience, but I ignored his eagerness, painstakingly giving him my impressions of the West Indian Federation, which was what he was supposed to be interested in.
At last, draining my glass, I rose and picked up a flashlight. “Mrs. Johnson should be asleep. Now I want it understood, Bart, that this is one amorous exploit you will boast of to nobody. Nobody. Not even mention it obliquely. Also, you must promise to be off these premises by daylight. Call a cab, but don’t have it come here—have it stop down at the intersection and wait. Agreed?”
He grumbled a bit, but promised. Actually, there was no reason why he couldn’t have stayed as long as he liked—Mrs. Johnson would not have been surprised if he had spent the night in the studio. But I thought that part about being off the premises by daylight was a nice dramatic touch. And it amused me to think of Wentworth, tired and bleary-eyed, creeping back to his hotel in the predawn bleakness. Also, I knew what he didn’t: that Trinidad cab-drivers doubled their charges in the small hours. Oh, granted, that was a trifling thing, but gratifying.
I handed him the flashlight and showed him the path leading back through the garden.
“She’s waiting for you there, Bart. She’s expecting you. Just remember the conditions.”
“Well, uh, this is sure great of you, Paul. You’re a real pal. I’ll give you a buzz tomorrow. Okay?”
“Do that,” I said. “I’m in the book.”
I stood there a minute, smiling in the darkness as the flashlight’s beams receded. I knew that Anna Marie would be there, as she had promised, and I felt sure Anna Marie wouldn’t disappoint him. She was the youngest of Mrs. Johnson’s ten or twelve children, although I hadn’t told him that. Whether she had been a house child or a yard child, I didn’t know, but I suspected the latter, for Anna Marie was so light she could have passed. She was twenty-five, very pretty, very charming, and very promiscuous. That was important because, while I’m sure Wentworth would have preferred the seduction of a virgin, I would have suffered compunctions about collusion in such an affair.
Nor had I lied to him about the VD. Anna Marie lived with her mother in the servants’ quarters at the back of the bungalow. She worked as a maid, and when I gave one of my occasional small dinners to repay the generous hospitality always shown to an unattached male she waited on table very nicely. If for no other reason than to protect myself and my guests, I had some time ago had a heart-to-heart talk with Anna Marie, and I also took the precaution of running a blood check on her periodically. Anna Marie knew the facts of life all right, including, I imagine, a few of which even Barton Wentworth was unaware.
I didn’t see much of Wentworth from then on till he left Trinidad. He had called me next day, full of enthusiasm about Anna Marie. I repeated my warnings about discretion, but he swore he was calling from a public booth and couldn’t be overheard. At his insistence and feigning reluctance, I agreed that he could use the studio to meet her again that night if he would take every precaution against being observed. I believe he met her every night while he was in town.
Then one morning he called and announced that he was taking the two-thirty Pan Am flight back to New York. He would like, he said, to buy me a farewell lunch for what he called auld lang syne and in appreciation of all I had done to make his stay in Trinidad so pleasant. I accepted, suggesting that I drive him out to Piarco, where he could get weighed in early and we could then eat at the Bel Air Hotel, which has excellent food. It is almost twenty miles from Port of Spain to Piarco Airport, and I thought it a gracious gesture on my part. He agreed cheerfully, and we arranged that I should pick him up at eleven-thirty.
Probably I should not have taken Ellen along. But she had been very sulky ever since that first night, and I hoped to placate her. Also, possibly, to educate her. Bart, of course, was delighted when he came out to the car and found Ellen sitting there, looking so sweet and fresh in her white dimity dress and tiny white hat. A seasoned traveler, he carried only a two-suiter and a briefcase, but even so we were crowded in the little car, a fact of which he took full advantage.
By one o’clock he had finished all the formalities, including his currency declaration, and we were seated in the cool cocktail lounge of the Bel Air with ample time for daiquiris and a leisurely lunch. If Wentworth felt any pangs about leaving Anna Marie, with whom he had been so smitten, he didn’t show it. He was bringing all his charm to bear on Ellen and the poor child was eating it up. Occasionally she spared me a reproachful glance which plainly said, “See how much fun I could have had if you weren’t such an old fussbudget?”
I didn’t allow Ellen’s attitude to ruffle my composure. I was engaged in thinking over what I wanted to say to Barton Wentworth. But I waited till two-fifteen, when we were standing near the gate beyond which only embarking passengers were allowed. Then I said quietly, “Remember the other evening, Bart, when I mentioned how broken up I was by my wife’s death?”
He looked surprised and wariness crept into his pale blue eyes. “Sure I remember, Paul. Uh—I don’t blame you. Cynthia was a pretty girl. Sweet, too.”
“You liked her, didn’t you, Bart?”
“Why, hell yes, I thought a lot of Cynthia. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about—uh—about her accident. It was an awful shock.”
“I’m sure it was,” I said. “But you see, Bart, it wasn’t an accident. That’s just the story I gave out. She took all those sleeping pills on purpose.”
His wariness increased. “No! I can’t believe it! Why in hell would she have done such a thing?”
“Because she was in love with another man, Bart. He played around with her for a while, and then ditc
hed her for somebody else. She just couldn’t take it.”
His face flushed and his manner turned blustery. “How do you know that? Did she tell you?”
“She left a note, begging my forgiveness for the pain she was causing me, and naming the man. I suppressed the note and gave out the accident story for two reasons. The first was Cynthia’s reputation, and the second was my hope that someday I would meet again the man who had been her lover. When that happened, I didn’t want him to realize that I knew the whole story. That man killed my wife, Bart, just as surely as if he had put a gun to her temple.”
Over the loudspeaker, a voice with a marked British accent was making the first announcement of the Pan American flight for San Juan, Jamaica and New York. Wentworth glanced at his watch.
“Well,” he said slowly, “that’s all a long time ago, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Ten years. The mills of the gods, you know. But that’s all right. Slow, slow. If it didn’t sound melodramatic, I would say that mine will be a slow revenge. Let’s call it instead slow justice, shall we?”
He looked nervously at his watch again.
“How do you mean?”
“You’ll probably feel all right for three or four weeks,” I said. “Maybe longer. I’ve heard of cases where a person harbored the Mycobacterium leprae for almost ten years before the fatal signs began to appear—the white patches, the gradual deformity of the joints and so on. Slow, slow.”
It was interesting to watch his big, hearty, extroverted face change; interesting to observe how his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets, how his mouth hung slack, and his skin took on the color of old parchment.
“For God’s sake, Heffner,” he said, and his voice cracked. “What are you saying?”
“Anna Marie is a leper,” I told him. “You never would have guessed it, would you? She’s isolated in my studio while I study the progress of the disease.”
The Lethal Sex Page 14